In Which a God is Spoken to
[Video | English]
I ain't the only one who wishes our little weekly comedic threesome would drown in the lake, am I?
[Yes, he's talking about you, Spectavi. He loves you, he really does. Maybe. Not really.]
Bunch a clowns, only one worth two seconds a my time is the fuckin' weather boy. Good job, Sparkles, keep up the good work... an' someone punch that woman in the face already? Don't know why the both a ya haven't gagged 'er at least.
[And he's done talking about the wonders of the weekly news, and picks up his communicator, leaning back in his chair, feet as always up on his 'desk'. He seems to be pondering something as he sets the device on his chest, lighting a cig, which can be awkwardly seen from the angle the communicator is at. Once he's all set, he picks it back up, and starts talking, a bit mumbled around his cigarette.]
So I've been wonderin' who keeps the city goin'. Obviously we ain't supplyin' ourselves with shit, no way t'grow shit, now place t'go t'replenish what we need. So some omnipotent god of Discedo is droppin' shit off fer us occasionally, right? [Or the Scientists are, he's not that disillusioned.]
If we're gonna be doin' that then I'd like t'make a few requests: A pony, a pretty dress fer the ball, an' since we're always runnin' low on 'em, medical supplies. [He'll list some things, typical stuff the hospital already had that they needed more of.] I know ya jus' love bringin' us back t'life an' all, but I can't do my job without the shit I need. So hop to it Discedo god a givin'.
Need this shit by Wednesday. [He'll snap his fingers as if hurrying someone a long, before shutting the communicator off.]
I ain't the only one who wishes our little weekly comedic threesome would drown in the lake, am I?
[Yes, he's talking about you, Spectavi. He loves you, he really does. Maybe. Not really.]
Bunch a clowns, only one worth two seconds a my time is the fuckin' weather boy. Good job, Sparkles, keep up the good work... an' someone punch that woman in the face already? Don't know why the both a ya haven't gagged 'er at least.
[And he's done talking about the wonders of the weekly news, and picks up his communicator, leaning back in his chair, feet as always up on his 'desk'. He seems to be pondering something as he sets the device on his chest, lighting a cig, which can be awkwardly seen from the angle the communicator is at. Once he's all set, he picks it back up, and starts talking, a bit mumbled around his cigarette.]
So I've been wonderin' who keeps the city goin'. Obviously we ain't supplyin' ourselves with shit, no way t'grow shit, now place t'go t'replenish what we need. So some omnipotent god of Discedo is droppin' shit off fer us occasionally, right? [Or the Scientists are, he's not that disillusioned.]
If we're gonna be doin' that then I'd like t'make a few requests: A pony, a pretty dress fer the ball, an' since we're always runnin' low on 'em, medical supplies. [He'll list some things, typical stuff the hospital already had that they needed more of.] I know ya jus' love bringin' us back t'life an' all, but I can't do my job without the shit I need. So hop to it Discedo god a givin'.
Need this shit by Wednesday. [He'll snap his fingers as if hurrying someone a long, before shutting the communicator off.]