Archive Page 2


Alice in Wonderland

When I first heard that Tim Burton was doing an Alice in Wonderland movie, I rejoiced. I thought that Burton would take the strange world of Wonderland and make it his own, giving it a new, darker look, and ushering Alice into this century.
Did Alice In Wonderland live up to my expectations and the hype that surrounded it? Not quite, but it was still a pretty good movie. And really, that is the only way to describe the movie in whole, it was okay, nothing more, nothing less.
Story-wise, the movie is more of a sequel to Through the Looking Glass instead of a straight-up adaptation of the original story. I thought that it plodded along at times, and there was no great twist, but it was not too predictable. I got the impression from this movie it was more of a “Look at the pretty visuals and don’t worry about the story so much” (although it certainly isn’t as bad as Avatar in that area). It might have been the needlessly long panoramas of landscapes that happened at times, instead of focusing on the actors.
The animation was fairly good, except I thought that in a few parts it looked less than perfect. The CGI capture’s Burton’s unique art style perfectly, and it is unmistakably one of his films. All the creatures and environments where completely computer-generated, except for the few scenes that took place in the real world at the beginning and end of the movie. Even Johnny Depp as the Mad Hatter had his eyes digitally widened.  I thought that in particular the Red Queen was well done, along with the Chesire Cat.
The acting in the movie was okay, although I have seen much better. Depp was great as the Hatter, and he really stole the show for me. The Red Queen, played by Helena Carter, also had a good performance. I didn’t think that Mia Wasikowska as Alice really was able to hold up when on the screen with Depp; although few actors can do that. I felt that the story was more about the Hatter than about Alice, because of her relatively low-key performance. Unfortunately, Alice had easily the worst performance in the movie. I remember one particular scene that was unintentionally hilarious. During the penultimate battle, she ran up to the very top of an ancient ruin, and when she reached the top and almost fell off the edge, she seemed very surprised that the building ended there, even though it was clearly visible from the ground. I also thought that
Tim Burton did do well directing the movie, it has his signature style and strange characters. This movie is certainly not his best, far from it, but saying something is not one of Tim Burton’s best is not saying a lot. I was hoping for one of Tim Burton’s finest, maybe not equal to The Nightmare Before Christmas but up there. I would place this movie slightly better than Charlie and the Chocolate Factory and much better than Planet of the Apes (yes, he directed the remake of the 1968 classic), but below most of his other movies. I am glad I did not spend the extra money to go see it in 3D, since I do not believe that it is worth the $12 that it costs. Same thing when it comes out on DVD and BluRay, I would hold off on it until the price comes down some. It is not a waste of your $9 (or $7 if you are cheap like me and go see it as a matinée) and two hours. You could definitely be spending it it in less entertaining ways. As a final bit of perspective, from the group that I went with, three people (including me) gave it positive reviews, and another gave it a negative review.


Ricer Desktop

After upgrading to Windows 7, I decided that it was time to completely rice it out.

The first phrase was this:

But then I decided I was bored with the only slightly-modified windows theme, and so I switched themes and now my desktop looks like this:

So, since I know you guys are wondering, this is what I am using:

Avedesk (sticky note, binary clock)
SysMetrix (System stats/mail)
WinAmp (media player, and the top bar is the media library, which is collapsed)
Foundation RSS Reader (RSS feed)
7Pro Theme

Linkies to everything:




Foundation RSS Reader:


7Pro theme:

Hope you guys like it!


Valentine’s Day From XKCD

Valentine's Day XKCD


The Morgan Mine Prt1

I have often said that man does not know all that is of the earth.

I have said that man sometimes, in certain cases, should not know everything that there is to know about this tiny speck of dust that we travel through the cosmos on, and call our home. Scientists strive to understand the natural world; they try to categorize it, to classify it, to learn its secrets. I harbor no ill-will against these brave souls that dare to search out the unknown and make it known. But, I believe that these men that call themselves “scientists” are not really looking deep into the earth’s most innermost mysteries. They are quite content with studying the latest new insect or bird; they have no interest in knowing the true mysteries of this world, and beyond. I do not blame them for this either. I wish I too was content to spend my life studying the birds, the insects, mammals, or even the earth or space. Alas, it is not so, or was not so, as it stands now. I sought to learn the innermost mysteries, to know what few men have dared to know, much less actually known. Why I have always been like this I cannot say, for I do not even know the reason why.

I grew up in a small hamlet in the heart of New England back in the ‘50s. It was an almost idyllic life for me. My parents were solidly middle-class. They owned the latest automobile and the latest gadgets for the home and kitchen. We were living the American dream. But I was not satisfied with this, I wanted something more. I wanted adventure and mystery. I felt the urge to go and see strange lands, brave the darkest tombs of the ancient god-king pharaohs of Egypt.  Something restless was in my soul, something that I could not keep hidden and under control for long.

Several of my friends and I were caught one year, when I was about seventeen, exploring an abandoned mine outside of town. The mine was strictly off-limits to everyone, but we went in anyway. I had often heard stories of strange sounds and lights that were heard and seen around the mine at night, and me and several of my more adventurous friends decided that we would go and investigate this place. We were caught before we were able to find anything, and our parents made us sit in the city jail for the night before they would go and pick us up. After that incident, my parents forbade me of venturing out with my friends after dark, something that I greatly resented at the time.

But that is all past us now, I am well over 50, approaching 60 now, and my days are almost done. I shall soon pass from this dark, wretched world into a place I like to believe is a little lighter, or at least less full of horrors than this place.  I know not what I saw that night when I discovered that size of my folly when I decided to investigate the Morgan Mine, in New England.  It was not the same mine as from my childhood, but similar stories had circulated about the Morgan Mine. It was dug deep into a hill in the wild lands where Indians used to roam; but they to shunned it before the white man had finished driving them away.

The Indians believed the land where the Morgan Mine would later be built was cursed, and they would not go near it. They said that their horses spooked easily around the hills, and that the deer and rabbits were too large and their meat tasted foul. The trees, they said, grew twisted and diseased, and the wood would burn cold and would rot sooner than wood from other areas. The white men that came to settle did not believe the stories the Indians told around their campfires, and soon they had set up a small town near the base of the hill. The town remained small, and the legend of the cursed land died away as the years past. The curse seemed to clear away as the years past as well, with the trees growing straighter and sturdier, and the animals’ flesh growing sweeter and more wholesome.

Then rich ore was discovered within the hill, and a mine was commissioned to be built to harvest the riches hidden beneath. By this time only a small handful of people remembered the old stories, and they had grown old, and the people thought that they had simply slipped into some harmless form of insanity. Work on the mine began quickly, with no complaint, and soon it was beginning to produce the prized ore. The town grew quickly as more labour was required to work in the mine, and it grew from a quaint little village to a bustling mining town; reminiscent of those of the far west years before. But as the mine penetrated ever deeper into the hill, a change was creeping over the land. It began slowly at first, and in such a small way that almost no one noticed it. Later, they would say that it started near the mouth of the mine. It was barely noticeable when it started, just a slight browning of the grass and leaves of the few plants that still survived near the mine. The miners took no head of it since winter was fast approaching and it was to be expected. Then spring came, and as the rest of the land grew green and lush, the land around the mine stayed brown and dead. As the spring progressed, the blighted vegetation spread ever further from the mine, and people began to grow concerned. They feared that some toxic chemical or other pollutant was being spilled and that it would soon enter the water supply. An investigation was launched soon after, but it was unable to determine the source or the cause of the blight. As spring changed to summer the dead area grew ever wider, with the grass now turning a sickly grey and the trees developing tumorous growths over their trunks and branches. Later the leaves fell from the ghastly trees and the landscape was left in a grey and dismal state. The plants now crumbled to ash at the slightest touch, and the wind never blew across the accursed land. People instinctively avoided going through it, and as it approached a nearby road, people began to take different routes just so that they would not have to look upon it.

This blight has continued to grow ever since that fall when it first started. It has never stopped for the winter, nor for anything that man has tried. After several years it reached the town, and many people fled in terror away from it, abandoning their homes so that they would not have to live near the abomination that approached from the mine. By now Morgan Mine had been closed for almost a year, after the workers refused to go through the diseased land to reach the mine. It was whispered, before the mine closed, that dark rituals were performed within the deepest caverns and that some of the miners had caused the evil that had slept in the mountain for so many years to awaken again. Of course, very few people took these mutterings seriously. They lived in an enlightened age after all. They thought that everything could be described by science, and most things had already been classified. They did not believe in dark rituals or ancient daemons as the people of New England did years ago.

It was during this time that I was a young investigator and historian of little distinction. My thirst for knowledge of unknown things set me apart from many of my peers. I would sometimes be able to convince someone to finance one of my expeditions somewhere; but it was not often that I was able to secure funding. This was one of those times, I had saved money that I had earned from several menial jobs that I had taken to have enough money to survive and spend it to go to Morgan Mine and see what was housed in that dark abyss. It was not an easy task to save enough money to travel there, but I would have no expenses once I got there. All the houses where abandoned, and I could take my pick of all the free lodging that I could ask for. The only covenant was that I would have to carry all my food, water and equipment in with me. This I did not mind, since I was going to be able to basically stay as long as I needed to, free of charge.

I did not have a car at the time, so I had to hire a taxi to take me out to the abandoned town. This was no small or easy task, since everyone avoided the area around the town where the grass no longer grew and had turned grey. I was finally able to convince a particularly brave fellow to take me as far as the edge of the blighted area. For this I was very grateful, even if it did mean that I would have to walk about another mile into town, with my gear. After he dropped me off he sped away, trying to get out of sight of the cursed land as fast as possible, lest it somehow stop him from ever escaping.

I watched the taxi disappear into the distance, and then turned the other way and started down the road towards the desolate town. The landscape looked just as it was described to me during the numerous interviews that I did with former residents if the town before the unholy blight beset it. The grass was grey and it crumbled to ash as soon as I touched it. The trees also had the same deathly pallor to them, albeit they were sturdier and did not crumble under my hands. On my trip to the town I did not once see or hear a living thing, whether it was birds or squirrels, or even the buzzing of insects. An unnatural silence permeated the landscape, and I found the silence to be both deafening and eerie to the extreme. Such silence, especially for a man that had lived most of his life within the warm confines of cities and places where other men frequent, made me apprehensive, and I had to mentally calm myself.

After the nerve-wracking walk, I topped a hill and gazed down at the small town below me. It stood out in stark contrast to the ashen landscape, because the buildings and streets still held their colour against the ever present grey. I soon was inside the town, and began searching for a house to stay in while I conducted my investigations in the mine. I chose a late-Victorian style home near the other side of town, on the road heading up to the mine. I easily broke down the ageing door that barred my entrance to the dark interior of the house, and made my small bed and living quarters in the living room; which incidentally looked towards the hill that Morgan Mine had burrowed into. It was getting dark, and the hill was silhouetted against the setting sun. I set up my small electric light, and set to work making myself a small supper. After my little meal, I decided to call it a night, and crawled into my sleeping bag. I fell asleep quickly, but my dreams were haunted with things that I cannot describe, terrible, twisting things that never held a definitive shape for more than an instant.  I also experienced a sort of dread in my dreams, a dread that I could not I never awoken from my troubled slumber, but when morning came I woke unrefreshed, and tired.

After eating a measly breakfast, I gathered up my equipment and set out for the mine. The walk was neither long nor difficult; the mine lay not even a mile out of town and up a gentle incline. I made it to the gates at Morgan Mine in less than an hour, and only slightly out of breath. The gates were locked, but I easily broke the rusty lock that bound the two chain link gates together. No one would care about my action, since nobody came up here anymore. They had abandoned the mine to the unnatural forces at work. I made my way through the broken gate and walked past the abandoned mining buildings that were spread around the entrance of the mine. Soon, I stood at the great yawning maw of the mine, and I could not help but shiver involuntarily at the sight of it. As I approached it, I felt something that, after what felt like so long without feeling it, made me shiver even more. It was a small, but very apparent breeze that was blowing into the mine. It is a well-known fact that many caves do this to some extent, but after so long without a single breath of air, it felt very strange; and instead of it being a welcome relief, it only heightened my tense nerves. Suddenly I was gripped by a very intense desire not to go into this mine, to turn around and leave that place behind. I steeled my nerves though and took another step towards the entrance.


The Messenger


I sat in the back of the taxicab, watching the light from the streetlamps being reflected in the water droplets on the window. I heard nothing but the soft drumming of the rain against the roof of the taxi and the low murmur of the engine as we drove slowly down the abandoned streets.

I looked ahead at the taxi driver staring straight ahead, and asked him if we were about at my destination. He took his hand off the wheel to pull the cigarette from his mouth and said that we would soon be there. Without another word he jammed the cigarette back into his mouth and returned his full attention to the road ahead. I settled back into my seat and began staring out the window again, hoping that the rain would stop, or at least slowdown, before I had to leave the warm, relative, comfort of the car.

Within ten minutes we reached my destination, a lonely house at the end of a small cobbled street. We had driven far from the city center, and we were now in the run down outskirts of town. Factories loomed in the fog and rain, while others remained hidden in the fog. The rain had eased to a drizzle, and a thick fog was rolling in from the docks just down the road.

I quickly handed the man his money, and got out of the car. He wasted no time in leaving me there; he seemed to be very anxious to leave that part of town. I could not blame him myself; this seedy section was known for its gangs and violence, especially after dark. I wasted no time in making my way to the front door and gently knocking, hoping that he would answer quickly.

The house was a tall, but slightly leaning mid-19th century affair. It was obviously once an imposing and impressive structure, but years without upkeep and the chemicals from the nearby factories had taken their toll on the ornate decorations. All that was left was a drab, peeling paint that barely covered the grotesque carvings that existed on the walls. The entire house made me feel uneasy, as if I, or any other mortal, was not supposed to be there. It had a very otherworldly feel to it, one that I could not attach to one thing about the house, but just the house as a whole.

I approached the house with some trepidation, and lifted my hand to use the ornate knocker on the door. But then I saw what the knocker was carved as, and withdrew my hand in horror. It was an unholy thing, a terrible face of indescribable evilness, and within its mouth it held the body of a person, maybe a child. Why would anyone carve such a thing? I asked myself, and decided to instead just knock sharply at the door. I was quickly let into the dark foyer. The door closed quietly behind me, shutting out the dim lights of the lone streetlamp. I was bathed with a perfect darkness, my host unseen and unheard. Soon the sound of a striking match and a candle flared to life. I then was able to see the face of my host, an aging man with a gnarled face and grizzled hair. He did not look exactly threatening, but I was nonetheless uneasy in his presence. The whole place exuded an air of the unknown, and maybe, the unknowable. I could not pin point the cause of this feeling, but something about the man, the house, the setting, all seemed wrong.

He silently led me back into a long hallway, and then off it into a sitting room. The room was, at one time, unquestionably ornate and stately; but time had been particularly unkind to it, and it had the presence of a place unlived in for many years. The man went and sank down into a leather overstuffed armchair, and I sat down on the edge of the dusty couch. I stared intently for a moment at my silent host, and then from my bag I pulled out an aging yellow folder, thick with papers.

The man was now staring at the folder in my hand, and I eyed him to see if he would finally speak. He still held his silence, so I thought it would be best to start, least I be there all night in the dreadful house.

“Excuse me, but I believe that you knew a Mr. Ellington?”

My host stared at me for a moment, and then slowly nodded his head.

“I am sorry to say, that he passed away last week, and his last remaining relative, his grandson, went through his papers, and found this.” I pushed the yellow folder a little farther on the low coffee table.

He just sat there, staring at the folder, not saying a word.

I rolled my shoulders and continued, hoping that something I was about to say would cause this silent old man to speak. His quiet unnerved me even more that the house did. “These papers were instructed to be burned, but Mr. Ellington’s grandson requested that they be delivered to you. Do you have any idea why he would have requested this?”

The man still just sat there, in his damnable silence. A panic was seeping into my bones, and ice water was infusing my veins. Why was he affecting me in this way? Why would he not speak? He sat there, not saying a word, and yet he was doing more damage to me now than a thousand years of torture could do.

Why was this? I had no idea. I could not think straight, I could not think at all. I was spinning down and down into a mental black hole from which there was no escape.

I had to get out; I had to escape this man and his booming silence. I let out a wild yell and flew out of my seat. I ran for the sitting-room door and yanked it open, before turning around for a last time and seeing that the accursed devil-man had risen from his seat and had taken steps towards me. His face was no longer the face that I had seen in the foyer. It was twisted, evil, and cunning. It was a face of a thousand nightmares of the peoples of the world. I couldn’t stand it; I had to get away from this grinning face of death. I tried to run through the door, but he grabbed me and pulled me back into the sitting room. I crashed into the coffee table and the papers in the fateful folder flew up and made a graceful arc in the air before raining down on me like the rain that still beat outside.

My head swam with colours and visions, and before I blacked out, I saw the front of a piece of paper that had landed on the floor by my head. It said, in the shaky and unsteady hand of a person gone mad,

I have discovered the truth; you will not have me like you had my uncle. Take my offering, the messenger, instead.


The Morrowind Story: The Smaller Story

This is the first part of a series of articles about my experiences with the great classic, Morrowind.

I haven’t played Morrowind for ages.

It was shoved to the back shelf, and my hard drive, by newer games, games with lots of pretty explosions and nice graphics.

And I am ashamed at that.

Starting a few days ago, I picked Morrowind back up, and have started over in it, determined to enjoy this masterpiece, to renew my love of the role-playing games.

To celebrate this occasion, I will be writing a series of blog posts about different aspects of Morrowind, and how new games, and maybe TESV can learn from the greatest game of the series.  In this post, I will be talking about not the main quest specifically, but the little things, the little sidequests, the little sites that tell of a much larger story that the player will never know.

While I will admit that the main quest of Morrowind is not the best, and can be pretty weak at times due to the non-linearity of it, the place the game really shines is the little things, the little quests and sights. Take for example, I was exploring a northern part of the island, north of Gnisis, when I came upon a large boat that was beached. It was not Imperial, it was very obviously Morrowind in origin, resembling those used by fishermen in the Bitter Coast. I looked around it and found that it was completely empty and abandoned. Not a soul or piece of wreckage to be seen anywhere around the lone shipwreck. I continued on up the hill away from the waterside, and I am attacked by two men that had built a small camp, almost directly overlooking the ruined ship.  I was forced to defend myself and kill the two men, dark elves to be exact. But I was forced to think, was these two men the sailors from that ship? Had they been forced ashore by some storm?  Or were they just bandits, that had happened to set up camp near the shipwreck. Or, even worse still, had they killed the sailors that had piloted that ship? So many questions about such a small and seemingly meaningless thing, yet I, nor anyone else, will ever know the answer to that question. We are invited to make our own assumptions, to create our own story. And many times the stories that we make in our heads, tailored exactly to our own personalities and tastes are far more affecting than something that someone else comes up with.

A while later, I was walking a path called the Guar Trail, and I happened upon the bones of some poor, dead soul. Or at least, that is how I think of that small, sad pile of bones. It could just as easily be some bandit that was killed when he greatly underestimated the strength of his victim. Or maybe, a rat or Cliff Racer startled a Guar, and it accidently killed its herder. Do I know? Of course not. Does anyone know what happened on that lonely road all those days and nights ago? Again, the answer is no. We must decide what happened ourselves. As I said, I like to think it was some wary traveler, maybe a pilgrim on his way to Koal Cave. He was beset by some wild beast, or maybe a bandit, and was killed. Just another person lost to the wild wastes of that part of the island.

I am not saying that all games should be made entirely of these things, but such little details, such little unknowable stories scattered around the world, only add to its richness and deepness. They can be passed over without a second thought by the player that wishes to go to Point A to Point B as quickly as possible. But for the slower, more observant player, they can add so much to the experience and their enjoyment of the game.

Some other games have done this as well, and one that springs easily to my mind is the storytelling masterpiece of Half-Life 2. Yes, it is a very typical alien invasion story, but the little details, like the ones I have talked about in this post, are what changes the story from a mediocre alien invasion story to a story with humanity, with empathy, with a sense of what was once, and what has been lost.

So, when Bethesda to finally decide to start major work on The Elder Scrolls V, I hope to see more of this type of thing in it, unlike in Oblivion. Will they put these little things in? I have no idea, but it takes such little effort and time, just a little thought by the designers, to turn a dead, lifeless world that exists for the sake of allowing the player to walk and explore it, to an old world. A world that has existed before the player, a world where people lived and died, and the shadows cast by their lives and deaths are still visible in the very fabric of the landscape.


The Intelligent Frumpy Mom… NOT!




The above can’t even begin to sum up what I have just read. No word in the English language, nor probably any other language can describe it. I have read something that is so indescribably stupid and RAGE-worthy that if I didn’t write this post, my head might just explode.

What could drive me to the brink of the edge?

I’ll tell you what.


She describes herself as a “Frumpy, Middle age mom” who writes a column at the Orange County Register newspaper.

I came across a news story about this on The Escapist and I couldn’t believe it, but it wasn’t rage material… yet.

The article that the news story on The Escapist was about was a column that she wrote about how “videogames were made by Satan”. A glorious excert from the article is:

I truly believe that video games were created by Satan to turn otherwise normal children into his drooling, glassy-eyed stooges.


but it goes on:

On one horrible afternoon that scarred me for life, I even saw a kid walking out of the public library playing a Nintendo DS.

Really? Scarred you for life? I think you need to grow some thicker skin woman. Really.

This article is just completely laughably bad. An incident that she cites to show that videogames are “bad” is a recent incident where a woman in Boston called the police when her son wouldn’t turn off his 360. That incident isn’t an example of evil videogames, it is an example of an idiotic parent that obviously can’t control her son at all, and so instead of, oh, I don’t know, unplugging the console she calls the effing police. This is an example of bad parents, not bad videogames.

Then, she writes another post basically saying “lol, I was just kidding! I don’t believe that!”

I truly believe that video games were created by Satan to turn otherwise normal children into his drooling, glassy-eyed stooges.

“LOL, I was just kidding! I don’t believe that!”

I truly believe that video games were created by Satan to turn otherwise normal children into his drooling, glassy-eyed stooges.

I think you get my point.

In this wonderful example of great writing, she not only mocks the fine people at The Escapist, who broke this story (and kudos to them), but she also goes on to say that Satan didn’t invent them, Lord Voldemort did.

I will not attempt to respond to that. Because it is beyond stupidity.

Another quote from her brilliant, insightful article:

Also, I’m not too convinced by people who were such ardent gamers they became video game creators. That’s like saying, “Gee, I loved crack so much, I went to Colombia and started my own business and now I’m rich.”

Yes, that is right folks, she is comparing the fine, talented people at the videogame companies to crackheads.

Let me let that sink in a moment.

The thousands of talented writers, artists, and programmers that work to make videogames are being compared to crackheads. This is just crossing the line right there, how can anyone compare these talented people to drug addicts? This is like saying that writers are like crackheads because they loved to read novels, so they go out and become writers. How can she compare these two, radically different groups of people? It is one thing to not like something, like I don’t like some of the works of H R Giger, but I can respect that he is a talented artist, even if I think he is batshit insane (although he did excellent work on the alien in Alien).

Another insightful quote from the article:

Video game addiction is becoming more and more recognized as a social problem, mostly for young men under the age of 30 with low self-esteem.

Low self esteem? But I think I fall into the above category and I certainly don’t have low self-esteem. In fact, I can be downright egotistical at times. And so can many other gamers. Some of us might have low self-esteem, but so does non-gamers. And guess what? I bet if we are addicting to video games, we are probably good at them, so we can, at any time, go in and pwn us some n00bs if we are feeling low. We do NOT have low self esteem. And I bet, you would be reduced to a sniveling heap if you had to put up with the self-righteous people that populate the realm of multi-player games, especially Xbox LIVE.

Hehe, and here is another gem:

I can’t help recalling this sweet boy who invited my son over for his birthday party. I walked into their home, which was dominated by a giant TV on which video games were playing.  The so-called “party” consisted of boys sitting around playing various games, plus cake.

I have a confession to make, my last birthday party I did the exact same thing. Except it wasn’t a TV, it was computers and computer screens. And I had cake:

It was so delicious and moist!

/portal reference

In fact, I had a blast that birthday, it was a ton of fun, and guess what Frumpy? WE TALKED! We had conversations, we chatted as we played.

In fact, I can just about bet you 95% of the time someone is playing a game (probably online) they are TALKING to someone. It might be either voice or text, but they are talking. In fact, I talk with people online even when I am playing single player games. It is really no big deal.

Video games and other electronics are doing bad things to kids’ brains.

I didn’t bold that, she did.

I only have one thing to say to that:

Just sayin’

Maybe, if Albert Einstein had only been able to play video games when he was a youth, maybe he would have come up with that Unified Theory that all physicists hope to find instead of merely the Theory of Relativity.

You do know who Einstein is, right? The dude with the hair.

This I find very offensive. I have had very intelligent and insightful conversations about physics, math, and science on a website full of gamers. There is a reason why we are also called geeks or nerds, because we are smartWe like math, science, and physics. And to even suggest that we don’t know who one of the most famous scientists of all time was, you have insulted us.

A few windows might get broken now and then, but at least they won’t be glassy-eyed zombies like inLeft4Dead.

Does she know how those zombies move in L4D?

Bet they could catch you.

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