Monte Cook took your money but he doesn’t want you fucking sub-humans talking to him with your goddamn bullshit
Monte Cook took a breather from counting the loot from his second Kickstarter, just a few moments he used to take a big, runny dump all over the people who gave him more than $400,000:
You understand that, you little shits? Giving Monte Cook your money, supporting his company, artistic aspirations, and lifestyle, DOES NOT entitle you, in any way and regardless of your intentions, to address him. He absolutely DOES NOT want to hear any of your bullshit. In fact, Monte does not think of you even as human: you are simply a semi-sentient wallet, and he desires of you just enough cognitive capacity to empty your contents into his Bag of Infinite Money-Holding. That task accomplished, your duty is done and you must now seep back into whatever whore’s ass you were shat from.
On the other hand, any fucker dumb enough to pay Monte Cook for his retarded writing should be regarded as sub-human, and probably culled from the herd in as humane a manner as expediency allows.
I can’t resist, here’s some unsolicited advice for you Cunte: if you don’t want to hear from assholes during the development process don’t invite them in as investors, you arrogant ungrateful fucking cunt. Just make something and sell it, like a normal motherfucking product. Then you don’t have to have a comments section, or updates, or any other forum where these hooting, braying, short-bus populating WalletThings could dare interrupt your divine peace of mind. Just like your bullshit blog, twat.
Recovering Retard has done it again, applying his superheroic talents to everyone’s favorite novelist Alexis D. Smolensk, author of best-selling novel Pete’s Garage. Daaaaaamn I just wanna get in there and motorboat on those juggaloes! I’m wondering about them nipperoos — Alexis got himself some big ol’ 70′s Playboy puffies, a couple saucy red pepperoni slices, or maybe they teeny tiny little Tinkerbell nubbins? That sticky load he’s rubbing in tells me he’s got something special in there… could they be hex-shaped?!?!?
Arselexis is going on vacation — come back soon, literary genius behind the novel Pete’s Garage! Did Recovering Retard nail this one? I think its a direct hit, but you be the judge:
If you gave Michael Curtis only $100, Michael Curtis is giving you one final warning to give him more money or fuck you, you lose
That’s what I got from this post, which is essentially a ransom note but instead of just one victim he’s managed to catfish three suckers who now need to up the ante if they want any hope of seeing closure:
The last thing Mike wants is more money. I mean, ignore the fact that he begged for money (and this ain’t his first rodeo), extended the deadline for you to give him money, decided to keep more money than he needed, is breathlessly updating his money begging to make sure you know you can still give him more money, is telling the three suckers who gave him the most money to give him even more… but this is NOT encouragement to donate more, if that’s what you think this is you must be crazy or something.
This one time, at a D&D convention, someone changed a little baby’s poopy diaper right there in public and they didn’t cordon off the area with curtains or DM screens or even use the Shaming Tent like you’re supposed to after the wiener goes in the hoo-hoo and a human pops out the mommy’s butt 6 months later, and then Darius saw the dirty diaper and it was super gross. He almost smelled it too, but he didn’t, but he almost did and that would have been even super grosser.
Recovering Retard, artist-extraordinaire who today created the above image, is not a hero. I would not offend Recovering Retard with such meager company…
RECOVERING RETARD IS A SUPER HERO!!!
Please take note of the technical and aesthetic mastery of this piece. Recovering Retard could have gone broad, farcical and over the top. Instead his hand is restrained and true to life — “Just the facts, ma’am.” He could have used a lurid splash of vulgar yellow for James’ undies or even piss dribbling down his leg, but no hyperbole here — the subtle pee-pee shading brings home the quiet malevolence of the subject’s disgraceful hygiene. Zak fingers himself offhandedly, his attention directed elsewhere, for what could possibly contain his surpassing intellect? — he’s too cool for any school, even Cooper Union. Poor, sad JaMal — even his amazing technicolor Hawaiian shirt and all that cash can’t turn that frown upside down as he meditates on the ill-wisdom of allowing women to vote.
Whose bung did Gary plumb the brown, kernel-yielding depths of? Recovering Retard leaves us guessing, or suggests it is our own cornhole he has violated rendering each of us viewers a victim. Bravo.
Recovering Retard, collect 120,000XP and go straight to Level 8 Fighting-Man. I further award you the broadsword Scather, a potion of extra-healing, a ring of protection +1, 2000pp and elevate you to a Knight of the Hart (Veluna & Furyondy). You can show your silver star badge at any Korean massage parlor to receive 25% off a happy ending (please tip on full amount).
This picture gives me hope. I plugged it into the banner and WordPress is super gay because I’d have to shrink it to thumbnail size to make it fit their size limits, so fuck that I’ll just lead off just about every post with that image to let everyone know shit just got real up in this motherfucker.
Today I felt just a little tiny bit of happiness. Thank you Recovering Retard.
The fighter says, “I press her down to the sand. I’m very careful not to push to [sic] hard, not to hurry. I want her to understand that this is not sex, this is me caring for her.”
They say a picture is worth a thousand words. On Planet CreepShow (pop. Tao of Asplexis), a hundred words is worth a thousand nightmares. Here ya go, Sexy Lexi — have some hits:
If anyone knows, slip James Raggi IV an email because I bet if he checks his wife’s browser history he’s going to stumble across a Google search that may give him pause. I’m not a psychologist nor did I stay at a Holiday Inn, but I am a random complete asshole on the Internet and I think that proves I have keen insight into the human psyche, and I can only imagine Mrs. James Raggi IV has exhausted her patience subsidizing James’ ambitions to be a big macher in the OSR. Commentter Dumb Dungeon is on the beat pointing us to the latest vid.
It might have looked promising for awhile. Perhaps it was exciting to see those big boxes filled with books, each with James’ name on the cover. And he could point excitedly to himself on YouTube and podcasts and Internet traffic numbers and she could be excused for thinking, “Hmm, maybe he’s onto something.” Even better were those days when the Kickstarter cash came through and it was like being the Helsinki Hillbillies for a day, with visions of cement ponds and fancy motorized carriages.
But now it must be impossible for her to look around and not think, “What the fuck is this horseshit I’ve been corralled into?” James is so poor now he can’t even afford postage. Fucking empty boxes shitting up the whole apartment. He’s waking her up at 5am recording goddamn videos. Oderus Urungus hasn’t called in months. The joint checking account is drained but she still has to trudge into work every morning and bust her ass, while James lounges around the house in his XXXXXXL LotFloP t-shirt, dirty skivs damp in the front with piss dribbles, Hot Pocket cheese filaments spiderwebbed into his pube-beard, smelling like someone barfed in a gym sock… Jesus I gotta dial this one back and re-focus.
Anyhoo, she’s working like a dog paying the bills just so he can lord it up on the Internet with a bunch of choad-huffers, climbing up on the toilet to raise up his dvd of A Serbian Film so all the bedwetters can go, “AAAAAAAAAHHHHH!!!” and he can sproing a chubby little boner because he’s queen for a day. “THIS IS WHAT I’M MARRIED TO?!?!? THIS IS WHERE MY MONEY GOES?”
And then, the final and worst insult, she’s surrounded by this fucking Flame Princess shit. She has to be reminded every God damned day that her husband is only in Finland because he’s an actual honest-to-God creepstalker. He takes every opportunity he can to tell that wacko story again, named his company after her, has her image everywhere around the house on posters, shirts, books, art, screen saver, just rubbing it in his wife’s fucking face. Maybe it was endearing at first and she thought, “This is a phase and it shall pass, and anyway he loves me — I’ll become his Flame Princess!” Bad news, hon — it didn’t turn out the way you hoped. A decade later and he still recounts that story for the junior stalker crowd on a weekly basis and absolutely revels in it. If the real Flame Princess pulled up out front and honked her horn, he’d jump in the car and roar off with her into the sunset and never look back. And then he’d slaughter her and eat her tits. That’s what you’re subsidizing, Mrs. Raggi.
So probably the divorce event horizon approaches and I doubt James even sees it coming because his eyes are on the prize of who gets the most OSR google +1′s, regardless if this means he spends every last dollar his wife earns and then some. I have no idea how asset division works under Finnish divorce law, but can you imagine ex-Mrs. Raggi’s disappointment when she realizes the grand haul is going to be 500 t-shirts with the original recipe Flame Princess on them? I guess that’s better than a 4′x8′ litho of the dook from Monolith, though.