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LiveJournal for Námo.
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| Friday, April 19th, 2002 |
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It's come to my attention that some people actually want their forms processed, instead of just announcing that they finished the paperwork and waltzing out the gates. But the fact of the matter is, I don't know who all died and the friends list that I use is probably out-of-date. If you filled out a form and are picky enough to want me to fill out the processsor section at the end, just throw the URL to your form here and I'll take care of it. Speaking of which, I finally sent that horse-like thing packing. Vaya con.... well, anywhere else but here, really. |
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| Thursday, April 18th, 2002 |
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| Jesus. You people and apocalyptic destruction. I was just about to take a nap, too. | ||||
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| Wednesday, April 17th, 2002 |
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Wormtongue has gone catatonic after being forced the watch the animated series Sailor Moon in its entirety, both the English and Japanese versions, in one sitting, while listening to fourteen-year-olds participate in a heated debate over the "Darien vs. Mamoru" issue. He's also foaming at the mouth. Vai and I discussed it, and after we agreed that all the joy had gone out of torturing the bastard, decided on a much more dire fate that would not only serve as satisfactory punishment but would get him the fuck out of our hair. In case anyone gives two fucks about it, he'll be deposited alive and well somewhere in Eriador in about ten minutes. Due to the damage done to the Halls since his arrival, Gríma Wormtongue is hereby banned from the Halls of Mandos and denied the Gift of Men, regardless of what may befall him beyond the shores of Valinor. Enjoy, little man. - Námo, Doomsman of the Valar |
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| Monday, April 15th, 2002 |
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| My wife is hot. | ||||
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Of course, the HIGHLIGHT of the fucking day was THAT FUCKING INSUFFERABLE LITTLE PRICK WITH THE STUPID-LOOKING EYEWEAR who fucked up the fucking gates in the FIRST place (anyone who comments on the eyewear thing will be smote) rallying the fucking dwarves. It was horrifying, like a fucking tidal wave of short hairy things waving plastic axes with Timultyland engraved on the handles. I had to hire a fucking Balrog (Danny of Moria- nice guy, actually) to get them off of the gates and to stop them from molesting the hedge animals in the topiary. I've locked the Wormtongue fucker up in the anime/Legolas fangirl ward (we gave them their own section a loooong time ago). I disabled his speech and chained his wrists to the wall to keep him from communicating with them vocally or through sign language. He can type with fucking telekinesis for all I care. And I enhanced his hearing twenty times, just so he can experience the full effect of the shrieking and the "No, I'M Sailor Moon!"-ing and the "OMG Legolas is SOOO hot I want to marry him!"-ing. Extreme? Maybe. But. THERE IS A FUCKING CRACK IN MY SPARE SUNGLASSES. Some fucking dwarf jumped on me and kneed the pocket they were in. I hung him from his fucking toes. And I do not fucking scream like a girl. I scream like a tortured drunken Irishman and don't you fucking forget it. I have the sudden fucking urge to give Ulmo a fucking call. |
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Fuck these gates backwards with a spoon. I've called for a wrecking ball. We're knocking the fuckers down. Aulë is going to help us rebuild them, which means the job should only take about five minutes. The Halls will be TOTALLY LOCKED DOWN during the destruction and reconstruction, so none of you dead bastards get any dumb ideas. I was talking to some of the workmen when I saw the Gamgee sperm bank picking at the gates with a bent spoon, while his pimpdaddy stood by, filing his nails and criticizing. Then I stepped through the gates and saw his little girl banging at the collapsed mithril with a shovel. It was sweet and pathetic and cute, and Vai and I were sick of listening to noisy (echoing) hobbit sex anyway. I was more than happy to hand over her daddy and wicked stepmother on a god damned silver platter. Literally. OK, silver-plated. What can I say, the gods are sarcastic AND cheap. |
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| Monday, April 8th, 2002 |
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Sauron, Mandos has a problem that indirectly involves you. Let me know the next time you see one of these lackeys, would you? |
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| Wednesday, April 3rd, 2002 |
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We've been using temporary forms for the past few days to get rid of the most high-profile cases as quickly as possible (or as quickly as the Star Trek marathon allows, in some cases), but now, after a few rewrites and several meetings with a dangerously lucid Manwë, we've released the final, streamlined replacement for the sheafs of paperwork involved in stage one of the resurrection process. New form is as follows: Mandos Release Form, Stage 1A NAME: RESIDENCE: MARITAL STATUS (check one): [ ] single [ ] married [ ] imprisoned [ ] willingly enslaved [ ] involved slut [ ] "partnered," but employed by Disney and/or Southerners CHILDREN? y/n If YES, #: _____ If YES, names and ages: ________________________________________ If YES, names of the children you actually want:___________________________________ REASON REQUESTING RESURRECTION: [ ] war will be lost in absence [ ] am famous Maia not finished conquering unspeakable evil [ ] wife and 20 kids will starve, blah blah, or related excuse [ ] too pretty to die [ ] heirless/usurped royalty [ ] revenge [ ] I'm missing "Buffy." [ ] other (please describe): ________________________________________ BODY: [ ] human [ ] elf [ ] dwarf [ ] halfling [ ] non-humanoid (describe: __________________________) [ ] Michael J. Fox [ ] other: ________________________________________ NECESSARY REPAIRS OR ALTERATIONS: [ie: removal of foreign object from eye socket, reconstruction of crushed face or skull, replacement of limb lost in death, removal of evil beeper or other telecommunications device given by Prince of Darkness] CAPITAL OF ASSYRIA: __________________________ FAVORITE COLOR (check one): [ ] blue [ ] yellow AFFILIATION: [ ] good [ ] evil [ ] cult (which: ___________________________) [ ] neutral chaotic PETS (if any): # OF TIMES PET(S) HAS TRIED TO MURDER FAMILY MEMBER, SPOUSE OR SIGNIFICANT OTHER/ DESTROY TOKYO/ EAT A WORLD LEADER/ START INTERNATIONAL CONFLICT/ OTHER ATROCITY/ACT OF MERCY: ___ DESCRIBE: ________________________________________ NAME OF GREAT-GREAT-GRANDMOTHER'S PET POODLE: _______________________ BRAND OF SAID POODLE'S FLEA COLLAR: _______________________ --------------DO NOT WRITE BELOW THIS LINE-------------- FOR PROCESSOR ONLY: [ ] ACCEPT [ ] REJECT NOTES: -------------------------------- Notes: Mannie insisted on the final applicant question. This entry is, of course, dedicated to Zlot. |
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| Tuesday, April 2nd, 2002 |
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Ah, fuck. Not these two again. I'll be listening to those goddamn marbles rolling around their Hungry Hungry Hippos set for the next howeverfuckinglongittakes. And now they're bouncing around the lobby on a sugar high, bitching about a cartoon duck. Oy. Mandos needs a new system. Manwë set up the one we use now, and I'm pretty damned sure he was high at the time. (He also designed every DMV on Earth. Makes sense now, doesn't it?) I'm looking over our current paperwork now and rewriting it. Some of the questions were obviously included just to fuck with the applicant's head, and those will be kept. But inane shit like, "Name of great-great-grandmother's pet poodle's flea collar brand" will be taken off. Fuck the flea collars, all we need to know is the poodle's name. |
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| Monday, April 1st, 2002 |
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This is not my fault. He threatened the security guard with... never mind, we won't get into that. |
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| Sunday, March 31st, 2002 |
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This is what happen when you take shortcuts in checking out of the Halls. And to those thinking about just "slipping out": this could be you. It's just a little paperwork, people! Suffer the procedure, or get stuck in an old woman's body/fry your brain. It's your choice. |
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| Thursday, March 28th, 2002 |
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Wave D. The final expurgation. Thanks to all this shit, my wife is a Vala on the edge. As soon as we get rid of the last of you, we're going to finish the vacation that this fucker cut short. Jeff is rocking back and forth in a corner, muttering to himself. I think the 20,000,000 rounds of Hungry, Hungry Hippos finally got to him. We'll have to find another temporary supervisor. Gondorians are excluded from this list, since they were all released early to help clean up the horse shit, and stop my dad from obliterating all of your asses. All of the following, fuck off and live: Shire residents R-Z name group Rohan citizens and loyalists T-Z name group All residents of Mirkwood, and any other leftover elves still poncing around in here [note: Since so many of you expressed concerns-- No, death does not cause split ends. Shut up already.] Any and all remaining dead from Eriador -- Scheduled dead left in limbo by the gates' closing will report to the Halls of Waiting immediately. Neither of us have any choice in the matter, so don't bother bitching about it. This includes you and whoever the fuck is behind this shit. Your teleportation will commence shortly. |
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| Monday, March 25th, 2002 |
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Here we go, Wave C, go get drunk with the rest of the living: Shire residents L-Q name group Rohan citizens and loyalists G-S name group All past and present Gondorian royalty, especially those that have been sexually harassing the ancient kings Any non-orcish humanoid beings who were in Mordor at the time of the flood All residents of Lorien and Imladris (Mirkwood, stay put, you're next) One more set and things are back to normal in the Halls. |
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Fuck but there are a lot of you. No more fucking elves clinging to the fucking ceiling. Pogo sticks will now be removed completely from the Halls of Waiting. Now, for the dismissals. I want the following people to get the fuck out of my house: All Shire residents in the A-L name group Any and all of you fuckers from Bree; I'm sick of your drinking songs All halflings under the age of 30 (Tolman Gamgee, this means YOU) Rohan citizens and loyalists in the A-G name group (this includes the Queen and his bitch) I'll announce the next wave when we're ready for it. |
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More dismissals. The scheduled resurrected should pick up their passes at the main desk. Give your name to either Vairë or Jeff. They'll send you off to the right transport to get you to one of 4 places: OPTIONAL: You will NOT be deposited anywhere on dry land in Middle-earth, because you would immediately be killed by the 135,000 km/h winds, constant inland tidal waves and earthquakes, and WE DON'T WANT YOU COMING BACK. You can, however, choose to be sent to any craft with space available, provided the owner/captain grants permission (ie: crazy elf-lady's boat). List of names to be released in ten to fifteen minutes, as soon as the staff gets this crazed elf out of the rafters. |
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Okay then. The wife has already kicked a couple of vagrant souls and set them on an ark somewhere on the floodwaters. These two were booted due to extreme behavior, but the purge has only just begun. About 19/20 of the dead elves, dwarves, men and other whateverthefucks hanging out in C-28 are here TOO FUCKING EARLY. We have to get rid of you. Your space isn't ready yet, and having you here fucks up the Continuum, anyway. Unfortunately, we can't release a horde of resurrected dead back onto Middle-earth all at once, and not just because it's still 90% underwater. Don't ask why. It's complicated. Suffice to say that doing that would rip holes in the universe like a pair of cheap pantyhose. So none of you dead fuckups should try to escape, either. We have the place locked down and sealed off. Anyone who slips back out into the world of the living without a pass will be condemned to eternity in the dwarf ward. Requests by the living will NOT be taken into consideration. We've had enough of that. A list of the next wave will be released shortly. Fear a stressed-out Doomsman. SIT THE FUCK DOWN, SHUT THE FUCK UP AND EAT YOUR FUCKING LOLLIPOPS. |
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| Sunday, March 24th, 2002 |
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Fuck. I turn away for one second and this shit comes up. ATTENTION ALL RESULTANT DECEASED FROM WATERY APOCALYPSE: For most of you, your stay in the Halls is a TEMPORARY one. All Middle-eartheans killed by recent apocalyptic events will be diverted to Hall C-28. Upon arrival, please take a number and a seat. Anyone still running around and shrieking about the end of the world will be shot with a rhinoceros-tranquilizer dart and kept in a separate ward. Yes, you can tranquilize the dead. What will they think of next. Thank you. --Management. |
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| Saturday, March 23rd, 2002 |
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Dammit. Before my wife and I left for our vacation, I gave specific instructions that the holes and tunnels discovered in the Halls be filled and guarded. Either Jeff has been sleeping on the job, or the inspectors missed a few escape routes. My money's on both. Vai put up an ad for anyone interested in trying to keep any more dead like this fucker from getting loose. The world of the living is overpopulated as it is. So it's official. The Halls of Mandos are hiring, kids. We've already had a few inquiries, so wannabe security guards should respond quick. Because of the security issues, Vairë and I are cutting our vacation short and getting back to the Halls. Thanks a lot, deceased assholes. Jeff and I will be having a serious talk when I get back to the office. The Doomsman of the Valar is pissed. I'm also installing some big (plexiglass) windows and skylights in the Halls. The wife is right, it's too fucking dark in the house of the dead. Just because their metabolic processes are out of commission doesn't mean a little sunlight won't do them good. Oh, and my brother finally stopped being such a pussy and admitted he likes cock. Congratulations, Tulk. |
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| Monday, March 18th, 2002 |
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Fucking dwarves are at it again. My wife found a few of them picking at the tapestries in the lobby. The little bastards must be missing their big rock holes full of shiny things, because they only go for the metallic thread. Vai went beserk when she saw them. An understandable reaction; she spent an eternity weaving those tapestries. Still, facing the wrath of the Weaver is punishment enough for anyone. I've only seen it once or twice, and it was enough to put the fear of my father in me. So they got off without much penalty from myself. The most noticeable damage they did was the loosening of a few threads recording the history of soy bean farming, but they did manage to pluck a small blue string out of a lower tassel. Because of this, I'm sorry to say that as far as the Halls of Mandos are concerned, the Douglass-Andersen family of Millertown, New Jersey's 1986 trip to Disney World never happened. On the brighter side, Robert Timothy Schumaker might be glad to know that as of today, he was never fired from the local K-Mart for sexual harassment. He just... stopped going. Congratulations on your new job at the Orange Julius, Bobby. |
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We finally burned that monster loom of Vairë's. Looms of Time make for incredible bonfires. I'll have to check storage and see if we have any others. We could use it for a party or barbecue or some shit. Vai loved it. She was laughing and yelling, "Burn, fucker, burn!" for most of the time. Then she started roasting tofu hot dogs and calmed down a little. She's damn cute with that crazed gleam in her eye. Every Vala that ever popped out of Dad's head has made their way onto LiveJournal. This one is probably verging on a breakdown, this one is still a fucking nut and these two were here for something in the neighborhood of ten minutes before they divorced. Nothing has changed. Vairë and I are going on vacation as soon as I can get Jeff settled in as temporary Doomsman. Vairë wants sun, water and sand, so I've booked a private island for a while, far, far away from gods, monsters and other assorted relatives. But like all dungeons, torture chambers and empty meadows, the island will probably have mysterious internet access. You're not rid of us yet. |
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LiveJournal for Námo.
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