I just bought some of your stuff from dArt, and was wondering if you're going to make a notebook or something similar as the one you made a few weeks back. I'd like to buy one if its got some crazy stuff on the cover. Is this in the future or not sure? You can reply to my ask box or whatever. Take care!
Thank you so goddamn much, seriously. I really appreciate it. As for the Gay Agenda, yes, I will be manufacturing those very shortly. I printed out a bunch of interior pages and now just need to assemble them. I think I may do a preorder run.
The spookiest Halloween is happening: the spectre of POVERTY is rattling his chains at my door.
Those of you in close contact with me have heard that I’ve been increasingly involved in the Occupy Wall Street protests in my local chapters, San Francisco and Oakland. In addition, my roommate went out of town for this month and I forgot to plan for his share of the rent in advance. This hasn’t left much time for getting my shit together, of which I have little in the first place.
The good news is that I finally did my research on DeviantArt’s print store, and the reviews are pretty good. People seem to dig the print quality, and I’m willing to give up a good chunk of profit just to have someone else handling the goddamn printing and shipping.
I’ve started adding prints, including the ones above, and they’re available in matte photo prints, fine art prints, canvas, wrapped canvas, and tea mugs. I think Brainmeat looks especially choice as a black mug, filled with strong, sweet black tea that’s been reheated so many times at 3AM, it’s grown a custard skin.
PASADENA, TX (KTRK) — A local church is using a haunted house to get what it says is an important message across. A local mother says her children not only heard the message, but they saw it as well — and she is not happy about it.
Linda Ybarra says she bought tickets to Hell House in Pasadena for her family this weekend. She didn’t expect that her son would see graphic scenes about going to Hell if they didn’t accept Jesus as their savior.
Ybarra says she and her 14-year-old son thought they’d get a good scare this Halloween at the haunted house, and she expected “the usual Halloween things. You know, zombies and ghouls and goblins. That kind of thing.”
But the horror fan says the experience her family got inside the haunted house left her feeling violated. She says she is upset that — under the guise of an ordinary haunted house — serious moral issues were raised that she has not yet had the chance to discuss with her child.
“There was a young lady lying on a gurney, and two nurses. And one of the nurses was reaching into the lady and pulling out a bunch of gunk, and throwing it on the floor,” Ybarra said, describing an abortion scene at the haunted house.
Ybarra says the actors were depicting far too realistic scenes about abortion, suicide and other sins. She says the Hell House flier’s warning about violent content was too vague for what patrons are walking into.
“I quickly realized that this is not something that I wanted to be at. So I asked if I could leave, and they did not allow us to leave,” Ybarra said.
Ybarra said her tickets did not mention who sponsored Hell House, nor did they provide any contact information. We found out the haunted house is operated by the Potters House Christian Fellowship Church in Pasadena.
Pastor Lamont Melrose says this haunted house isn’t about scaring people with the idea of fake ghosts.
“The material we are using to scare people is reality,” Melrose said. “We want to give people the horror of what it is to go through an abortion. We want to give people the horror of what it is to deal with a rebellious son that commits suicide.”
Melrose explained that patrons aren’t allowed to turn back because of safety concerns in the small, dark space.
He says the mission of Hell House is to lure people to Jesus by the end of the show.
At least one concerned mom has a big problem with that.
“You don’t convert children like that. Tell them that they are going to Hell and things like that. You don’t do that,” Ybarra said.
Church members said they’re not surprised by the controversy over Hell House. They’ve seen similar complaints at other Hell House-type productions across the country, but they say it is a tool that’s been helping them save dozens of young souls each night.
My comment: This type of thing is surprisingly normal in many churches and from what I’ve heard especially in the south. The entire purpose of these places it to terrify people beyond the level of any “haunted house” to the point where it will leave an impression on them forever. Many people who run these places justify it as being for the “good” of the child to learn about the dangers of hell, regardless of how it psychologically traumatizes them. This type of teaching is sick and perverse and any parent that would knowingly send there child to one of these places is a pretty sick and twisted individual. Thanks for the submission.
I would be absolutely fucking furious about this, especially the part where they weren’t allowed to leave. It seems like they could take legal action on that point.
This is not okay. Not. Okay.
Cheesus crust America…….
” We want to give people the horror of what it is to deal with a rebellious son that commits suicide.”
>“We want to give people the horror of what it is to go through an abortion.”
Something tells me these people will never be pregnant and will never have an abortion.
I very much doubt they even know what an abortion looks like.
Pregnancy is more horrifying anyway.
I heard an NPR segment about Hell House ages ago, as I recall they had a “dramatic reenactment” of the Columbine shootings, complete with the “she said yes” bullshit. They also had a scene where a girl buys ecstasy at a rave and then is immediately gang raped while high, and ends with her suicide.
Basically, the standard of good taste (or utter lack of it) is pretty consistent throughout the whole thing.
Don’t forget the part where they give you cookies at the end and usher you into prayer groups and have you sign pledges of faith and virginity and so on. Watch the documentary “Hell House”; it’s all laid out.
I was talking recently about the Occupy Wall Street demonstrations and the movement in general and got onto the subject of the people who just honestly don’t give a fuck, for whatever reason, simply don’t give more than a poorly thought out joke to the idea.
Naturally, like many people, I can’t help but liken situations like these to zombie apocalypse scenarios. Shit’s simply happening, and it’s happening NOW, and though it’s not new, it’s simply broken through some pustule on the surface of what just before seemed disturbingly status quo. Naturally most people are going to not want to see the emerging threat as anything but a little interruption in their day, all the while more and more zombies are popping up. It’s probably just a bad flu variant. Whatevuh.
The general thinking is that these are the people that have to be roused, recruited so that our numbers can better confront THEIRS, but all the while THEY, the zombie hordes are just devouring us as a single minded, organized engine of horror.
At what point do you see the people that just don’t give a fuck what’s happening around them as the enemy in much the same way as the zombies. In not fighting off the zombies, they’re essentially volunteering to be murdered and reanimated as another mindless weapon of the very thing you wanted them to help you fight off.
If you leave them alone, the zombies maybe take longer to notice YOU because they’re too busy eating the dick off the guy that, seconds before, was trying to think up something funny to say in response to your warning, something along the lines of “OCCUPY WAFFLES..huh huhuhhhh..” Dickless from the start, now just screaming and dickless.
Maybe that gives you time to run to relative safety, but now you’re numbers are less than what they would have been if people had just given a shit.
On the other hand, you didn’t put a bullet in that guy’s brain. You wasted time on prince dickless knowing full well all he gave a shit about was the comfort of every distraction he managed to cocoon himself with. Dickless isn’t a bad person, but he’s sure as hell not a player in this game. He’s an NPC, and one that’s just a step away from becoming an active enemy.
I’m not saying that, when you get serious with someone, when you try to engage them in some discourse about the course of action you guys should take when the zombies are banging on the windows and all that someone can do is puke out jokes that wouldn’t even be funny in even pre-apocalyptic times, I’m not saying you should shoot them.
Just know that they only make the zombies stronger.
In at least Photoshop, Illustrator and InDesign CS5 (maybe other programs/versions too), if you go to Window > Extensions > Kuler, you get a palette with preset color palettes that compliment each other, as well as a tool to help you make new ones. Then you can save it to the Kuler list, or to your Swatches palette.
“My part of Oakland is full of poor people. There’s at least one murder a week. Old creeps pimp out teenaged girls in broad daylight. You can buy crack or heroin 30 feet from my door, and two of my neighbors have been held up at gun point this summer. And the City of Oakland says they don’t have the police to stop any of that.But a bunch of people protesting the fact that rich people got a bail out and everyone else got nothing? The city shuts them down tight. Bang. Done. Riot act. Do you ever get the feeling you’ve bean cheated? I do. Every day.”—@el_gallo on BoingBoing.com (via lordmoudemort)
“It was midnight when a small group of dissenters charged up the sidewalk adjacent to the park. They were being led by a girl who, just 30 minutes earlier, had been sobbing with frustration during the face-off with the cops. Now she was beaming ear to ear, leading helming her squad. “You guys suck at protesting,” she yelled into the park. “Revolution has no bedtime!””—Occupy Wall Street Is Rousing Sexual Appetites Of Protesters And Traders
“the biggest change all the insta-video and coverage of the cops has wrought is that people can scream FUCK YOU at cops and not be beaten/shot to death on the spot. I never realized how (rightfully) cowed people have been by police brutality till I saw the shouting at police and tensed up waiting for a fusillade of bullets in response”—OCCUPY WALL STREET PROTEST! It’s actually happening! - wddp.org - Page 111
I wish I could remember to always be sad. It’s worse when you forget to be sad and someone reminds you that everything is terrible. I can handle always being sad, it’s the getting sad that I can’t stand. You know how people have CARPE DIEM or NEVER GIVE UP tattooed across there forearms, yeah, I want to get one that says STAY SAD tattooed on mine
Some time last year, I received the illustration above from Eliza Gauger, who is one of my favorite artists. It inspired me to write the story that follows:
Ramona’s earliest memory is of the jellyfish. It was her eighth birthday and her father had driven their family down to Atlantic City in his pearl-white Buick. He was a stout little man with stubby fingers and hair the color of coal. He sold orthopaedic supplies out of an office he had converted from the garage of their Flatbush home. Ramona’s mother was a sickly woman who chain-smoked Pall Malls and regardless of the season, was rarely seen in public without the ratty fox stole that had once belonged to her mother. The three and a half hour drive to the Tropicana had been miserable due to beach traffic and her father’s insistence that they would save on gas if they didn’t run the air conditioning.
Once they reached the hotel, her parents deposited Ramona and her two-year old sister, Larissa, on the beach and hurried to the casino. They didn’t seem to notice that the beach was closed. It was a humid June afternoon and there was not even the slightest breeze in the air. Red warning flags hung lifelessly from their poles as the lifeguards sat bored and motionless in their towers, their tanned skin damp with perspiration. The hot sand scorched her feet as Ramona led her sister down to the water—she thought the ground would be cooler there. It was then that she saw the massive bloom of jellyfish and understood why the beach had been closed. There were hundreds of them floating in the ocean, their pink flesh billowing in the tide as they slowly crept to shore. A wave crashed on the beach, stranding several of the jellyfish on the sand—their thread-like tentacles baking in the sun as they slowly suffocated.
Ramona wanted to help but was afraid to touch them. She was relieved to see another wave strike the beach, the retreating tide dragging a few of the jellyfish back out to sea. She wondered whether it was God that decided which ones would be left behind or if it was simply chance. She wondered whether jellyfish had families. Ramona watched them for hours, as her sister built cities in the sand and her mother wandered the slot machines with her oxygen tank and a gin and tonic. The two sisters caught nasty sunburns that day, their skin had turned beet red by the time mother came to collect them from the beach. They spent the evening in the hotel room, shaking with fever as their mother fed them salt-water taffy and ginger ale.
For her tenth birthday, Ramona’s father showed her his penis. She woke up that night to find him sitting in a chair at the foot of her bed. The room was dark but the embers from his cigarette cast just enough light to make out the contours of his chubby frame beneath a tattered, flannel robe. “Daddy?” He said nothing. Instead, he parted the folds of his robe, revealing his erection. He leaned back in his chair and blew smoke rings at her as he wrapped his stubby little fingers around his dick and began to masturbate. She rolled over on her side, turning her back to him. She shut her eyes, pretending to be asleep. Still, she could hear him—his labored breathing and the clumsy sound of pawing flesh.
Ramona’s father repeated this ritual for several nights, each evening moving his chair a little closer to her bedside. Eventually, he began to touch her, gently at first but before long so roughly, she could no longer pretend to be asleep. Eventually, he made her touch him. Ramona can’t remember when he started fucking her. But she would never forget the weight of his body on top of her and the slightly pungent taste of his sweat. Ramona’s mother never seemed to notice that her bedroom always smelled of cigarettes.
By the time Ramona was twelve, he was raping her twice a day. No longer content to visit her in her room at night, Ramona’s father would call her into his office every afternoon when she returned from school. It was a cold, damp space that was filled with orthopaedic supplies. He rarely said a word when she entered. Rather, he would just bend her over a box of artificial hips, and fuck her from behind. He always placed his hand over her mouth, to insure Ramona’s mother—who was now bed-ridden with emphysema—would not hear them. His hands always smelled of whatever he had eaten for lunch that day and Ramona found the scents overwhelming. She invented a game in which she would close her eyes and try to recreate the shapes of the porcelain bones that surrounded her. She found it distracted her from the smells of tuna fish salad and hard-boiled eggs.
At age thirteen, Ramona began to grow. Indeed, she grew to be unusually tall for her age, with broad shoulders and wide hips. This was frustrating to Ramona’s father because he found he could no longer wrap his stubby fingers around her waist when raping her. It was then that he decided to install the handles. The operation took place late at night, on the workbench in his garage. He had fashioned two porcelain handles, which after sedating her with a combination of Seconal and Bailey’s Irish Cream, he attached to her hips using long, stainless steel screws. She awoke several hours later in great pain. Her father had returned her to her bed, tying her arms to the bedposts so she could not reach her newly installed accessories. Ramona was surprised to find him there beside her, asleep in his chair.
Over the next several weeks, Ramona’s father tended to her every need. She remembers this time period as a happy one, mostly because he had stopped raping her. And although she was restrained, she was rarely bored. Her father had bought her a small color television, which he placed at the foot of her bed. By day, she watched soap operas while he fed her soup. At night he read her Nancy Drew mystery stories. He had never read to her before. Ramona’s father cleaned her wounds religiously, taking great care to insure that they healed quickly and with only minimal scarring. One night, having taken a bottle of her mother’s nail polish, he painted a single red rose on each of Ramona’s porcelain handles. Ramona’s wounds were fully healed by the end of the summer, so her father began raping her once again. Her handles were the perfect size for his chubby little fingers, enabling him a firm grip on her hips when he fucked her.
On Labor Day weekend, Ramona learned that she would not be returning to school that year. Her father had decided that she would be home-schooled but she never opened another textbook again. Instead, he took her on the road with him. They visited hospitals across upstate New York, the backseat of their car filled with artificial knees and prosthetic limbs. At night they stayed in motor inns, where the sheets irritated her skin and smelled vaguely of fast food and semen. Late at night, Ramona would lay in bed with her father asleep beside her—always with a fat little hand gripping one of her hips. The walls were so thin she could hear couples fucking in the neighboring rooms. She wondered what the women looked like and what they were doing that made them cry out so happily and sometimes, even laugh. She wondered if any of them had handles too.
Ramona’s father raped her across Schenectady, Rochester, and Buffalo. Sometimes he let her drive the old, white Buick. About twice a month, they would return home for a day or two. Her father would get his suits pressed and Ramona would play with her sister on the rusty swing set in the backyard. Sometimes, if her mother was feeling up to it, Ramona would sit with her in her bedroom and play gin rummy. Her mother rarely left her room at all anymore.
When Ramona was fourteen, she got her first period. A few days later, her father abandoned her outside of Niagara Falls. It happened so easily. He pulled into a gas station and sent Ramona in to buy him cigarettes. When she came out of the store, he was gone. Ramona was left with nothing but thirteen dollars and a pack of Winstons. She sat on the curb for several hours, until a trucker offered her a ride. He tried to rape her in Scranton, Pennsylvania but threw her out of the cab once he saw her porcelain handles. Over the next several months, Ramona learned that most men did not enjoy her enhancements. She traveled across the country, trading rides and meals for blowjobs. At least then, she didn’t have to take off her clothes.
Ramona was sixteen when she met Magic Mike at a Waffle House in West Virginia. He worked at a body-piercing studio in Morgantown. His arms were covered in tattoos and he wore a silver ring in his nose. Ramona thought he was the most beautiful boy she had ever seen. Magic Mike took her on his motorcycle to a nearby lake, where they fed crusts of bread to the ducks. He told her funny stories that made her laugh so hard she snorted and when he kissed her, it was as soft and sweet as a baby’s kiss. Ramona loved him instantly. Later that night, when he undressed her and saw the porcelain handles, he was not repulsed but fascinated. And when she explained their origin and how she came to be in West Virginia, he did not pity her. He just smiled and took off his clothes, leaving Ramona breathless. She was surprised to find that virtually his entire body was covered in tattoos, an endless landscape of shipwrecks, skeletons, and pin-up girls. They did not have sex that night. Rather, they spent the evening surveying his flesh, Ramona trailing a finger along every line of ink, drinking in the color and warmth of his skin as he narrated the story of each tattoo. They were inseparable after that, Ramona and Magic Mike. And while they occasionally argued, they stayed mostly in love.
It was Mike who suggested they cut off the porcelain handles. It had never occurred to Ramona that they could be removed. Although bone tissue had long since grown over the screws at the point where they joined her hips, Magic Mike suggested they saw off the head of the screws at the surface of the skin, where something that was more to Ramona’s liking could be attached. He spent the next several days sketching different designs for Ramona’s approval. He was partial to garnet studs.
It was Ramona who first thought of the thorns. Forged in surgical steel and molded in the shape of a rose thorn, each implant would be attached to the screw stems that protruded from Ramona’s hips. Mike quickly located a foundry to cast the thorns. The procedure was relatively painless and created the illusion that two metal thorns had sprouted from Ramona’s hips. When the operation was over, Ramona placed the porcelain handles in an old cigar box that Mike kept coins in. Although they made sex a little awkward, the thorns excited Magic Mike. He liked to imagine he was fucking an alien, like that monster from the Predator movies. Ramona had never been happier. She was glad to be rid of the handles and the thorns made her feel beautiful and dangerous.
It wasn’t long before Ramona wanted more. So Magic Mike redesigned the thorns as transdermal implants. Before long, Ramona was covered in thorns. A row of them trailed down her spine, while others adorned her forearms and thighs. Ramona grew lovelier with each new thorn. Her eyes turned a brighter shade of blue and her skin as smooth and white as the porcelain handles that had once scarred her.
By the time she was seventeen, Ramona had become something of a local celebrity and began modeling for alternative magazines and pin-up calendars. Magic Mike was her tireless promoter, constantly updating her Facebook page and booking her on modeling gigs. At eighteen, she landed the cover of Bizarre magazine and they moved to Los Angeles. Ramona loved that the sun was always shining there and how the beaches stretched on for miles.
Later that year, Ramona and Magic Mike traveled to Brooklyn for the annual Mermaid Parade. He had booked Ramona for an appearance at the Coney Island Circus Sideshow. Ramona felt very much at home with the snake charmers, sword-swallowers, and bearded ladies. She performed an exotic dance in which she emerged from a small wooden box, like a rose bush sprouting up from the soil. The audience, comprised mostly of punks and hipsters, adored her.
She had barely recognized Larissa, standing in the crowd. She no longer had the face of an eight year-old but of a prepubescent girl. Larissa had long gangly arms and an awkward face that was marred with acne. Their eyes met in a flash of recognition and shared anguish that was instantly familiar to Ramona. They went for a hot dog after the show. Ramona’s mom had died two years earlier, finally succumbing to emphysema. Ramona didn’t have to ask whether her father was raping Larissa.
Later that evening, Ramona quietly entered the Flatbush house, surprised to find that her key still worked. She tiptoed up the stairs and into Larissa’s room, only to find her alone and sleeping soundly. She moved down the hall to what had once been her mother’s bedroom. Her father had covered all the furniture with sheets, except for the oxygen tank, which stood in the corner of the room—the only evidence that Ramona’s mother had ever existed. She slowly crept down the stairs and into her father’s office. Ramona found him at his desk, half-asleep and surrounded with empty beer cans and orthopaedic supplies. He was wearing his familiar flannel robe and his hair, now long and unkempt, had turned grey. His eyes grew wide when he saw her, as if she were an apparition. “Have you come back to me?” Ramona nodded as she began to undress. Her father flashed a greasy smile as he opened his tattered robe and began to touch himself. But as Ramona slipped out of her dress, revealing her suit of thorns, his expression changed to one of horror. “What have you done with my handles?” he asked. Ramona picked up a titanium femur from his desk and smashed it over his head. Later, when he regained consciousness, he found she had strapped him to his workbench. She stood over him, grinning, the two porcelain handles in her palm. “I’ve saved these for you,” she said. Ramona attached the rose-covered handles to her father’s head, using a power drill and stainless steel screws. She muffled his screams with the folds of his bathrobe but he only lasted a few minutes before blacking out. “You’ve grown so fat,” she muttered to herself. “How will I ever carry you?” Looking around, Ramona quickly found a solution. His head came off easily with a surgical saw.
In June of her eighteenth year, Ramona drove down to Atlantic City in her father’s pearl-white Buick, his head resting on the passenger seat beside her. It was nearly 5 am by the time she reached the Tropicana. The boardwalk was deserted this time of night. There was no one to notice her as she walked out to the beach, carrying her father’s head, her long fingers gripped around a rose-covered handle. She was surprised how heavy it was. When she reached the water’s edge, Ramona tossed her father’s head into the ocean. It bobbed in the tide for a few minutes, his long grey hair expanding like tentacles in the water. Ramona watched the head as it was slowly pulled out to sea. She sat on the beach as the sun came up, wondering if she would see any jellyfish.
In 1999, Team Fortress Classic (also known as Team Fortress 1.5) was released as a free additional game for people who bought Half-Life. The game was a remake of a Quake mod known simply as “Team Fortress,” made by John Cook and Robin Walker, before joining Valve.
Several changes in Valve’s version included total revisions of the character and level designs, as well as the game modes, in order to emphasize teamwork as a gameplay mechanic.
Being a mod for Half-Life, the game ties into many of the settings in it, including military bunkers and lab facilities similar to the ones explored in Black Mesa, along with similar weapons, such as grenades and the signature crownbar. The lambda symbol shows up frequently, including on the box art, suggesting that the game has some connection to the Half-Life universe, other than being a mod.
Team Fortress Classic was later released as a stand-alone game, with updated models for the characters, but the lambda symbols remained.
When Team Fortress 2 was finally released in 2007, it was filled with numerous bugs and misplaced files that were later cleaned up. Up until about two months after it’s release, it was possible to find a “data” folder in the hl2 resource section of TF2’s files.
Computer/OS(C:)/Users/owner/Steam/steamapps/username/team_fortress_2/hl2/resource/data The file held a large portion of discarded content, such as unused textures and scripts that can still probably be found in other locations, except for the ones labled “mtp.” For example: mtp_room.ain, mtp_civ.vtx, etc. Amongst them was a movie file simply titled “MTP.AVI.”
Upon opening it, a very strange video would start playing.
The video opens up to marketing data text, as seen in the beginning of TF2’s “Meet The Heavy” video, only the “cleared for public release” line was labeled “no.” In the backdrop is a dark, fuzzy image of a ruined town, similar to the ones found in Half-Life 2.
The screen then cuts to a seated figure in a chair, wearing a green hood, a leather apron, and a gas mask. The figure is shown seated in a burning kitchen, at a table with four seated (or slouched) burnt corpses. Two of the corpses seem to have animation/clipping errors, as their heads do a weird flail every 4 seconds. On the table in front of the figure is a low-res flamethrower, which the figure nervously grips at. This scene is shown at several angles while a muffled voice, similar to that of HL2’s Combine, but with a much more depressed/human tone to it, mutters something.
“It never ends. The air is… hey, put some sort of gas in it. With the mask, I’m fine. A lot of these people should be dead. That’s how you know they’re not real. Or bad. Only bad people breathe gas. Fire gets rid of the gas. Gets rid of the bad. I’m okay, I’m okay. The gas burns away.”
This narration can only be heard clearly after playing with the pitch and eliminating some of the static from the sound file. It can be assumed that the masked person is doing the narrating, but it is not certain.
The scene then abruptly cuts to a black screen, where the following string of binary shows up:
(Upon translation, it reads, “Daisy did it. He’s gone now.”)
It stays up for several seconds while a badly-recorded line of Dr. Breen’s (from HL2) plays, “-cide, if you will. Did the lungfish refuse to breathe air? It did not. It crept forth boldly while its brethren remained in the blackest ocean abyss, with lidless eyes forever staring at the dark, ignorant and doomed despite their eternal vi-”
Another cut is made to a live-action scene this time. The camera is going through someone’s kitchen seemingly burnt out from the inside. It stops at a shot of an oven, where the charred body of someone is laying head-first into the oven.
And then the video ends.
Indeed, it’s a very strange thing to watch, and difficult to understand, but here’s what I’ve come to make of it.
Among the cut content for Half-Life 2 was a location called “AirEx,” a tower that pumped some sort of toxin into City 17’s air. It was supposed to be safe for the Combine, but bad for humans, forcing the citizens in the city to wear gas masks and protective suits identical to the figure in the video when going outside.
My guess is that given the similarities of the gas mask and flamethrower between the TF2 Pyro character, and the person that appears in this video, that this is an unfinished prototype of what Meet The Pyro would have been if TF2 had maintained it’s connection to the Half-Life universe. The Pyro character may have, at one point, been an escaped citizen of City 17 that became paranoid of the toxicity of the air no matter where he (for the sake of argument, as the combine voice did sound masculine) was.
However, due to the fact that AirEx was cut from Half-Life 2 and Team Fortress 2 severed its ties with the Half-Life universe, this obviously never happened.
It is said that one of the few people who came across this video emailed Robin Walker about it, but in his response, he claims that no such video was ever made.
It has been rumored, however, that one of the guys on TF2’s development team let a cousin of theirs, who was a huge fan of Half-Life, volunteer there for a short time in 2002. He is said to have grown a very creepy obsession with the game as more material for hypothetical storylines, such as AirEx, began to appear in development. He later died in “some sort of accident,” but it was never explained what happened, though it is theorized that it was suicide, as he suffered from severe depression.
The City 17 Pyro was dubbed as “Daisy” by an anonymous irc channel, after the bizarre binary message in the video.
After the removal of the mtp files from TF2’s resource folder, it seems that this video was never saved, as it seems to have been all but forgotten and can no longer be found anywhere.
Flamethrower and gas mask aside, TF2’s actual Pyro seems to have no relation to “Daisy.” The flower-printed purse found amongst Pyro’s things in TF2 may or may not, however, be a hint.
I put that TF2 creepypasta on TF2chan and most of the comments on it consist of BEN.wmv discussion and how I should have made it into a video instead of writing about it.
Maybe if it gets popular enough somebody will make a video tribute.
I’m pretty sure that’s what happened with Suicide Mouse?
No, I mean it seems to come off as a bit… rude.
Maybe I’m taking this the wrong way, but talking about some unrelated video and saying that I should have made a video about this (nevermind that I suck at gmod) instead of writing about it, because the story isn’t as scary as creepypasta… it just seems pretty impolite.
Yeah, it kind of is…
They did get told off though, maybe they’ll apologize.
I read that thread and the OP was really fucking good. I don’t think they understand what ‘creepypasta’ is. “um dude u should just maek the video” cool thanks for missing the point completely, guys. “yeah your smiledog.jpg story is okay but like, have you ever thought about actually making smiledog.jpg? whoaooOOoahhh”
She found my stash. I left a diaper out and got found out. Laptop is gone, cellphone is gone, and now she’s personally texting Jesse and Joe. I hate her so much. All this for liking diapers… I wish I had a different mom and never had to see her again… Oh, and my stash? Trashed. She threw them away and won’t let me go to my dad’s. She blames him for this. She blames EVERYONE except herself for everything. Now all I have is my Wii to comunicate with you guys…
“It’s over…My babyfur life ends now”
Thank you all for the year or so of love and care. My mom and stepdad cut my phone off (number and all) and are cutting me off from you all. This time, they aren’t stopping. So, no skype, and I’ll VERY rarely be on here and dA. All because I left 1 diaper out in the open by accident. If I hadn’t, I’d be online right now, cubbing it up. But no… It breaks my heart to think it, but CJ…is just no more. I pray to God you all stay on for another year PLEASE. I WILL return one day but for now… And maybe when I get my computer back, it’ll all be forgotten and will go back to normal (minus my phone and diapers). But, until then…bye guys. “I wuv ju awl…”
The following is a quote from a comments thread on a post about homeopathic vaccines:
I tried to conduct my own homeopathic placebo controlled flu vaccine trial, but when the placebo beat out the homeopathic treatment, the co-researchers claimed the “quantum energy properties of their remedies were depotenized by succession in the their active control children’s cerebrospinal fluid.”
CSF depotenization you might ask? Well, the indicated route of administration was listed as oral, but apparently the homeopath insisted on injecting the nosodes directly into the “vital brain miasm” via a transsphenoidal approach (using a large plastic dental syringe) to “protect the child’s neuron energization” from the “toxic mercuries” in future forced vaccinations. The placebo group received normal PO administration as planned.
In the nosode group, all recipient children seized up immediately upon administration and then according to the homeopath they “most rudely ignored further instructions, rolled their eyes, and began throwing violent jerking tantrums, which were not unlike those experienced by most of my patients who are in the acute detoxification phase of their recovery.” After the “detoxification” phase ceased, the children remained listless which the homeopath referred to as the “healing arc.”
By the end of the 4 week trial, clinical and serological evidence of influenza infection in the placebo group was only found in 6 of the 24 children (I, 0.25; 1000% CI, 0.25-0.75; P<10^-32) in contrast to the incidence of 9 out of 22 (I, 0.90%; 1.234 CI, 0.102-0.00201; P< itsgood) of the children treated with the homeopathic vaccine. The authors must remark that these children were allow to “detox” on the unswept floor of the shared homeopathic/acupuncturist office.
It was noted that in a post-study follow up, all 22 of the homeopathic controls were diagnosed with autism spectrum disorder with severe impairment, but only once they were admitted to the care of a licensed medical professional.
In response to post-study questioning, the homeopathic practitioner asserted that:
“it is within plausibility that all the children had coincidental dormant cases of latent-dilutional-hypermiasmosis related to the vaccination schedule their parents received as children when their own vital energy was still in fragile development. As such, in accordance with the fundamentals of the applied science of homeopathy, the waning vaccine immunity dilution in the children’s parents triggered an ultra toxin neurogenic overload attack in their offspring, which manifested just prior to the homeopathic practitioner’s timely nosodial intervention which litigated the hypermiasmosis and saved the children’s lives.”
Furthermore, the homeopaths have published their own interpretation of this study the and in their conclusions they appear to have made yet another ground breaking disease discovery that “vaccine associated autism can skip generations, stipulating the need for the vaccinated parents of unvaccinated children to receive necessary chelation therapy or homeopathic vaccination prophylaxis.
Their interpretation was published as “Homeopathic vaccines for the for treatment of idiopathic mortality” in the monthly journals of the Organization of Homeopathic Bulletins of Study (OH-BS), peer review was completed by a (1) Weandrew Achefield, Rtrd.GE Dr. 2010 Nov 5; TK:421-8675309