It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to heaven, we were all going direct the other way...

This is the archive of the #N IRC Quotes Repository.

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<doctor_pork> D'
<hollyfax> you began to cry
<hollyfax> but both your eyes disappeared
<hollyfax> or
<hollyfax> asian pirate
<doctor_pork> was that a haiku
Plastyck: Never Google your password.
blue_tetris: I never would.
Plastyck: I'm gonna do it.
Plastyck: No results.
Plastyck: ...on -this- Net.
blue_tetris: Now Google knows.
Plastyck: Like it didn't anyway.
blue_tetris: Instead, showing results for "your34 pass7word8 SpiderBoss992@heatwaveTHEJUICER.wisdom"
blue_tetris: And then every hacker always can just click VIEW INTERNET AS THIS FRIEND? on Google+.
blue_tetris: And get all your shit.
Plastyck: How did you...
blue_tetris: A lady never tells........
blue_tetris: And a gentleman -always- tells........
Plastyck: You're a DarkNetizen, aren't you.
blue_tetris: I dab.
blue_tetris: The question is, .ru?
<Aidiera> Guys, I'll tell you a secret.
<Aidiera> I featured Brttrx's map on his birthday, without knowing it was his birthday.
<Aidiera> I'm still amazed at that.
<@krusch> Wow. That's bizarre.
<@krusch> He probably didn't know it was his birthday either though.
<&flag> regrets could be my porn name
blue_tetris: When a man is dancing, what part of him are you supposed to look at and not feel weird?
5:04 PM - blue_tetris: There is actually only a very small region in the middle of the pinball table that the flippers can't reach.
5:05 PM - blue_tetris: The only real way to lose, if you're paying close attention, is to send a ball into the retu--GRULULULULRLRLRLLULULLGG.
5:06 PM - Plastyck: Precisely calibrated by the zaibatsus for that sweet spot of probability that tips the scales back past 'break even'.
5:06 PM - Plastyck: They say there are two types of pinball players: Those who lose, and those who keep losing.
5:08 PM - blue_tetris: Once I'd rigged into the flippers, the game changed; I could smell the oil on my ball and feel the slight tickle as it rolled across my waxed oak-skin.
5:09 PM - blue_tetris: Each flip was a squirt of serotonin straight from my neck to my forebrain. And the numbers? They just kept getting bigger.
5:12 PM - Plastyck: I was the ball now, feeling every knotted imperfection in the wooden backing -- and back in reality, a small smile curling around my lips; because the manufacturers had never counted on me.
5:12 PM - Plastyck: I saw the molecules of polished mahogany spin past, sinking into a groove micrometres deep and twisting the odds, ever so slightly, back into my favour.
5:14 PM - Plastyck: And then it was over. The ball slipped a hair's breadth out of the no-return zone -- then the edge of the flipper hurled it back into comfortable, measurable oblivion. I was still in this yet.
5:15 PM - blue_tetris: I knew the risks, of course. Tuck was my mentor. Three years prior, I'd caught him ballsunk in an old dive bar near Jupiter LaGrange C. Got cocky on a multiball, split his lobes to handle the extra rollers, and lost track of them in the pointstorm. His jack sparked once, then spilled a dense black smoke down his spine and onto the floor. The vapor of his last few meaningless opinions settled into dust underfoot. The drunks and hookers stamped over him unawares, and I moved up to the same cabinet. Tuck's work undone.
5:23 PM - Plastyck: Since that day, I'd never been truly sated. I scoped out old cabinet warehouses in the Breach, queued up at receptions at the cheapest brothels down DeGraves Avenue. Never quite got that old buzz back, the indescribable flow. All the vitality etched out of rusty neuroports over years of abandonment, the ball's weighting painfully off-kilter, well-oiled but not well-oiled enough... Until I made a deal with Jaz Steelwise and the underground flippers' crew. Turns out it was high stakes what I'd been missing the whole time, and I hadn't even known it.
5:27 PM - blue_tetris: Jaz had to test me, of course. You don't get into a place like this without showing some ballcred. He hooked me up with a classic, and I coined in. I knocked King's Castle once, lowering the drawbridge. That was the easy part. The tricky bit was keeping my ball floating while I killed the five trolls that emerged. When I first became a pinner, boards were simple—no themes, just balls and bumpers and points. Now, every corp droog with a ballvault to protect had to plant decals and LEDs all over the surface to keep us guessing. Today's score was Camelot, a simple re-paint of an old wooden board. “I can't believe I brought seven quarters to this one-goal toddler-table,” I chuckled as I turned to face the crowd of Vory pinpunks assembled behind me. No one shared my laugh. Before I could even turn back about, though, I'd already high-scored the machine: “4.7 billion. ASS.”
5:36 PM - Plastyck: “You get cocky, that's when you start missing flips,” Jaz whispered reprimandingly over my shoulder. “In the Bronze Podium VIP ‘cades, quarters'll buy you more than gold.” I guess I shoulda listened, then; but I was riding high on a spring-loaded entry-chute wave of pinphoria. I was barely unjacked for a second as I shifted to the next cabinet and coined in -- you couldn't stand reality and its piss-poor elastic recoil reproduction for long in that kinda mood. Second rig primed, Jaz just grinned and leant back against the Gabe Pinster mural on the wall, lighting a Newport. Didn't give me that familiar fucking pat on the arm thing he usually did, and in doing so implied I needed all the conc I could get for the run ahead. I shoulda known, at that moment, the particular flavour of bullshit he'd prepared for me.
5:44 PM - blue_tetris: By hour two, I had seven captive balls juggled in my rig, and three in the bank. I had no ball savers, and a tauntingly-close kickout was making me play recklessly. I was orbiting a few spinners, when a ball whipped out of the habitrail and dropped null. “Well juk me,” I whispered aloud. That's when the panic set in—and I did what no pinner should.
Seconds later, I coined out. Hard. When I came around, a pair of AK99s were pressing into my neck and a thin stream of blood was dripping down from each ear. I was about to get bumpered down the chute by a couple of Saturn skeeball kids. It was bad enough to be balldead, let alone realdead and the laughingstock of Jaz's whole pack of Bratvas. “Let's pin this out, ‘caders,” I smiled. The bigger badboi motioned with his rifle at a fist-sized dent in the machine's left side. I must have tilted that dent, back when my eyes were glued to the backbox, and they'd just caught me red-flippered.
At a normal joint, you could thud the machine just once. After that, some jackboot barkeep zipped up in combat fatigues would ask you to cut it out. Second time, you were back out on the street. You could never come back, but at least you weren't dead. This place was different. I was going to owe a few favors from here on in.
6:03 PM - Plastyck: Cut to outside, to rain I remember hearing as a thousand impotent flipclacks, my brain still whirling from dumpshock. “You know what the fuck you did to my rep, back there? Hey, flipperhead?” Jaz slapped me, twice, cold, round the temples. I registered the impact distantly, distant as the top pinster's career now suddenly seemed. Second chances, he was saying something about second chances. You only get one chance in this gig; one chance, and one ball. I closed my eyes and saw the spark of springfire, the globe flinging itself silently out of its coiled titanium housing at half the speed of sound, a flicker of raw kinetic energy tunnelling through the infinite neon lattice of the entry chute. Momentum, as any talk-show pindit could tell you, was the only thing that kept a flipmeister in the game, and I couldn't afford to lose it now. “I gotta coin back in, my buddy, my old mentor paaal,” I mumbled -- then lurched forward and heaved onto rain-slick concrete. Whatever happened the next few hours from that point doesn't so much matter. But I know I wouldn't be standing here, now, in the Bronze Podium, with a cool million staked on a dueltable versus Crazy Grzegor, if it hadn't been for Jaz. Sometimes I reckon I don't give the backstabbing fuckface enough credit.
6:34 PM - blue_tetris: I arrived at a professional ballclub with a bumpersteel sign outside reading “Pinners and Saints”. An animated angel and devil beckoned in the crème-de-la-coin of the outer ring. Not surprisingly, he was the first guy I saw there. Crazy Grzegor was a wealthy plunge-minge from the New Earth DMZ. He was the kind of wizard you would catch reading the Ball Street Journal between rounds of Galaga. The kind of wiz with a trillion-shekel bank account on Triton, gambling shex like meaningless dot-matrix zeroes on God's big universal backbox. Fancy flippers like him had a reputation for being pushovers, in a scoreduel. They like to take their time. Grzegor, on the other hand, was no novice at bouncing neurons off pegs at pachinko pace. He wasn't born rich; he made it big, after the right ball went into the return. It made me hate him all the more.
The first five tables went fast. I beat Frankenstein, I launched Apollo, I saved the princess, I sank the pirate ship, and I shook hands with Michael Jackson. CG wasn't far behind, his mouth of molten-pinball neoteeth arced into an immutable smug grin. On table nine—a featureless cherry-wood expanse of bumpers and wires—I played my trump card. I let my body go limp and deep-pinned. I was the machine again, yawning my broad rubber flippers in either direction as if to cradle the whole world. Grzegor tried to slip a ball past me, and I craned him once in the face. After a desperation tilt, he was down for the count. The crowd went silent, then erupted into a cool waterfall of accolades. I had made Silver.
Jaz showed, for the first time ever, the faint shadow of a smile. It was the kind of self-satisfied smile a kid gets after his first free game. “Okay,” he declared, “You have the skill. But are you ready to pull the plunger?” Saying nothing, I slung my Jordache backpack over my left shoulder and grabbed a handful of quarters from my pocket. I fondled one in my fingers, then checked the year on the coin: 3745 AP.
6:34 PM - blue_tetris: My lips formed a word, which escaped my mouth as a whisper. “Dad.”
6:54 PM - Plastyck: Tenth table. Apex of the pyramid. No going back now, or ever -- upshop mintjoints like this had the meanest, fiercest tech jammed into their custom diamond-gilt cabinets. This one rose before me monolithically, archways of crystal and topaz gleaming in the gaslight. Stare into the webwork ceiling of the Bronze long enough, and you could almost forget the meteor strikes that peppered the slums of Slamtilt City this time of orbit. If you needa ask how the place got its name? Then you clearly never been swindled by a three-season gypsy off Zazeni Street, never been Monte Carlo'd up the return chute by a captive-ball technomage and his fast-fingered con artistry. The crowd here was also xenic to the streets; mostly weekenders up from Galloway or Veltz II for the 949th annual Pinster Expo. I watched them, detached from the action for social purposes but invested hyperbillions deep in the private world of the wallet. Course, players never knew their own odds. Wouldn't wanna skew a perfectly good matchup by letting some old-fashioned evopsych nonsense tinker with nerve systemics.
A row of old-fashioned, satchel-triggered ‘99s telescoped outwards, aiming squarely at our heads, me and old Crazy Grzegor, as we stepped up to the exclusion zone. Microfibre shutters slammed down around us, locking us into a private world where the flipper was God and a synaptic mishap was Death. We knew the price of mistakes, knew the currency of the cabinet. But none of this was anywhere near the surface of my mind at that point. It lurked below, like the hidden mechanisms of the ball return; but this precious time was for scoping out the boardplan.
West side, flamethrowers and heatsinks. Wouldn't damage the ball any, but superheat it to within a Kelvin of meltpoint. North, the ice plains --cross those with a hotball and you may as well hitch the next shuttle back to Old Earth for all the good it would do for your career. East, we got ourselves a heaped glob of G'Leth River viruses, generations of microevolution happening second after second, the probability of a tungsten-digesting enzyme spontaneously arising steadily approaching one. And dousing pools to the south. Table was a fucking balldrop nightmare, which meant he had to play high and dry, coasting the pointverge and staying two steps ahead of his opponent. Only problem was, he'd open himself up to aggressive tactics -- a known CG favourite.
The two ballsters, swollen with confidence and nitrogen-rich atmosphere, readied their quarters. The adjunct wordlessly dinged the countdown dingbell. Three. Two. One.
7:25 PM - blue_tetris: I plungered. A white coil of flippersmoke comet-tailed behind me as I spun across the eastern prairie. It would be microseconds before I broke the silence of point-zero; an each microsecond was a fresh eternity of waiting. The bumper crops appeared, by mid-table, and I dinged among them for quick points. CG, still rolling mad from his earlier defeat, zipped past me at the speed of flipper. He rolled over a few optos and lasers, and I looked skyward to read his DMD: He was sitting pretty at x10. The smell of hot vanadium met my nose and his ball flashed white-hot with sheer multiplier.
I surfed his ball-wake for a few spinners until I could close the point gap. 90m to 98m. Then, I veered to the right and toggled the pentaball blue light sequence. In an instant, the board transmuted into the Wild West. Cowboys, Indians—the whole nine balls. The sudden change was a lot to take in, but I adapted and flipped a turn-gate. I stole one add-a-ball and freed Pocahontas. The round was still young: At high noon, Chief Multiball would arrive and I'd be headed for Dodge City. Even so, I wasn't going to wait. I add-a-balled, and I split my mind: Now I was the sheriff and deputy, facing off against CG's mohawks. I knew I couldn't take on the whole tribe, so I held the right flipper in place and cradled the pinball.
I released the flipper, causing the ball to lurch towards the ball return. Then, as the pinball rolled over the end of the flipper, I quickly tapped the button. The ball rolled across the board, bounced a few times, and came back down to the flippers. I hit it again, waited for it to fall back into place, then repeated the action. After a few minutes of successfully flipping the pinball around, I finally lost control of the ball and it fell into the return. However, I had already earned many points and left the arcade. Jaz couldn't have been more pleased.
[23:29:18] <@Kashkin> Fuck -you-.
[23:29:31] <~blue_tetris> No. Fuck you, guy.
[23:29:42] <@Kashkin> I'm not your guy, buddy.
[23:29:50] <~blue_tetris> I'm not your buddy, friend.
[23:30:04] <@Kashkin> I'm not your friend, guy!
[23:30:15] * ~blue_tetris ( Quit (Quit: I'm not your guy, buddy.)
<@nil> xwd: what is electro a subgenre of?
<@nil> I assume house
<@halifax> It's its own genre.
<@halifax> House is a subgenre of electro.
<@nil> ah
<@halifax> UK garage is a supergenre of doublefunk.
<@halifax> Dubstyle and hardstep are anterior-indicative genres to their sublink, home trance.
<@gloomp> minimal techno and breakbeat can be lumped under the umbrella genre of purple sound
<@halifax> Bro-opera and thick noise jazz erupted from the Icelandic doom metal wave of the 1950s, and fused into neo-Christian fear punk.
<@Yahoozy> After Conic Youth's 1845 major-libel triple-concept debut LP, fact metal gained a larger audience than both sphere folk and nu luck-hop combined.
[20:48:58] <&arid_horn_nuns> Heh.
[20:49:00] <&arid_horn_nuns> Seeing as how I'm so deeply in love with Wikipedia, I tend not to vandalise it, but this time I couldn't resist the opportunity:
Plastyck: Canis Cluepus Familiaris.
blue_tetris: Hahaha. He's an invented species.
blue_tetris: Created for the purpose of solving crimes better than the average dog.
Plastyck: Not invented, just separate.
blue_tetris: Ahh.
blue_tetris: This canine speciated from others in its genus when it developed a nose suitable for gumshoeing.
blue_tetris: And adapted powerful hind claws for digging up dirt.
Alfred Betticle:
Alfred Betticle: Check out this Belgian enclave.
blue_tetris: It's oblasted all over the place.
<Alphy> I mean, shit. Everybody acts like Vista walked into their house, punched their kid in the face, sexed up their wife, and shot their dog on the way out the door.
[01:06:33] <Donfuy> the biggest problem... are my parents.
[01:06:49] <Vyacheslav> Eviscerate them?
[01:06:58] <Orange> Annihilate them?
[01:07:01] <Orange> Destructinate them?
[01:07:06] <Orange> Atomize them?
[01:07:14] <Sucker> Incinerate them?
[01:07:15] <Orange> Pwnz0r them?
[01:07:15] <Vyacheslav> Eat them?
[01:07:23] <Orange> Demolish them?
[01:07:29] <Vyacheslav> Feed them to the lions?
[01:07:34] <Orange> Implode them?
[01:07:39] <Sucker> Sell them?
[01:07:44] <Orange> Slice them into chunks?
[01:07:44] <Vyacheslav> Push them onto train tracks when a train is coming?
[01:07:56] <Orange> Drop them out of a plane with a backpack instead of a parachute?
[01:07:58] <Vyacheslav> Cut them with chainsaws?
[01:08:04] <Orange> Fell them like trees?
[01:08:14] <Orange> Throw them in a piranha-infested river?
[01:08:22] <Vyacheslav> Carve out their intestines with a machete?
[01:08:29] <Sucker> Crush them with your iron fist?
[01:08:30] <Orange> Suck out their brains with a straw?
[01:08:36] <Orange> Drop an anvil on them?
[01:08:46] <Vyacheslav> Hammer their faces in?
[01:09:00] <Orange> Throw them out of a window?
[01:09:12] <Orange> Play really loud music at them?
[01:09:24] <Vyacheslav> Tie them to the ground and run over them with an 18 wheeler?
[01:09:24] <Sucker> Give them the look?
[01:09:32] <Orange> Play drums, except instead of drums it's their faces, and instead of play it's stab?
[01:09:48] <Vyacheslav> Cut off their genitals and donate them to a preschool?
[01:09:51] <Orange> Fill them up with liquid cement?
[01:10:07] <Orange> Strangle them with guitar strings?
[01:10:14] <Orange> Smash a CRT monitor over their heads?
[01:10:22] <Orange> Jump on them over and over?
[01:10:31] <Orange> Put them in a car crusher?
[01:10:38] <Orange> Drop them into a monster truck rally?
[01:10:42] <Vyacheslav> Feed them blood?
[01:10:42] <Donfuy> GOSH IT'S ENOUGH ORANGE
[01:10:52] <Orange> Force-feed them oranges?
[01:11:00] <Orange> Peel them like an orange?
[01:11:04] <Orange> Drop a ton of oranges on them?
[01:11:11] <Vyacheslav> Rickroll them?
[01:11:19] <Donfuy> Oh, win
[01:11:22] <Donfuy> Rickroll.
[01:11:23] <Orange> Put them inside a life-sized orange, then roll it off a cliff?
[01:11:32] <Orange> Kill them?
[01:11:35] <Orange> Did we say that one?
home_alone_2tris is now playing BIT.TRIP Presents... Runner2: Future Legend of Rhythm Alien.
Baby Jesustyck: BIT.TRIP Presents... Runner2: Future Revolution Legend 3: The Mystery of the Return of RUNNER.TRIP.TITLE Long Title 3: Character Limit's Revenge
home_alone_2tris: Perfect joke EXCEPT
home_alone_2tris: "...Character Limit's Reven"
[19:01:11] <crunchytoast> shovel
[19:01:12] <shovelman> i need more pokeballs before a shiny shovel man
[19:01:33] <glass_arm> "shiny shovel man" huh
[19:01:34] <shovelman> for your mother shit off a shiny shovel
[19:01:41] * shovelman has left #n
[16:47:03] <Orange>