This or That or something? What is this, Mensa?

And it's the Lounge, so nothing is as it seems. We don't do normal.





Give it a shot! be creative!

:confused:

in common high school math, I guess.

I like it!

similarly glacial to Ganglebottom's, the previous typesetter, and Megwump the archivist, the anteprevious typesetter, both of whom Gutenberg, in absinthe rages, righteously kept from polluting the human gene pool by pouring molten type first on their horror-filled eyes and then down their screamed-raw throats after having affixed their bodies for safe and solid pouring by putting them on a hitching post, anus first, right in the town square during consecutive annual Putzenberg’s celebrations of the righteous sexiness that Dr. Strange's parents would birth for the world in 600 years, that Gutenberg had to fire him.



89 words - Fibonacci score!!

fifteen bonus points for use of the phrase "anus first", and an extra 4 + 23i points for bringing in my parents. You've scored well tonight!

until you posted it like that.

And remember, I'm an EE, not some wanker, so I use j for complex numbers, not i.

Can't wait to read your rendition! Though I suppose you will make us wait until Wednesday.

Herr Phizplastor's typesetting speed was so ||blisteringly fast, smoke and flames would appear on the wooden panels.
His predecessor Rabrrrrr who trained him, showed the merits of anus first organization. Meaning, starting from the middle bottom up, with a stiffened fibrous rod, which may be the reason for the aforementioned fire(perhaps can be credited for the origin of the word faggots which the English use).

Sadly, his work would not last due to the pH levels found on the parchment which deteriorated the pages within a couple of months. Which is the eventual reason|| that Gutenberg had to fire him.

||89||

Herr Phizplastor's typesetting speed was so off the charts that Intergalactic Czar, the Great Geddy Lee of Toronto, was called in to determine a way of measuring it. Fortunately, Geddy was well-versed in quantum theory (almost as well-versed as he was in bringing the awesomesauce), and thus was able to create The Peartron^®.

“It works like this,” said Geddy falsettoly, “you’ll be asked to typeset in 7/4 time. The machine will measure the speed at which you typeset, as well as the kickassedness. The Peartron^® will compile these facts into a numerical value, after which I will consult with the Oracle Gutenberg to determine the greater meaning.” Geddy finished with a thrashing bassline, dizzying everyone within the zip code.

Herr Phizplastor took a deep breath and started setting the type.

Yo.

HEY!

GEDDY!

Play that bass.

Slappa dat bass, mon.

You rock like an angel would rock.

If that angel was Canadian and named Geddy.

Do you ever wonder just how many angels could dance on the head of a drumstick?

It’s a trick question: the answer is none, since the sticks are being used by Neil Peart and as such they are moving way too fast for the angels.

For though they are supernatural beings bathed in splendor and glory, the Professor’s drumming is supernaturaller and there’s no way you can avoid rocking when the Rush is in action, even if you’re Tom Sawyer.

Astoundingly, Herr Phizplastor was able to typeset this is 89 milliseconds.

“Shit, dude!” shrieked Geddy, not at all like a girl. (Don’t listen to CreekDog, he doesn’t know what he’s talking about.)

Herr Phizplastor smiled with confidence. “It’s easy to typeset when one is in the presence of awesomeness.”

“Thanks, man,” responded Geddy.

“Oh, I meant me,” Herr Phizplastor said. “But you’re not so bad yourself. I love the Rush. And you know me, I never lie. Although I have been known to Fib.”

And Geddy smiled, because he totally understood what Herr Phizplastor meant.

But Gutenberg was too unhip, and didn’t like Herr Phizplastor’s typesetting. This promptly started a slap fight between Herr Phizplastor and Gutenberg, and it was over rather quickly, as Herr Phizplastor was as good and fast a slapper as he was a typesetter. After 144 seconds, Gutenberg was bald, and half his colon was lying on the floor. He was in awe of Herr Phizplastor’s fighting skills. Geddy was also impressed, but he realized that as the man took his dying breath that Gutenberg had to fire him.

Fibs travel well

and I'm sure Geddy would bless you with even more awesomeness if he were in the room!

:bravo:

live up to the standard he had established prior to his disappearance.

Hans, realizing that he would never be promoted as long as Phiz was his Supervisor had seen to the disappearance. It had been a stroke of genius to dissolve his dismembered body in the acid bath used to clean the presses. Hans was also pleased that he had the foresight to hang the corpse over the ink tank and bleed him out after bludgeoning him.

Hans was now assured of being promoted to Head Typesetter. All he had to do was set and run a press for the owner Herr Gutenberg, a task he had performed hundreds of times.

As he began operating the press it became apparent that there was a problem with the ink. Rather than transferring clean images from the type to the paper, it clotted leaving the pages looking as if they were covered with scabs.

At that point he knew that his plan had failed and, that Gutenberg had to fire him.

I do love me a good horrifying mystery!

Herr Phizplastor's typesetting speed was so so. Neither fast nor slow, and amazingly, when the German government did their yearly typesetting metrics, Herr Phizplastor was always the perfect average. No matter how the average moved from year to year, up or down, large or small difference from the year before, Phizplastor tracked such movement perfectly, always landing squarely in the middle.

Some guy from his town questioned him about it one day, curious as to the kind of deviltry going on. This infuriated Phizplastor so much that he punched the guy in the face repeatedly. Then he shoved the man's head into a printing press and tightened it down, trapping him painfully in it. To further punish the guy, Phizplastor grabbed his filet knife and opened up both of the man's thighs and cut off his penis. He put the penis in front of the guy's head, and then slowly brought the press down, crushing his head, eventually exploding his brain matter and eyeballs all over the now sacralized machine.

Phizplastor took his knife, some chain, and a crosscut saw and systematically killed everyone in town. He bled them like pigs, he bled others like cows, he bled some like rabbits. But he bled them all. Some, especially the children, he drove pitons through to stick them to the ground and then he sawed them in pieces, growing strong by drinking in the panic of their screams. He constructed a scaffold in the town square to hang their headless bodies, staking their heads on pieces of printing presses in a circle around the town. The blood ran deep and sticky. When the final body had been dispatched in this gruesome anti-question frenzy of rage, Phizplastor danced around the circle of heads, popping out the eyes and leaving them on the ground.

Then he sat in the lake of blood under the hanging bodies, waiting. Waiting silently for his boss Gutenberg to come back from his morning walk into the hills.

Gutenberg was horrified when he returned. He puked up the egg sandwich he had eaten in a meadow of heather an hour before, when he was innocent of such carnage.

"Phizplastor!" he shouted, "This is a total - and I mean absolutely total - breach of etiquette. The Gutenberg Press PR department is going to have a sticky goddamn time doing damage control on this."

Phizplastor hung his head in shame, realizing that he was about to be punished. It wasn't a certainty, but it was a pretty good bet that the PR department would say the only way out of this disaster to the otherwise demographically-tracking-nicely public perception of the Gutenberg Press corporate name is that Gutenberg had to fire him.

:salute: