stavrosthewonderchicken has been drinking

Polaroid_kimchi

OutsideInKorea. The newest addition to the Wonderchicken Industries network. Go, read, drink soju, barf, swear that you're never touching the stuff again.

[reposted from Metatalk: I'm still trying to figure out what to use this for]

Posting and posting in the lengthening thread
The chicken cannot take the chickenneck;
Things fall apart; the center cannot hold;
Mere horsecockery is loosed upon the world,
The photoshop tide is loosed, and everywhere
The propriety of our thread is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some bannings are at hand;
Surely the Thread Closing is at hand.
The Thread Closing! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of the SA Forums
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with chicken body and the cock of a horse,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant moderators.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That a twentieth century of Metafilter
Was vexed to nightmare by a filthy .gif,
And what rough callout, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Metatalk to be born?

Metayeats.

[asked on discuss, and I said:] For me, it's quite simple. I notify my pilot that I'll be needing the jet. We fly to Taveuni, calling ahead to make sure that my native guides have prepared the equipment. On arrival, we climb to the top of the central ridgeline, picking beans on the way, beans only at the perfect stage of development, which we carefully pack in baskets lined with the freshly-cut hair of virgins.

The beans are roasted over sacred fires which have been continuously burning for more than 8 centuries, fires traditionally fed and ceremonially tended by the oldest women of the village, who prepare the wood by soaking it in shark's blood.

The roasted beans are sealed in titanium canisters, taken aboard the jet, and we return home, atwitter with anticipation.

Back in my kitchen, we grind the beans in a single-use solid-gold grinder, in an argon-gas isolation chamber, to preserve the essential oils and essences.

Only the finest mountain spring water flown in from the Dolomites is used to brew the actual coffee, at a temperature of not more than 99.7 degrees Celsius and not less than 99.2 degree Celsius. The brewing room is kept at an ambient temperature of 22 degrees, and an air pressure of precisely 1025.25 millibars.

The coffee is then ingested rectally, with a solid silver enema lovingly warmed to 0.5 degrees above body temperature.

Some say that I'm a little excessive in my devotion to coffee perfection, but gosh, I sure do love it.

And after the punishment, after the rain, and when the parmesan dust had settled, it all came clear.

Neighbourhoods are all about spelling, and spelling is all about being correct, and being correct is a fucking excellent thing to be.

Hi, neighbour. Can I borrow a cup of rye whiskey?