The Problem With Bowling: Action Scenes and Otherwise.

And so we continue on with the reemergence of The Diary of The Wasteland Bear God today with Episode Four (or as I had dubbed it: Let Me Bowl or Let Me Die!)

On with the evolution of writing and styling of The Diary of The Wasteland Bear God.

And so we continue on with the reemergence of The Diary of The Wasteland Bear God today with Episode Four (or as I had dubbed it: Let Me Bowl or Let Me Die!)

During my travels in the Wasteland, I found a robot infested bowling alley. As such, I was inspired to give it a story and a place. I was also reminded of the Stephen Lynch song Malachi, the Bowling God song.

The peanut butter bit is a long-running joke in my World of Warcraft guild, Revolt (Horde – Aegwynn), that my friend (Healingbot) would use a jar of peanut butter on his nuts to lure his dogs. There’s more to it, but we’ll stick with that.

The ‘minuscule dick’ part is when I was doing the WoW event “Love is in the Air” aka Valentine’s Day equivalent, where a group of players were upset that I started the boss encounter instead of waiting for them to get the perfume/cologne neutralizer, and the healer didn’t have mana (and neglected to say anything upon entering this instance aka dungeon). Needless to say, they were “salty” and said things. . .which I think I have screenshots still. I’ll have to find them.

  • A FYI: Tanking is where you hold a boss or monster’s aggro aka protect your group members. DPSing is damage per second aka damage dealers, where you do damage. . .and hit things. Pretty much, the higher your numbers are, you’re doing good. Don’t stand in the fire either.

Anyway, things began to fuse together and became entangled in a sticky mess of crazy sauce. As such, the diary entry was made and posted for all eyes to roll at it and be ashamed to even read it.

If you notice anything about it, it is all about embracing your inner nerd, crazy, or whatever weirdness that dwells within. Have fun. Explore. You’ve seen (possibly, or maybe you’ve not even bothered with exploring these commentary/supplemental posts) that you can do anything.

Look at “Rap” artists today. People, most, in fact, think that it requires no skill to make rhyming words, a sick beat, drop some bass (and go bass fishing perhaps), and wear flashy jewelry and brandish firearms. It doesn’t.

They’re right. It doesn’t.

You can make anything sellable, anything profitable, anything worth something to the public’s eye. As long as you’re putting yourself out there and working towards a goal. . .that’s where the skill comes in.

So, yes, maybe they wear meat suits, skimpy outfits, talk about “bitches” and “hoes” and sample tracks to make millions, but you are eating that shit up like a delectable bowl of succotash. How they are marketed, how egotistical they are (or can be—right Kanye? Trump?) or maybe they are actually good. We can go on.

So sure, it reads like a detestable and morally degradable piece of garbage. I doubt though many at all would see the comedy and humorous mask for which it stands for—this series that is—and that’s OK.

As long as I have fun and continue doing what I want to do, striving for my personal goal. . . that’s all that matters.

I invite you back for another dig in session tomorrow with another diary entry and the evolution of this series.

Until then,

RJM


The Diary of The Wasteland Bear God Logo

The Diary of The Wasteland Bear God

Season One: Episode Four

[Let Me Bowl or Let Me Die!]

“It is said, that long ago, before The Great Smiting came to pass. . .the nonbelievers of [indecipherable] were to cast themselves bare, nude, and crude—spread and groin first, to be smitten by the three fingered 9,001 Black Spheres of Fear. For they were tools of reckoning of His one nemesis, Malachi, The Robotic Mastodon God of Old. Those that did not, were impaled in the anus by The #1 Pin of Win.” —Son of a Bitch, daughter of Sam P.P. 4:2.8

DAY 38.

I came across, on my travels near the wharf, and the small island of Jam Clams, a settlement of Robots. They gazed upon me, my canine companion, and the sparse worshipers that have become part of my flock—and my magnificent loins.

*does a nut flex*

Ho yeah, that’s right ladies, it’s tight.


I had run out of a jar of peanut butter for—sandwich purposes.

[DO NOT ACCUSE ME OF NUTTING UP MY NUTTERS TO MY CANINE COMPANION. . .you, sick, mother trucking, disgusting fleas! I know you thought it! Do not say otherwise!]

Where was I? Oh yes, peanut butter. So I ventured into this town with my entourage and fancied a look through. Seeing as how I hadn’t come here before—and I hadn’t destroyed it already from my last—accident. I decided to properly probe the locals. Some resisted, others had no sensors, so sadly, they couldn’t tell.

Although, there was one that said, “YOUR DICK IS MINUSCULE!”

Well, my “minuscule dick” busted straight through his combat inhibitor, and out an eye. Not that it had many left in the first place, but that’s beside the point. The only good thing about robot loving is they’re already oiled up. It beats Crisco for sure.


Simon, one of the new lads has taken a liking to carrying my weight. My. . .canine companion shows disagreement with this one. Can’t say I don’t agree, but still a follower is a follower—more meat for the grinder (and in case we get hungry, that son of a bitch is going first. I mean this guy has the dinner rolls that roll on and on! He’s just asking to become the next prime choice.).

So, a few hours have come and gone since having entered this little robot haven. I came across a bowling alley, small, and of course, run the hell down. Inside, I found two robots probing one another, and “sharing data” as they called it. I think one squirted too. I mean, it just shot oil out of whatever port. I think it was a port anyways. . .

I was invited to a game of Bowling, which turned out to be a session of torture! It was the same practices that Malachi‘s disciples had done so long ago to some. . .friends of mine. I wasn’t very pleased, seeing as I absolutely hated that bastard since college. That’s another story, though.

“Hail, Nutcracker!” A round black robot yelled as it wound up and flung several hundred bowling balls down the lane.

“Enough!” I shouted, poised with my loin lasers of disintegration.

My minions—naturally—stood there and did jack shit to help. So, when those balls hurled through the air, and down that cruddy lane, I pew-pew’d hard and fast—making those balls bust, and turn to black ash.

Now, of course, the bots did not like this one bit. So, what is THE MIGHTY WASTELAND BEAR GOD TO DO!? I fucking hurled my balls of righteous furry fury across their bodies! I have to admit, I did get a little excited when one prodded me with its. . .shocker hand. I did spare that one. . .for later. You know, reasons.

This “prisoner” they had, was a darling of a woman. However, once I took note that they had something I already had. . .I had no choice but to nutter up my balls and obliterate them—INTO OBLIVION! FOR GREAT JUSTICE!


Now, as I have my sorry excuse of followers loot the rest of the town, I shall retire to my tent with my canine companion and this new robotic fun toy.

Yes, yes, this shall do quite nicely. Ooh! And there’s a new jar of peanut butter in my pack.


THE DIARY OF THE WASTELAND BEAR GOD IS AN ONGOING A.B.NORMAL PUBLISHING EXCLUSIVE STORY BY ROBERT J. S. T. MCCARTNEY. CHECK HERE FOR MORE POSTS!

Author: Sincados

Writer, gamer, foodie, brew enthusiast, and awesome dad. Also likes to make explosions...but not in any particular order.

One thought on “The Problem With Bowling: Action Scenes and Otherwise.”

  1. Reblogged this on Robert J. S. T. McCartney and commented:

    So here I am continuing on with my ridiculousness of a series and commentary.

    If I find those screenshots I have, I will post them as well. I suppose I will get into a fine post about how toxic people can really be. One of these days.

    Anyway, enjoy! Have fun! By the way, tomorrow is Friday.

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