Adventure Game Studio

Baron begins!

Pol Pot, Lancelot, Stupot....    What do all these arch-knaves got?   They wrecked their countries 'cause they fought!
They wrecked their brains with too much pot!   They wrecked their gums with green tooth rot!   On all of history they're a blot!

So.... Are we going to do an organized format like Cap'nD & R. Timothy last round, or are you more comfortable with a free for all? 

Is that all you got? A poet, you are not. You know it, but forgot. More often than not, you've lost the plot and your memory's completely shot.

[I don't mind how we do it. I was doing one-liners in the previous round, but I'm up for more of a free-for-all if you are. I like making rhymes :)]

Comeback: A memory is useful when your best days are behind you.  Mine's shaky for want of use, yours essential through and through!

Insult: Your hockey mask is out of date, your goal-tending is second rate, you probably can't even skate, but your hockey odour is your finest trait!

[Can we rhyme and have structure?  I was really missing structure last time....  :) ]

Comeback: Okay, so I wasn't born to skate, but I can  do a figure of eight.  You're not even allowed past the gate, largely because of your body weight.

Insult: Baron?  More like barren.  A barren land.  Fruitless and infertile, your bloodline is damned.  On the other hand, you do have rather impressive command of your right hand.

( Rhyme and structure is fine with me :) )

Comeback: I laugh at your barren insult: it could not be further from true.  I'm so fecund that at my house we're knee deep in baby poo! :=
                So don't stand too close to me or you might get pregnant too!  It's not my right hand you've got to watch when I'm standing next to you.... 8-0

Insult: Your figures-of-eight will make you loopy, turn you into an Amy Winehouse groupy, make your appendages soft and droopy, and turn your bowels all loose and soupy! :P

[ Ah, the decent to crudeness begins... :) )

Comeback: My bowels are in good repair. Yours, I'm sure you are aware, are in a state of wear and tear, to say the least, but let's be fair, does anybody really care? About your health or how you fare? No, they don't, so there!

Insult: If it's crudeness you want, it's crudeness you'll get. I'm the rudest and lewdest you'll ever have met, but only when addressing a mere baronet.  I want you to get upset, so go ahead, punk, and make me wet my day.

Comeback: Hey, you're the expert on the male backside.  I was going to make a comment snide about the brown flecks on your mask I'd spied, but I guess you got them from the trade you've plied and the six last sphincters that you've pried.... 8-0

Insult: More on your odour: it can't be ignored.  You smell like a dead yak's juice has been poured through the natal umbilical cord of a baby skunk who grew up, therefore, to become the most putridly smelling skunk-spore; you both smell so bad that you make my eyes sore!

Comeback: You must have a problem with your sense of smell, 'Cause last time I checked my smell was just swell. But, yours, I'm afraid, is enough to repel a small island nation and all personnel.

Insult: So you thought I'd be late and you'd win by default.  Though I'm cutting it fine it's not really my fault.  It was hard to respond to your childish insult when I'm trying to behave like a proper adult. Perhaps when this is over I'll buy you a malt and then have you framed for sexual assault. ;)

Comeback: You didn't let a little wind get under your skirt?  Even in Sussex, surely, men can't be hurt by a bit of moving air and a little cloud squirt?
              I'll wait patiently while you powder your nose, paint the nails on your toes and prattle about your woes.

Insult: Now we come to looks: what's the mask concealing?  Is it warts or growths or hideous skin-peeling? 
            Was your face burnt so bad that your cheek fat was squealing?  Or are you just so ugly you set the ladies to reeling? 

Comeback: That's rich, coming from Elephant Man. You can't hide that face under a layer of spray tan. More orange than a street party in Amsterdam. I feel sorry for you (lies, I don't give a damn).

Insult:  Come on then, if you think you're hard. Let's take this outside and into the yard. I'll give you a chance; won't catch you off guard and as long as my fists don't get buried in lard, you'll end this battle all battered and scarred. For you are the jester and I am the bard.

Comeback: You are the bard: author of your own defeat.  I am the jester, laughing as you retreat.
        I am the jester, but you are the fool.  My palette may be old of school, but at least I'm not a high-res tool. ;)

Insult: We come to thoughts inside your brain, if any can form against the grain....
         Your tight-strapped mask makes it a strain, for you to think of anything un-profane -or even sane!

[I don't know how much longer I can sustain this level of venom.  How long do these rounds last for, anyway? :-\ ]