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Title: Dick Knubbler's Summertime Blast! Starring Dick Knubbler and the Knubblerettes, and Featuring Dethklok and Other Friends
Author: tikistitch
Rating: PG-13
Summary: There will be Putt-Putt.
Warnings: Cursing, sorta slashiness, breaches of logic
Notes: Tam suggested another golf!fic. And me, I couldn't resist.

So, I posted this to the CLDK contest. And 10 minutes later, LJ was down again. Spoooooky.

“Guys are we, ah, READY to BEGIN?” Ofdensen's eyes slid around the meeting room table. He witnessed desultory strumming, snoring, nose-picking, knife-wielding, Nintendo-poking, and, in at least one case, boiling cauldron-stirring.

Yes, he thought, we are ready to begin.

“So, I, ah, wanted to meet today regarding our participation in Dick Knubbler's Summertime Blast! Starring Dick Knubbler and the Knubblerettes, and Featuring Dethklok and Other Friends

“Wait. Dood,” cautioned Pickles.


“Did yoo say Dick Nubbler's Summertime Blast! Starrin' Dick Nubbler an' th' Nubblerettes, an' Feachurin' Det'klok an' Udder Friends?”

“Yes, I, ah, said Dick Knubbler's Summertime Blast! Starring Dick Knubbler and the Knubblerettes, and Featuring Dethklok and Other Friends.”

“Bro,” cautioned Murderface. “Why ain't it Dick Knubbler'sch Schummertime Blascht! Schtarring DETHKLOK and Featschuring the Knubblerettes and Other Friendsch?”


There was some nodding of heads. And more steaming cauldron-stirring.

“Well, ah,” explained Charles, nervously straightening his tie, “there's actually a good explanation for that.”

“It ams better bes a fucksing good sexplanations!” cautioned Skwisgaar, thrashing out some modal nodes.

“It is, ah, part of Dick Knubbler's PAROLE AGREEMENT, following his, ah, prior altercation with his LONG TIME BITTER RIVAL, Gil Ejector, that he be involved in the promotion of certain, uh, CHARITY EVENTS.”

There was grumbling. As well a stomach rumbling. And some minor chord runs.

“However,” said Ofdensen, “there will be, ah, PUTT-PUTT!”

“Putts-Putts! Wowee!” burbled Toki.

“Waitaminnit!” growled Nathan, suddenly regarding the boiling pots surrounding his band mate. “What do you think you're doing Toki? You're not, like, MAKING BOUILLABAISSE, or something REALLY GAY, are you? Because, Provençal fish stew is NOT METAL.”

“Oh, ams no big deals. I ams doing da cocksidermy.”


“I believe that isch correct,” noted Murderface.

Nathan blinked. “That's like THE MOST METAL THING EVER.”

“So, if we are in, ah, agreement,” hastened Charles, “I have other things to attend to.”

“WHERE DO YOU THINK YOU'RE GOING, OFDENSEN? We're in the middle of A MEETING” Nathan demanded.

“I have to, ah, take the secret elevator down to the dungeon now and do something vaguely mysterious and of obscure import.”

“Oh, that's cool. Hey, see if they have any bouillabaisse down there! I'M HUNGRY!”

Tribunal music tribunal music tribunal music tribunal music tribunal music

“Gentlemen,” Senator Stampingston announced. “Dethklok is playing charity Putt-Putt!”

“Why the fuck should we care?” asked General Crozier, looking up from playing Plants vs. Zombies on his iPad.

“Why should we care?” scoffed Stampingston. “Putt-putt, a miniature version of the sport, golf, is a popular leisure occupation around the world, beloved by millions.”

“Yeah, yeah. They used our feigned interest in their trivial activities as an expository device on the early episodes, but that's been rendered redundant by the expanded format initiated during the third season,” Crozier explained.

“WE MUST WAIT!” thundered Mr. Selatcia from his throne-like chair. “PATIENNNNNNNCE!”

“Eh,” grumbled Crozier, rising and going behind Selatcia where he reached in back of the giant man's neck and twisted something knob-like.

“WE MUST WAIIIIIIIIIIIII.....” trailed off Selatcia, his head suddenly flopping over.

“So that's where that switch was!” marveled Stampingston.

“Empire Strikes Back,” counseled Crozier. “Now, wanna go to a strip club?”

“Oooo, can we visit an airport bathroom too?” asked the Senator. “I wanna practice my wide stance.”

“Sure,” said Crozier, as they strode out, arm in arm.

“Nate, BABY! I'm so glad you guys could all come for Dick Knubbler's Summertime Blast! Starring Dick Knubbler and the Knubblerettes, and featuring Dethklok and Other Friends, yeah,” said Dick Knubbler, apparently the only man in the Northern Hemisphere possessed of an all white golfing ensemble, including a white and off-white plaid Tam o' Shanter.

“Eh,” said Nathan. “TOKI!” he whispered to his band mate. “Dude, did you bring along your taxidermy shit?”

“And may I introduce the lovely Knubblerettes, yeah, baby!” said Knubbler, indicating three women who indeed looked as if their skin had been subjected to some arcane chemical process.

“Ehhhh,” said Nathan.

“Hellos, ladies,” purred Skwisgaar.

Hello, handsome,” rumbled an Knubblerette, her voice sandpapered by cigarettes to a timbre some three octaves lower than that of Nathan Explosion.

'Nat'an, dood,” whispered Pickles, “Are dose Nublerettes still alive under dere?”

“Maybes dey ams zombonis!” speculated Toki hopefully.

“Toki's right. We should BE PREPARED,” counseled Nathan. “CHARLES!” he barked at their manager, the wind of his voice sweeping up the red tie in its draft. “We need to be prepared for DANGER!”

“Yes, ah, Nathan. Would you like me to, uh, spread some SUNSCREEN on your back? The noontime sun can be damaging.”

“NOOOOOOO I don't want sunscreen on my back don't go touching my back or ANYWHERE NEAR my back.”

“Then,” said Ofdensen, tossing away the tube of SPF 20, “didja want me to braid your hair?”

“OK, yeah, whatever,” growled Nathan.

“So, whatsamatter?” inquired Ofdensen, twisting Explosion locks a lovely French braid.

“Dude, we're gonna play Putt-Putt with a potential LEGION OF THE UNDEAD. And, they took away MURDERFACE'S FLAMETHROWER.”

Murderface nodded forlornly.

“Well, ah, Nathan, maybe the club organizers were UNAWARE of that item's, ah, UTILITY in the playing of miniature golf?”

“Yeah, well, its utility is preventing us from joining the RANKS OF THE UNHOLY. By the way, where did Skwisgaar go anyway?”

“He ams gots to t'ird bases, I t'ink,” said Toki.

“There is no third base in Putt-Putt, Toki, you're thinking of-” said Nathan, abruptly halting as he looked in the direction Toki was pointing.

“EWWWWWW!” said Pickles, to general agreement.

“So, what I would, ah, advise is to, uh, STAY TOGETHER, and, ah, STAY ALERT,” counseled Ofdensen, finishing off Nathan's 'do with a glittery scrunchie.

“Wait, that's all your advice? How much do we pay you again?”

“Yeah, and I, uh, gotta go.”

“Wait, dood, dontcha wanna rub suntan oil on my back?” Pickles pleaded, holding up the tube.

“No, Pickles, I, ah, gotta go hang around a MYSTERIOUS MILITARY PROJECT until nobody notices me. Don't you like your hair, Nathan?”

“Well, yeah, I guess it does make me FEEL PRETTY,” allowed Nathan, fingering the scrunchie.

“I'll leave you in charge, Nathan,” called Ofdensen, who for some reason was now donning a leather jacket as he departed.

“OK, you heard him, we gotta all stick together....”

“Dood, what about Skwisgaar and dose Nublerette chicks?” inquired Pickles.

“Eh. OK. We all STICK TOGETHER, except for Skwisgaar and those creepy chicks. Because the creepy chicks are CREEPY.”

The band nodded in agreement.

But suddenly, Murderface felt himself pulled from behind.

“Willy baby!” whispered Dick Knubbler, who as it turns out was the dude who grabbed him, and not some cute chick, as Murderface had been fondly hoping, “You gotta help me baby, yeah!”

“What do you want, Dick?” inquired Murderface. “We're schupposed to schtick together for schafety!”

“I need your help, Willy, baby, yeah! I just got wind my old rival, Gil Ejector, has been spotted in the vicinity, yeah!”

“I don't know, Dick, ischn't that a parole violatschion for you?” Murderface asked suspiciously.

Dick suddenly flourished two snub nosed revolvers. “Not when it's conceal carry baby, yeah!”

Murderface nearly cried tears of blood. “A thirty-eight schnub?” he sobbed.

But Dick had already tucked away both weapons. “C'mon baby, YEAH!” he urged, as Murderface padded after him like a lovesick puppy.

“So, since we're playing as a FOURSOME,” Nathan began.

“T'reesome,” Pickles corrected.

“Oh, hey, yeah, is one of you guys missing?”

“No!” said Toki. “I ams not missings.”

“OK then,” said Nathan, digging into his bag. “We gotta do THE JOLLY WINDMILL. I need to take out- Hey, what is this shit?” he asked, withdrawing instead of a club the remains of what apparently had once been some kind of earth mammal.

“Oh, I ams not has room in my bags, so I ams stored my cats, Mister Fluffies, in your bags, Nat'ans. It ams no big deals,” Toki assured him.

“Toki, dude, how am I gonna play with HALF A CAT?”

“Ams half a cat?” inquired Toki, grabbing the ex-feline from Nathan. Indeed, a large part of the animal seemed to be missing.

“Oh, yeh, dood. Ah t'ought dat wuz da bag wit' some o' my special blend,” laughed Pickles. “Sahry.”

But Toki was not mollified. In fact, the eyes of the rhythm guitarist seemed to take on an uncanny red glow. “Pickle,” he stammered. “You ams SNORTED MR. FLUFFIES?”

“Hey, Ah said Ah was sahry,” Pickles pointed out. “Besides, it wuz a pretty un-mellow high.”

“Aiiiiiiii!” explained Toki, wildly swinging the remains of Mister Fluffy in the general direction of the drummer.

“Toki, dude, quit SWINGING A DEAD CAT AT PICKLES!” Nathan sighed. “I wonder if I still have my nine iron?”

“Schould we be over here? And, can I have a schnub nosche?” asked Murderface, who was crouching along with Dick Knubbler behind a tiny castle on the mini golf course.

“I know Gil Ejector is gonna try an storm the castle, baby, yeah! But we'll be ready, won't we, Willie baby? Yeah.”

“We'd be more ready if you'd loan me schome weaponry!” Murderface proposed.

“Look, isn't that him now? Yeah!”

“Uh, Dick, bro,” said Murderface, peering over the pink plastic battlement, “does Gil Ejector look like an 8-year-old girl?”

“I suspect everyone, baby, yeah! Or even worse, it might be my ex wife. You'll have to pry back alimony from my cold dead hands, baby!” Knubbler raved, waving his snub nosed revolver.

Murderface looked glumly over the battlement, and then downwards. And then his mind wandered to many a History Channel documentary. “Have you conschidered schtrengthening our defenschive poschition, bro?” he asked.

“Sure, Willie baby, yeah! Let's work on our defensive position, yeah.”

“I think I know schomeone who can help,” said Murderface, wielding his second line of defense: his Dethphone.

“Eh,” said Nathan, watching Toki attempt to slap Pickles, who attempted to slap him back. “This is like watching girl fight. WITHOUT THE TITS.”

Suddenly, the clouds parted, and a single beam of light illuminated their manager, standing, hair touseled in the wind, in their midst.

“Dood,” said Pickles.

“Wowee,” agreed Toki.

“Wait, dude,” grumbled Nathan. “Weren't you on a secret mission or some shit?”

“I had to ah, come and see how your FRENCH BRAID was holding up, Nathan.”

“Uh, yeah, it's OK.”

“Dood! Some o' my braids are comin' loose!” Pickles piped up.

“But we're not doing very well on the COURSE,” Nathan continued. “These douche bags have been having a GIRL FIGHT over a DEAD CAT, and we still gotta go through the PINK CASTLE, and the little PLASTIC MUSHROOMS, and then SPONGE BOB.... Boy, this course is not very metal. And oh by god in heaven, a giant clown face? That's brutal. But, not in a good way.”

“Well, ah, carry on! I must be off,” Ofdensen told them.

“Wait, dood, wut about my braids?”

“It will have to wait! I need to, ah, go glare at some guys now.”

“Oh, yeah, that's IMPORTANT. OK, have we had enough of this hole?” glowered Nathan.

Toki and Pickles glared at each, Toki hiding the somewhat worse for wear Mister Fluffy behind his back.

“MAKE UP AND BE FRIENDS!” Nathan bellowed.

“All rights,” said Toki, tossing away the cat. He leapt on Pickles and, before the drummer could duck, had him wrested into a glomp.

“OK! All rayght!” Pickles protested. “We're friends agen, dood!”

“Waits,” said Toki, breaking the clench, “I ams getting a sext massage!” He flipped out his Dethphone while Pickles, somewhat overwrought, tried to catch his breath.

“ARE YOU GETTING ALONG? Because, we gotta go to the GIANT MUSHROOMS now, dude,” Nathan told Pickles.

“Da 'shrooms? Which way dood!”

“Ams you contentsed, Ka-Nublerettes ladies?” purred Skwisgaar, who was, parenthetically, not at all appropriately attired for the golf course. Especially a miniature golf course.

Yes, thank you dearie,” rumbled a Knubblerette, every movement of her mouth threatening to overstretch her already drum-like leathery skin. “There's just one more thing.

“Oh. What ams dats, my lovelies GGGMILF?”

We need to SUCK YOUR LIVING BRAINS OUT!” she warned, as the knot of ancient girl group singers suddenly began to drool.

“Ah,” said Skwisgaar. “You ams saids you ams goings to fuckses my brain outs?”

No, dearie, we clearly said suck,” she informed OK.

“Ja, dat is what I ams thoughts. All rights. AIIIIIIIIII!!!!” And with that, Skwisgaar, stopping only to yank his Gibson up off the ground, ran for the hills. Or rather, the mini hills.

“Oh, ja, dis ams boilingses real goods!” Toki bragged as he stirred his cauldrons high (or actually, not terribly high, definitely not as high as Pickles, more like medium high) above the Putt-Putt course on the top of the mini castle. “Now, whats you guys ams wants to cocksidermy?”

Murderface put down his field glasses and smiled. “Juscht wait, Toki. Juscht wait.”

“Dis is nawt a mellow haigh!” bitched Pickles, now on his back among the giant plastic mushrooms.

“You're not supposed to MAINLINE THE PUTT-PUTT HOLES, Pickles,” Nathan chided, squinting over his reading glasses at the score sheet. “I don't even know how to count your strokes. Does cutting lines of fiberglass count? I am seriously confused here dude. Oh, and also, WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED TO TOKI? Because, I sort of thought he was here, although it could have been some other Scandinavian dude. Oh, hey Charles, are you gonna golf with us? Because, we're LACKING A FOURTH! And, maybe a third.”

“Hey guys,” said Charles, emerging a cloud bank with a heavenly chorus playing in the background. “I just wanted to see if you were, ah, in need of any, uh, instructions on your STROKES, Nathan. Because I could, ah, give you some PRIVATE LESSONS.”

“What? NOOOOOO! My stroke is just fine, thank you.”

“Dood, I need help wit' my backstroke,” suggested Pickles, nevertheless not rising from flat on his back amongst the fiberglass schrooms.

“I'm, ah, SORRY PICKLES, but I have to get off to an IMPORTANT BUSINESS MEETING now.”

“Dude, if you're going to a meeting, why do you have like a bloody fencing sword? Because that wouldn't seem conducive to A FRIENDLY ATMOSPHERE.”

“Oh, I just, ah, want to share my interest in ANTIQUES. And that's not blood, that's KETCHUP. Because, I'm, ah, a real fan of Dimmu Burger fries.”

“Oh, yeah, dude, those fries are REALLY CRISPY. Pickles, are you gonna ASCEND TO VERTICAL? Because, seriously, dude, we gotta finish this game so we can get on to STRIPPERS AND BOOZE!”

“Ah'm standing! Ah've been standing up fer da last twenny minutes!” Pickles protested. “Yer da one who's nawt achieved verticality Nat'an.”

“Eh,” grumbled Nathan, leaning over to yank up Pickles by the collar. “Hey, wait, what, whoa!” he said.

“So ya see, Stampy, life gets a lot more mellow when ya don't have to worry about fucking DETHKLOK,” explained General Crozier, his arm crooked in a friendly manner over Senator Stampingston's neck. “Hey, where the heck have we wandered out to, anyway? I thought this was the way to the parking lot?” Crozier looked around. A windmill? A castle? MUSHROOMS? What was this Commie shit anyway?

“Putt-putt, a miniature version of the sport, golf, is a popular leisure occupation around the world, beloved by millions,” narrated Stampingston.

“Wait, Stampy, didn't you already relate that exposition three scenes ago? What the fuck?” asked Crozier.

“AIIIIIIIIIII!” screamed totally naked Skwisgaar, running by. “Watch out for da zombies Ka-Nubleretteses!”

“The-?” asked Crozier. “Hey, wasn't that one of those Dethklok hippies?”

“Skwisgaar Skwigelf, taller than a tree,” related Stampingston.

“Huh. I guess the rumors about him are true,” mused Crozier. “But what are Kabubblettes?”

BRAAAAAAAAIIIIINS!” growled the nicotine-throated zombie Knublerettes, now shuffling by (as zombie knublerettes were slow zombies, as all true zombies ought to be). “Hey, wait, you guys,” the lead Knublerette noted. “These two guys actually got some brains! Let's get 'em!” And with that, Crozier and Stampingston took off in an old man's shambling run, barely ahead of the terrible girl group zombies.

“Ams dat Gil Ejextor?” inquired Toki, watching the commotion down below.

“Uh, no, Toki, bro, I think that's aschually naked Schkwisgaar!”

“CLOSE ENOUGH, BABY, YEAH!” shouted Dick Knubbler.

“Hey, wait, no Dick!” shouted Murderface, but the vengeful producer had already knocked over several of Toki's boiling caludrons of taxidermy fluids. Murderface and Toki stuck their head over the balcony, anticipating something terrible but probably pretty awesome.

Skwisgaar suddenly screamed out in pain, but neither because he had been hit by boiling enbalming fluid nor caught by undead Knubblerettes. Rather, the unclad singer had tangled some rather sensitive parts in his Gibson strings. He collapsed to the ground, hugging his knees, howling in pain, but strangely, unnoticed by Crozier and Stampingston, who were more interested in looking over their shoulders at the approaching slow zombies. The two men therefore tripped over the crouching guitarist, which sent them hurtling over him, and straight into the path of the onrushing embalming fluid, which had been boiling for such a time that it was of a bit of a viscous consistency, and thus took its sweet time in cascading down the side of the pink plastic Putt-Putt castle from which Murderface, Toki and Knubbler now watched.

The slow zombie singers then shambled into view. They easily avoided the still crouching Skwisgaar (as they were slow), and threaded their way around to the more tasty cranial morsels of Crozier and Stampingston, who were now trapped like flies in amber in the sticky embalming fluid. Unfortunately for the zombie ex-girl group, yet more of Toki's taxidermy fluids chose that particular moment to ooze down the sparkly pink battlement, snagging the girls by their elaborate sixties hairstyles.

The entire party, Tribunal members and Knubblerettes, were soon fixed in what looked like a museum tableau, the lead Knubblerette poised to chomp on Crozier's brains as he stood, eternally frozen, unscreaming mouth open in terror.

Just then, a golf ball popped into Crozier's mouth.

“See, what did I tell you?” Nathan told the little red octopus clinging to his shoulders. “HOLE IN ONE. Boy, this is a really bizarre Putt-Putt hole. It looks more like a WAX MUSEUM. But at least it's not a FUCKING CLOWN. Hey, Skwisgaar, what are you doing down there?”

“My guitars ams ates my balls!” wailed the singer.

“Well, yeah, that happens sometimes when you FORGET YOUR PANTS. I mean, seriously, we don't need to see that. HEY, TOKI, WHAT THE FUCK HAVE YOU BEEN UP TO? Because, we've nearly finished the round and it's TIME FOR BEER.”

“Oh, hey Nat'ans. We ams just doings da cocksidermy,” Toki told him as he, Murderface and Knubbler descended from the pink castle.

“So, ah, are you guys now FINISHED with the, ah, Dick Knubbler's Summertime Blast! starring Dick Knubbler and the Knubblerettes, and featuring Dethklok and Other Friends?” inquired Charles, who had just come up from the sewers, although he seemed marvelously clean and well-pressed.

“Yeah, sure dude,” said Nathan. “What's up with the SPEAR GUN?”

“Oh, nothing, nothing, ah, nothing at all,” said Charles, attempting not terribly successfully to hide the large underwater weapon behind his back.

“This was totally worth a parole violation for weapons charges baby, yeah!” announced Dick Knubbler, who, as it happened, at that point, was being handcuffed by members of the local gendarmerie.

“Bro, I'll schend you a cake with a file in it!” Murderface called after him.

“Je ne regrette rien!” called Dick Knubbler from the back of the paddy wagon.

“What did he schay?” Murderface asked Nathan.

“Make it a lemon cake,” Nathan told Murderface. “Anyway, we're all GOING FOR BOUILLABAISSEI!” he announced. “I'm in the mood for fish stew. Wanna come?”

The little red octopus cringed, and suddenly jumped from Nathan's back onto Charles' shoulders.

“Ah, maybe some other time, Nathan. I guess I need to, ah, attend to this,” he said, pointing to OctoPickles.

“Eh, OK, dude, I suppose we'll eventually need him back in VERTEBRATE MODE. Well, we'll see you later,” said Nathan, as the rest of the band ambled off.

“Huh. You'd think Skwisgaar would wanna put on some pants, wouldn't you?” Charles asked the octopus, who reached out a couple of tentacles and began to loosen his tie.

“No, Pickles,” said Charles, pulling on the tentacles. “I am, ah, NOT in the mood to recreate Dream of the Fisheman's Wife tonight,” he lectured sternly.

The octopus' little red tentacles sagged in octo-sadness.

“All right! All right! But we're not gonna watch 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea again. Is that clear?”

The little red octopus gave a little red octopus sigh and snuggled some tentacles around Charles' neck as they strode off into the sunset.

The next day....
(Or maybe a day or so after)

“You ams feelings better, Pickle?”

“Yeah, t'anks, Tok,” said the drummer. “Though it's always weird walkin' when I wake up agen wit' legs. I feel like da Little
Mermaid dood in reverse.”

“Dat ams nice.”

“Hey, Toks, you still doin' da taxidermy t'ing?”

“Oh, ja, Pickle. Let me tells you all abouts it!”

“Uh, Toki. Dood. Is dat myusic I hear queuin' up? Din't Charles tell yoo no more AutoToon?”

Toki: What would you t'ink
If I shows a deads cat
Would you turn and walk out of da rooms?
Lend me your ears 'cause I'm singing a song
Not outta key 'cause I've got AutoTune!

Ooo, I get by on my leather hide friends
Pickles gets high on da tanned skin friends
Ooo, not gonna lie, I likes dem stuffed friends

Pickles: Dood! You need anybody?

Toki: I just needs someones to love.

Pickles: Could it be anybody?

Toki: I gots someone who ams dead!

Pickles: Do you believe da fluids could make me high?

Toki: Ja, I'm certain, if you lean over close.

Pickles: What would I see if I snorted your cat?

Toki: I can't tell you, but prob'ly somet'ing like dis!

And suddenly, a whole array of lovely, sparkly, pastel colored stuffed friends – cats and dogs and rabbits and mice and birds and hamsters and gerbils and wallabies – began to sing in the chorus!


Toki: I get by wit' da coxidermy friends
Wit' my dead preserved frieeeeeeeeends!

“Wul,” said Pickles, “Dat was good t' have explained in da form of a song I guess.”

“Ams da universal languages!” agreed Toki.

“Do you really t'ink I cud git high on yer embalmin' fluids?”

“Why don't we sees?”

And so they did....

Date: 2011-07-29 12:31 am (UTC)
nugatorytm: A group of bats flying against a yellow moon. (Default)
From: [personal profile] nugatorytm
You know, it just occurred to me: Is Putt-Putt a regional thing? I've always heard it referred to as miniature golf. I should look at DethFam again to see if the show refers to it as Putt-Putt too.

Hmm, I'm wracking my brains and I can't seem to remember if Dick Knubbler ever mentioned why he and Gil are such bitter longtime rivals. He probably did, I just can't seem to recall that part right now.

You actually got into LJ, even briefly? Wow, you have the best luck. I'm locked out solid.

Date: 2011-07-29 01:48 am (UTC)
nugatorytm: A group of bats flying against a yellow moon. (Default)
From: [personal profile] nugatorytm
Figures, the only Putt-Putt around here is in Modesto. Right out in the middle of nowhere. You'd figure they'd make more money by putting it in a major city, not out in the middle of the desert.

When Playstation got hacked by a DDoS attack, their Network was down for over a month. LJ is small potatoes compared to Sony, so I don't expect results anytime soon. I'm thinking that there isn't a lot of people logging in in the middle of a workweek afternoon, so perhaps it's easier to log on while things are slow.

If you withdraw that fic, I'm going to have to hurt you. :)

Date: 2011-07-29 02:06 am (UTC)
nugatorytm: A group of bats flying against a yellow moon. (Default)
From: [personal profile] nugatorytm
Yeah, I was just reading that. Russian politics blow up and we get the fall-out. Nice.
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