Sequels, Sequels

So, seen Transformers Four yet? How about Saw…what are they on? Eleven? I heard Nightmare on Elm Street: The Next One (or something along those lines) was…horrible, as most sequels these days are.

So, what’s up with all the sequels? Well, of course, the answer is simple:

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Money. So much money!

Oh, Paranormal Activity made money?

SEQUEL!

Oh, Saw was pretty popular?

SEQUEL!!

Alien was good?

SEQUEL!!! (That was better than the first one)

It’s just sort of…

MONEYMONEYMONEY!!!!!

And we’ll stop at nothing to get it! MWAHAHAHA!! And then….

Reboots!

The new Poltergeist is coming out…like, three days after I watched the old one, which is kind of creepy!

New Nightmare on Elm Street…New Superman…

Anyway, bye my little Shrimplets! ♥
Stay tuned for the sequel!

Animal Farm: Pigs Indeed!

Ever heard of Animal Farm? If you haven’t, read it before you continue.

Okay, are you back? Well, since you’re done, I’d like to say something:

Communism sucks.

Think about it. China’s a mess, North Korea’s doing horribly, and Cuba…

Actually, I’m not too sure about Cuba. I’ll get back to you on that one. I heard they’re doing better, which means they had to be doing worse in the past, so my point is not entirely lost.

And it just sort of paves the way for corruption, y’know? Factory Worker #984633 is supposed to be giving the chocolate he makes to the government to be distributed as needed, and Farmer #96678 is supposed to be giving his milk to the government for the same reason. But then Factory Worker #984633 leans over and says, to his friend Farmer #96678,

“Hey, Farmer #96678!”

“Yes, Factory Worker #984633?”

“I’ll give you a chocolate bar if you give me some milk.”

“…Deal.”

Meanwhile, some bloke gets less chocolate, and some other poor sod gets less milk, all because Farmer #96678 and Factory Worker #984633 were being corrupt jerks.

Oh, hey, viewer. I’ll give you some posts if you can get me some chocolate. And remember, under Communism:

All animals are equal, but some animals are more equal than others.

See The Same

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What would a world without color be like? I was reading a book (The Giver, you know—one of those ‘dystopian future’ kind’ve books) and the entire community only saw things in black and white. Well, until the main character, Jonas begins to see colors.

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He gets his assigned job as ‘The Reciever’ who holds all the memories of the past. The old Reciever, now dubbed the ‘Giver’ shows him memories of love, war, snow, hills, Christmas, birthdays—you name it! So he begins to understand what life back then was like, and he wonders why things can’t be like that now. He sees his father, in charge of the children of the community, ‘release’ a child and realizes that ‘release’, which has been described as ‘going Elsewhere’, is really death.

So he takes a child about to be released, and runs off. The book ends with him finding this ‘Elsewhere.’

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Lair of the Opera: A Writing Activity Fulfilled

The soft glow of candles, so unlike the harsh glare of daylight some would say they belonged more to the darkness then not, illuminated a cavern, vast and dark. The candlelight was reflected both in the ripples of the lake and the pipes of the pipe-organ in the approximate center of the cave.

There was a moment where so something moved, so fast it was no more then a second. Then, slowly, a figure crept towards the pipe-organ. He stayed only in the crevices untouched by even the soft light of the candles, in the shadows as if he could not let anyone see him, even himself. He went unnoticed by the gentle glow of candlelight, but being only a man of the night and not a creature of one, his sight was limited in the darkness and mistakes were bound to happen.

He tripped on a stray rock, crying out either from either fear or shock, and fell to the ground ungracefully. The mask that covered the majority of his face fell too, and in the absence of the mask he drew his cloak up to his deformed face. Whether he had been born this way or had been in an accident only he could tell, and he rarely spoke. When he did, his past wasn’t his preferred topic of conversation and it would be wise to accommodate him to the best of your ability, lest he be angered.

This phantom of a man rose, placing the mask carefully over his face, (He found it better to be a phantom than a monster, and in all honesty in the general public agreed heartily)his gruesome face unnoticed by none but the legion of moths whose shadows danced upon the cave’s walls. He then continued his slow walk towards the pipe-organ. It was a monstrous thing, the pipe-organ, towering almost to the ceiling of the cavern. But it was beautiful, the golden pipes shining dimly and the white keys glowing softly. The Phantom reached it, and sat down on a lovely velvet playing stool. His fingers hovered over the keys.

He was the least beautiful thing in the room. A dark shadow in a cavernous space filled with all sorts of magnificent treasures, golden, and glowing, and wondrous, and-

The Phantom stood abruptly, a move which threw the playing stool to the ground, scratching the wood and dirtying the pillow. With an angry cry, he swept his hand across the keyboard. The noise produced was a crash of notes, dissonant and clashing. He smashed his fist on the keys, and one of them cracked slightly, the expensive instrument rendered worthless.

The Phantom was the most beautiful thing in the room now, it was sure.

He fell to his knees, and he wept.