[Impaler]

Alright. This is sort of a twist on Enayla's picture game.

Rules/Howtoplay:

I'll basically written a short, detailed segment about a character you would expect to exist. It's up to you guys to illustrate this character in various situations, etc. The pictures don't have to have a lot of realism, and a side doodle done while you're icq'ing or browsing will suffice.

After the spirit of this character has been captured well enough, which will be signified by someone posting the word "Porythergollerweeper", the game is reversed. The next person must post a picture of a new character, and we must write short situations involving the character until it's been well represented by our text, where again someone will porythergollerweep and reverse the game. I had to do this game in gifted when I was like, 7. It's involving and fun, plus it uses both sides of the brain.

Some short points:

-- No one may porythergollerweep until 3 pictures or pieces of text have been posted to represent the character fully.

-- All new characters and articles must be ignored until a porythergollerweep has been called.

-- This game is fun.

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And now, the story to start off the game (and if you don't want to play, you can just read this for enjoyment, if I really rock that much.)

The banker was as stout fellow of chubby character. He wore black and grey pinstripe suits that were tailored a little too tight, and he combed his hair down the middle with 6 year old grease from a tube. He'd had his watch so long that it was now embedded into his skin, as to create a little groove on his left wrist, where the skin was deathly white and the hairs were soft and translucent. His glaring face was stuffed full of flesh, and his eyebrows were always stubborn and foreboding. They pointed to a somewhat prominent nose, whose slope led down to a thin, waxed moustace that had two distinct parts. That banker's moustache was a gateway to his tool of persuasion, his orifice that spewed coy witticisms designed to entice big investors to invest and old misers to horde.
That tool was his mouth, and it was by far his most inescapable feature. He had lips that were a little fatter than thin, and a little thinner than fat. His lips had a character of their own, carefully forming the words and pushing them out with a sort of pertinence that caught the attention of all. When they were moving quickly, little pools of spittle formed at the corner, where they ran through all the crevices and grooves of these lips. When the lips closed, the spittles mixed and formed a bond, and when the lips opened again, they held onto each other, and formed a salival bridge that never held for longer than a few moments before crashing back down again. These lips were items of deception, in that they looked inviting and friendly, a place of trust and confidence. Yet while they were inviting the clientelle to trust, they were spinning lies and webs of lies, and webs of webs of lies that snared and entangled the customers without even their slightest hintings at the truth. Behind his lying lips were his teeth, and these too were deceptive. They were deceptive, however, in a different manner. The owner of these teeth was a firm believer in the order of appearance, and thus he made it a point to schedule an appointment with the local cosmetic dentist every other Friday, where he had them cleaned and bleached and flourined and shined and polished. The banker never brushed his teeth himself, however, as he saw no need when he had someone else to do it. His teeth, although shiny in the front, were actually decaying and rotten in the back and on the insides. Grime and half-eaten sandwiches collected in the pits and in the pockets created by gums, and the enzymes exumed by these pollutants ate away at his teeth. It would have caused the banker no end of discomfort, if it weren't for his packages of mints for his halitosis, and his morphine pills for the cavities. As long as the banker could schedule the dentist and eat his mints and pop his pills, the real troubles of his teeth were no trouble at all. The dentist didn't clean tongues, as they were not his problem, and this created a problem for the banker. He bought himself an expensive silver tongue scraper from an hygenic catalog. It was a bothersome utensil: it had two small wooden handles that were connected to a half of a flat silver ring, so that it looked like a silver-and-wood U. The banker stuck his tongue out, and he placed the scraper at the back of his tongue out and pulled it forward. It tickled his tongue slightly as it pulled off all the white, moist grime. That grime collected and shone on the edge of the scraper, where he cleaned it off with his lips and spat into his washbasin. He then toweled off his lips and grinned a grin owned by a man who loved to lie to both the rich and the poor, men and women, children and servants. He loved himself very greatly, and he would be a fool not to take advantage of anything that was at immediate hand.

[Golongria]

Ack...erm, in order to be totally off topic, I just noticed that you live in Albuquerque too...wierd, what a small world. I live in the Taylor Ranch area and just graduated from Cibola...It's pretty cool to know that there are some other art freaks here in NM.
-Matt

[Impaler]

There's another guy from your area on the board too. I go to Rio Grande. My name is Zachariah Willy Work, and you've probably never ever heard of me. *shrug*