What Wine Goes With Not Doing a Reunion Show Summary?

At Greedy Internet Gaming Pirates, Inc., we're not just about producing software and taking your money so that we can retire early to some sunny tropical place where we can jet around in cigarette boats adorned with mostly nekkid and entirely willing babeage. In point of fact, we're not about producing software at all, at least not so far. This causes me a great deal of anger management, and not just because I'm not yet speeding around Tortola with a scantily-clad Lucy Liu draped over the other seat begging for a spanking. And oh yes she is that hot.

Sorry, I had to take a moment. Where was I? Oh yes. Greedy Internet Gaming Pirates, Inc. So as you all know, I went to the very bowels of Ohio, where it was my sole pleasure there to meet the Mom and the lovely and brilliant and funny Mrs. Mom, who saw through me like I was a wet t-shirt. Being fabulous, she was damned polite about it, though.

Yes. Ohio. Business trip for Greedy Internet Gaming Pirates, Inc. So there are two pieces to this software that's keeping me from the BVIs and my high-velocity sodomy date with Heather Graham. One is the game engine, which is the bit that actually runs this game which we intend to reproduce programmatically, giving you, the person giving us your money, a high-quality virtual representation of the boardgaming experience. This game was the game of the year two years ago, which was shortly before we decided we were going to get rich off of the Internet.

So a while back, we--me, Mr. Bigglesworth, and our other partner, Prince Evercrack--did a really great business plan and got some money from some guys in Vegas, actual venture capital money, and we incorporated and bought cool laptops and a nice server and shirts with our logo on them and some other stuff. A really great business plan is, by the way, defined as "a collection of lies that induces people to give you money," and we operated under that plan, some of which was actually factual, for some time. Then, after six months or so, the Vegas guys decided we were going about it all wrong and that their vast experience in running porn sites led them to conclude that our skills--Programmer, Programmer, and Guy Who Tells Other People What To Do (guess which one I am)--were best put to use by sitting back and remotely supervising badly paid coders in foreign countries where life is cheap.

We told them thank you for your money and goodbye now, mmkay? They threatened to sue. We laughed. They threatened to break our kneecaps. We reminded them that they only knew where one of us lived, and by the way, it's not illegal to record certain telecommunications in the jurisdictions where two of us live. They threatened to sue again, we laughed again, and all was eventually forgotten. Including, for a period of four months, the software, by Prince Evercrack, who decided that we were kinda making his life miserable and that he should ignore our emails from September through December. Which he did.

But eventually, Prince Evercrack saw the light and heard the siren song of Virgin Gorda, and we sort of resumed our dream of the sun. Then, back around the beginning of April, which should've been my first clue, we had this argument, Mr. Bigglesworth and Prince Evercrack and me, while we were sitting around Mr. Bigglesworth's dining room table up in some hideously Yankee jurisdiction. Mr. Bigglesworth argued that we had to have this deal ready for this big geek deal in Columbus. I argued that history, statistics, probability, and the dialectic made it a mathematical impossibility for us to do anything but make giant gaping asses of ourselves on a five-week timeline.

I was shouted down. I shouted back. Words were exchanged, ICBMs prepared and nearly launched. I prophesied, correctly, that one of the Pirates would get screwed in the end, and that the most likely candidate for this penetration was me, because while Prince Evercrack took his sweet freakin' time finishing the game engine, and Mr. Bigglesworth took that and added the instant-messaging bit (the second piece of our grand plan), Mrs. Satan's Baby Boy would have no time to ensure that these things would actually work, and would have to test the thing in front of a crowd of geeks expecting professional-looking software. Which brings us to Columbus, and me draped facedown over a table in the Radisson, a convenience that The Mom and his spouse most thoughtfully ignored.

My, this has become a long story. How sad for you. But I will shorten it by saying that after two all-nighters, Mr. Bigglesworth finished up his piece of the product at about 10 AM Sunday, leaving Mrs. Satan's Baby Boy to test it in front of a crowd of skeptical geeks. This had about the result you'd expect.

Mrs. Satan's Baby Boy struggled home after his almost entirely unpleasurable (save those two hours with The Mom and The Delightful Mrs. Mom) trip to Middle America. He settled in for what he hoped would be a nice long week of ignoring Mr. Bigglesworth and Prince Evercrack, because frankly, they were really starting to piss him off and it's not like we have any chance of banging Catherine Zeta-Jones at eighty miles an hour anyway. And all of this is making me truly tired, in a soulsick, semi-permanent sort of way.

Yesterday, Mr. Bigglesworth demanded that Mrs. Satan's Baby Boy produce forthwith the list of all the bad things that happened to Our Software. The Pirates had to get to work now now now, and Mrs. Satan's Baby Boy was singlehandedly keeping the ship from leaving.

And that's why I destroyed civilization. Sorry about that. I guess you prolly want me to STFU and go write that summary-thing now, huh?