Order Inc.

[orderinc]

Eurovision: so how bad was it?

When the pre-contest parade started, I wanted to make a joke about Special Olympics, but one is a contest for people who can’t compete with able bodied professionals, the other is Special Olympics.  Belgium If you don’t vote for Belgium, she’ll sick her pet rock at you. It’s not good to sample Mecury (reminding us of actual good music) and then make a very 70s show (reminding us of when Eurovision was good) Czech Republic “I Stand” bravely mocks all the viewers in wheelchairs.  She said “I stand” and never moved through the song.Bravo.  Netherlands The bar atmosphere makes me want to open a bottle of beer-brand beer.  Azerbaijan Look, I’m Beyonce, but white-ish and extremely weaksauce.  Hungary Singing something about million people? Tribal drums? Anime haircut? Yep, super bland and basic.  Hungary is a great example why you don’t send a hotel manager to do a mediocre singer’s job.  Will do well in “15 and gay” category Italy Taking a page out the Balkan book and imagining that English is optional Israel At this point, hairdressers outnumber actual singers  We’re not made of stars, but his suit took three hookers to make  Once the show ends, the singer is going straight to a Panem Extras meeting  Bulgary  I love the 90s sci-fi b-movie look. Lyrics inspired by “Cool for the summer”, clothing by “Fifth Element” Sweden Shit so good, my transmission broke Germany She’s the ghost of that one insane Iceland show one year  France France is searching for a guy who looks less creepy France’s show is two steps removed from David Hasselhoff video with pretend greenscreen flight 

Poland Singing a song about choosing a side of the Force Poland is taking dancing cue from classic Lithuanian shows, that is, none at all.   Australia Looks uncomfortably like Bjork  Love the holograms For a Eurovision spectator, Australia brings the strange and rarely felt feeling of “I kind of like this song” Cyprus Love the “thinner Meatloaf” look Cyprus doesn’t want to be called vampires, that’s why the howl.  Serbia An actual pretty woman  An actual bland song Trying to look very much 90s vampire Lithuania The best recreation of instant noodles in haircut form  Reminds me of how I used to dance in school plays  The most interesting thing is that we have probably the strongest show to gow with the meh song  Croatia Don’t kill me, samurai robot senpai Russia  Wants to be anime Wants to be Anime Modern Talking  Spain  Spain really tugged out heartstrings with her fall  Looks really good, but a little too punky Latvia “We didn’t even try” Eurovision stole my cousin’s jacket The most rock hard lullaby to have ever put me to sleep  Ukraine Her face says what we all feel about Eurovision  Malta Here’s all the breast contouring you need Is she pregnant? Because Eurovision is harmful to the developing fetus  Georgia “We are a MUSE cover band and...” Austria Anytime I begin liking her song, I see her face  She modeled her dress on a peach cake  UK Valiantly outkreeps France.  Armenia  It was OK. She also look like Azerbaijan *shots fired*

[orderinc]

Shop/Hacker

Clyde might have been lean and scrawny, but he rarely felt like it. And he never called himself Clyde: that name was only for the mall database, to keep track of who's who and when are they getting paid. To his compatriots he was Lasher. And he was a shop hacker.

Most of the days he spent in his office, in the labyrinthine depths of Mall of America's maintenance area. He had his room and he worked there. And lived there. There wasn't that much need to move, anyways, what with his working hours spent jacked in and most of his off-time spent either jacked in for fun or dreaming about it. Being inside was probably his favourite thing in the world. And his employers had no quarrel with that.

As a shop hacker, he spent most of the time jacked in. As a hacker, he still dealt with data. But the end result was direct influence on people. He was part of the mall's last line of defence against people's unwillingness to spend money. When the all pervasive adds failed, when fads couldn’t lure money out of pockets, when sales went unnoticed, when society's pressures cracked against the need to save hard buck – that’s where he came in. He hacked, he fished for info, he looked for weakness and then delivered precision marketing bombing. In war to move merchandise, he was the last resort before gaming the books and warehouse keeping logs.

All day he'd spent jacked in at his custom rig. He wouldn't see his room, so there was no reason for him to have a screen. But yet he had, six or seven of those, plastered on the wall in front of him, illuminating his face in pale blue. It probably had more to do with the image of a hacker than with the actual need for visual input. If you were a poor jackhead, a small time e-crook, you were happy to have a deck and a place to jack in. Monitors were premium. Monitors were a thing Lasher could afford.

So he sat there, the wire going to his head and his senses cast far away. He saw with CCTV cameras and heard with ambient microphones, smelled with bomb/drug sniffers and could even touch with auxbots and sales droids. He was everywhere, or at least everywhere in his slice of consumer paradise. One hacker would not be able to cover the entire place at the same time, so he had colleagues, people he would be dimly aware while he worked.

And he worked hard. Always alert, always scanning for a catch. A single mother with an irate child. A band of glitz teens. A mid life crisis special with 'bait around his arms. A suit with a bimbo. An exec with her boy toy. A chrome head aiming to be at the edge of whatever tech was was considered ‘cutting’ at that time. All those people. All that weakness. Lasher loved his job, this quiet sabotage of the squares, mundanes, bores and 'nillas.

Grinning, he focused his cameras on a potential catch. A small glint of silver betrayed an ultra-WASP, a patriarch beset by his family. When society’s fast and loose play with morals and norms pushed the fundies, the fundies pushed back and pushed hard, offering a sense of stability and direction in a world that was getting a little too free for many. The Evangelical Episcopal Trinitarian Adventist Church Of Divine Grace And Provenance catered to those who didn't like this anarchic change and had money to back it. For all their apparent fervor, there was little real faith in what Jesus might have said and less in what he had meant. There was, however, plenty of hard headedness, holier-than-thou attitudes... and plenty of money to build their world around them. Enclosed neighbourhoods, carefully controlled schools, well filtered net access, “summer camps” for wayward youths, and what's left could be “invested in American made goods”. The last point was what got Lasher so interested.

So he trained the eyes on this suited man, his most likely trophy wife, their children who were either not falling far from the tree or had already been quite forcefully returned to it. And his invisible fingers slipped into his com slate, scanned the children, looked at the social media wake that family was leaving behind. He was crashing through the few barriers that weren't wide open for corporate interests, to find medical files and credit ratings and more. This was intelligence gathering in a war for this man's soul – or the contents of his pockets.

So there he was, living in suburbia so white it was probably seen from Heaven. No obvious mistresses or youthful mishaps. A steady job. Regular WASP hobbies, inventory for which has been recently restocked. Predictable, boring, content. Something had to be done. And something was done.

The dragnets were doing their thing. For the gazette that ran in the commune it was apparent that this guy had some neighbourly competition, something that always meant hidden hurt feelings over the Best Lawn prizes and spite over golf scores. And this guy wasn't winning at the moment. Yet so far there was nothing on him. Yet the shadow of envy fell on his wife, embroiled in the poisonous contest of oneup(wo)manship that bored housewives take up when locked behind high fences and paid security. She had done some irregular browsing for jewellery and drunk more wine as of late. The children had texted about mom being irate a few days ago. But why?

The gazette helped. Cross checking on the dates, he found pictures from an article about a July 4th barbeque. Pictures and stories that mentioned the main rival and his wife's oh-so-beautiful necklace that impressed everyone there. That is a slight that this Ultra-WASP lady was not like to forget, yet somehow had been unwilling to pursue personally. Well, it is holy to help those in need and Lasher was about to “help” them restore balance in the Whispering Woods Commune.

Ad-screens were slaved. Happy popular women that generally looked like the wife of the adversary followed the family as they went about their business. Scenes of adoration and success were beamed at WASP-wife, subtly reminding her that there was someone better than her. The vital scans showed mounting tension, the facerecog saw a tense, fake smile. The idea was taking root. Lasher had to send out a couple more commands and the tide of the ads changed. Now they advertised jewellery shops and the focus of the ads was a woman that could pass for a younger, more relaxed version of the irate wife.

Monitoring the brewing storm, Lasher also set out to work with husband. He had to be made more pliant to the wive's requests, ones that would surely burst forth soon. So, in addition to directional microphones streaming inaudible noise that would supposedly soften up his resistance and “flowerpots” puffing small clouds of designer pheromones, ads were used, again, showing BBQs, women enjoying jewellery and even some of the almost antique footage showing wives happily accepting necklaces from their husbands. This would have to do.

And all the magic started working. The wife could hold it no longer and, turning to her husband, began a plea for more shiny things. It began amiably enough, to be sure, but the WASPband's defences held. Lasher ramped up some of the measures and slowly but surely the vitascanner started showing a changing disposition. Little by little, the husband caved in and there was only one task left: to light them the way to a store, which Lasher did almost unconsciously. Smiling to himself, he took a last look at the store.

Uh-oh. The sales lady wasn't white.

This had to be remedied soon. Luckily, she had just taken over the shift from a white girl, who was preparing to go home at the back of the store. He quickly piped in and gave her the skinny, imploring her to stay. But that didn’t cut it: she was running at the edge of her capacity anyways, what with having had to deal with two furfroms trying to have a “yiff of freedom in the bourgeois establishment of sexual repression”, a poor person with a return scam and one lady whose requests were on the edge of being physically impossible. The poor girl wouldn't be able to handle it herself.

So Lasher gave help. With a promise of additional pay (deducted from a fund set up for such circumstances where regular management threats would be ineffective) he also gave her a kick. A hypo of Kick, which, authorised by Lasher, was dispensed in the employee lounge. The girl pressed it to her neck and her shoulders immediately levelled, her back straightened and eyes opened. She was ready to do what she had to do for the mall. And just in time: the latino girl had just disappeared through the employee only door when the couple walked it. Here, Lasher's responsibility ended.

And, judging by the internal clock, his shift was almost at end, too. Unfortunately, the next guy in line was Lasslo (hard to make Laszlo sound cooler) and he liked being late, creating such “accidental” obstructions to being notified like getting his comlink stuck on an update or a routine check up. And there was nothing Lasher could do: even if the mall let them scam and fleece sheeple all day, the mall was still the Man, and you don't tell on other hackers to the Man. There was only one course of action.

Lasher activated a webcam that had been trained on his jacked in body. From there, he tried to do a manoeuvre he was getting exceedingly good at: throwing stuff while controlling your arm from third person view. After a few tries, he snatched an empty cup of instaramen (had he eaten that yesterday? He didn't remember) and threw it at the figure on his bed. Once it started moving, he shouted “Wake up and get Lasslo's ass over here! I'm ‘bout to jack out and I'm not doing overtime for him again”, until the figure murmured curses and slunk from the room.

Jazz B was a girl like many other in the inner city, aimless and provided with little overwatch. Hanging at malls, looking for illicit substances, raves, parties, concerts, virtua-ogies and other youthful distractions was all that she did. And she had some paradoxical luck: when the management decided to crack down on youthful vagrants that tarnished the good image of Mall of America, she was one of the few that got taken in by the shop hackers. Her relationship with Lasher was more of a symbiosis: she provided her body and what rudimentary human contact a hacker needed, he gave her food, stims and shelter.

All in all, a comfortable life, especially since all the hackers, tweakers and other dregs employed by the mall had a section they could hang out it. As a flaw of architecture that was overlooked in construction, one of the passages in mall was rarely visited by customers. Over time, it became the place where management would shove the more “budget” and esoteric shops, as well as any that were accepted as “Mall of America's input in fostering local economy” publicity stunts. After all, none of those belonged to huge franchises, and that meant they didn't have the cash. So, that end of the store was falling into disarray and the feral matrix children that made up the hackers, tweakers and other store ruffians, had made some of the shops into their dens. Jazz B was just dragging Lasslo out of one of them and Lasher observed over CCTV.

And, minutes before the end of his shift, he received a notification that he received a pay bonus for successfully “encouraging” a customer to “make full use of his fund and the facilities of Mall of America in fulfilling his happiness”. So, shophacking.

Lasher smiled.

Another day in paradise.

[orderinc]

[orderinc]

[orderinc]

EA announces that DICE will stop all projects to have more time to fix Battlefield 4. 

[belkis-deactivated20150315]

post-government shutdown america

12:01 am EST: Joffrey Baratheon, Renly Baratheon and Stannis Baratheon lay claim to the US. Robb Stark declares himself King of Canada.

[orderinc]

Gamers before GTAV's release: 9.0 is too low a score!! Fuck games journalism!!

Gamers after GTAV's release: I can't believe the online isn't working!! Fuck Rockstar Games!!

[yuri-librarian]

[orderinc]

The Bureau: XCOM Declassified Kind Of Sucks And I'm Only A Few Hours In

Like every soldier in every work of fiction ever, Carter is easily confused by science.

Alien explosive barrel technology is far more advanced than ours.

Dat facial animation.

Another hero thwarted by chest high crates - no man can be expected to scale anything thicker than a check high wall!

You people put the most awkwardly phrased text under every picture I find.

Skyranger: probably an non existent helo, ugly as sin in custscenes. UT3 hasn't aged gracefully.

I've only done one major plot mission and the plot writers have already written themselves into a corner. "No way we can write in a plausible way to defeat this invasion. Quick, fall back to Hack Writer Emergency Device #0: All controlling enemy command center. If it was good enough for Command and Conquer 3, The Avengers, Battle Los Angeles, Independence Day, Mass Effect and a billion of other works, it will do here too!"

Ok, this is kind of cool.

Oh, wow, the font insertion looks seamless here!

 "Careful, agent, these are our Science Tubes! They hold Science! Now if you'll excuse me, I have this problem with Science pressure in Tube #2"

First they did with the aliens, then with Arabs, then with people who had "that look"...

If you drag your finger around the rim of a glass, you'll hear a high pitched sound. You can use the same method to play old time record reels, because Carter doesn't have a player on himself and people who recorded it didn't have the means to do it either. 

Ah, Ze Main Science Depository! Why the "ze" main you ask?

Because we have a genuine former-Nazi German scientist, also known as the best breed of scientist! We have a British guy, too, and we have plans to acquire a sexy Russian researcher. 

USA! USA! USA! 

Normally you betray your species only AFTER a blonde american girl shows you the power of LOOOVE (and FREEEDOM in 1960's America). All in all, it's just a lazy copy of Mass Effect - Mass Effect 3, to be precise, and that game sucked. There are the same talks about urgency that you don't actually feel in the game's atmosphere, the same contrived plan to take out enemy central, the same combat with some similar powers. 

For an XCOM fan, this game never happened. Because if it had happened, why wouldn't they pass on plans on alien weapons for the later generations?

[orderinc]

"Aged manhandling". That's how I read it every time.

[jameshabermann]

Two separate games (Delver and Paranautical Activity) were recently posted on Steam (Both in “Early Access” form, coincidentally) within a day of one another. Both of them advertise themselves as “roguelikes,” featuring screenshots with graphics ripping off heavily inspired by Minecraft. At a first glance by an average gamer, either game can be easily mistaken for the other.

This comes less than a month after the release of Guncraft, which itself is a blatant rip-off of Ace of Spades, which itself is also a rip-off heavily inspired by Minecraft.

People like to complain about “fads” in mainstream gaming (For example, the wave of post-Modern Warfare “modern military shooters”). Some may blame the games industry for falling in line with fads, and curse the names of big-name publishers. Others may blame the market itself, for continuing to support trends.

I contest that indie developers [and consumers] suffer from the same issue.

[orderinc]

And Ace of Spaces have the lofty Metacritic rating of 49

[orderinc]

What happened to New Newbrook? A Clockwork Empires fanfic

The good life in the colonies was going well for the people of New Newbrook. The lower classes went to work under the watchful eye of their middle class overseers, the nobles lounged about being useless – another perfect day. Forest, the Natures creeping terror, was driven back to the sound of axe thuds, bounty of the depths was plundered by the pick axe, the uncaring sky – clouded by the proud smoke stacks of the industry and even the obscene monolith at the centre of the town hummed and whispered quietly – all under the watch from Esteemed Ladies Bridge Club gathered in their dark clubhouse. Everything – even the urchin being claimed by the so wrong, yet so right statue – was in order.

And then sex dots appeared far over the sea and started rapidly expanding. Now, one dot would not have meant anything unusual – the colonist Citizens of the Empire were used to airships, just like any other civilized man. But no zeppelin was set to arrive any time soon – especially since Paxton Brookswood chopped off the airship mooring pole. Doctors claimed that it was a bout of mania brought on by poetry and mushroom moonshine, but the fact remained the same: there was no pole and a mooring pole is just about the only way to attract a wayward airship. And now there were six of them.

Urchins, orphans and drunks spent the better part of the morning just sitting in the beach and idly pondering about the approaching fleet. Cog flags could already be seen, so it wasn't a Stahlmarkian invasion force nor some Novyrus captain getting lost due to a drunken bender. As the airships drew close, some more details could be made out. Two of them were of the heavy variety while the rest were of a lighter, speedier variety. All of them were armed as it was befitting for a fleet travelling in savage lands and touring colonies of questionable loyalty and sanity. Soon, the fleet reached the shore. And they didn't stop.

The smaller ships increased speed and flew over the town. The bigger ones passed over the houses, too, but they split up over the town square. The four faster ships were already unloading men and equipment in the clear areas around the colony. By the time the dreadnoughts reached them, the smaller blimps were already on their way towards the forests. While the big ships unloaded their cargo – there were even some vehicles, oh my – the other airships had already dropped something deep in the forests and were speeding back towards the town. The colony was now surrounded by two half rings – one composed of the airborne troops, the other – of lazy layabouts that came to watch them.

This quickly turned sour and rather unpleasant when the smaller blimps, on their second passing over the town, started dropping incendiary bombs. There weren't that many of them and most of the ordinance hit the orphanage, but still it was an unpleasant surprise. As the flame engulfed Mr. Dougherty's Home For Directionless Ragamuffins, the troop circle began closing in on the town, leaving behind them the unloaded vehicles and a few nests of Whiskers machine guns – the greatest invention of Reginald D. W. Stonehurtler, esq., who made the bullet spewing machine to hunt down his neighbours tabby (And while the cat survived, the gun was named in it's honour, because it was the only living creature likely to avoid gruesome, lead ridden death).

The town drunks were almost on the cusp of grasping that something wasn't right when their intellectual pursuits were quickened by the soldiers opening fire. Cee-Benfield rifle, known as The Gun That Conquered People Without Guns, was an accurate implement of Imperialism and Industry, especially so when used against targets not smart enough to move. With the last moments of life fleeing from the now properly gunned down liquor friends, they finally got to see their executioners – shining cavalry helmets, very sophisticated gasmasks with finely crafted tubes leading to filters of exceeding quality, long fireproof trench coats and light cavorite armoured vests – though it's debatable if the degenerate brain of a lower class alcoholic had the capacity to understand their glory.

Meanwhile, the soldiers continued their inexorable march towards victory while the smaller airships, with their incendiary supplies exhausted, flew circles around the colony, spraying everything that move (or didn't move, but looked funny) with gratuitous machinegun fire. This helped the troops immensely since they scarcely encountered resistance from any men, women or children. Occasionally some poor wretch had to be put out of its misery and men, jaded after seeing so many colonies literally go up flames, were getting bored. That is, before they arrived at the Bridge Club. The burning building burst like an over ripe melon (that was also on fire) and disgorged a stream of what used to be card playing ladies of respectable stature, but not anymore. After all, writhing tentacle maws and scythe like claws were not marks of high society!

Luckily, the troops, veterans of many cleaning missions and cheap brother visits, were unfazed by such a display of unfeminine savagery. Even better – some of them carried the Watt's Repeating De-Nativefier, a gun that proved itself in savage streets battles of the Laudanum Wars that Empire's finest fought in the Quite Near Orient. Sprays of bullets ripped apart the bodies of former bridge player – such carnage surely set many a patriot's heart aflutter! The remaining mass of twitching viscera was submitted to gouts of liquid fire, sprayed by the flamethrower-man. This was an exalted moment for pyromania inclined professional, because he hadn't done much today. He did torch a poet to cleanse his body of extradimentional filth – and poetry – but that was scarcely a rare occurrence.

Meanwhile, the Whiskers crews, carefully guarded by the heavy airships were dealing with the crazed colonists that were running out of the blazing forest and the mines. It wasn't as patriotic as shooting hordes of charging Cogless savages, but it had to do. Of course, the mines were to be properly blown up, all in due time, but the town was a more pressing concern. The unloaded machines started their magnificent engines and trundled their way towards the town square, now secured by the troops and guarded from all sorts of miscreants.

Acting officers had deemed the obscene statue to be the source of most of the colonies problems – the rest, as usual, were caused by the proletariat's inability to follow the wise guidance of the colony bureaucrat. The offending peace of non-Euclidean sculpture had to be removed – to that end, the Military Auto trencher (Experimental) dug a deep ditch right in the town square while the Tracked Industrial Apparatus for Displacement of Ground And Detritus Via The Medium of Pushing pushed the statue into the depths. Dirt was poured on top of it and a wooden sign „No Digging – By the Order of The Empress“ was placed on top of the pile. Troops congratulated themselves with a job well done and moved towards an airship pick up.

Meanwhile, the acting captain marked a tick on a Secret Order of Total Cleansing and remarked to himself that if they let someone establish New New Newbrook, he'll the rats at the colonial office a right proper thrashing.    

[orderinc]

Eurovizija 2013: Ar jau pastatei plaukus su žele?

Prieš pradedant: ar tau sumokėjo už tavo balsą? Lietuviui, dažniau pratusiam, kad už balsą moka buteliu, kaip ir neįprasta turėtų būt. 

Tekstas kursyvu - tai, ką rašiau vibe.lt/twitter. Tiems, kurie nepraleido visą vakarą stebėdami mano sieną.

Azerbaidžanas - vieta, kur prasikala Eurovizijos kirmėliukas. Bent jau per internetą žiūrint Užkuraičio negirdžiu.

Prancūzija – primena jų Ke$ha. Jos sceninis paralyžius gerai atrodo prie Pojavio.

Lietuva – Pojavis toks creepy, kad kitais metais tik jo antakius siųsim. Tie gal bent dainą geresnę pasirašys.

Eurovizijoj 2014 Pojavio antakiai bus palaikančiu šokėju.

Iki vokiečių ieškojau kaip išspręst problemą vadinamą „Eurovizijos saitas nusprendė, kad aš esu 16 valandų praeityje“. Durniai jūs, pas mane 5 ryto 19 dieną! Turint minty, kad čia Japonija, aš esu super ateityje!

Vokietija – „Čia tikrai ne Euforija! Žodžiai tikrai ne tie!“

Visgi pristatančios moteriškės suknia yra turbūt vaginiausias rūbas, kurį kada mačiau.

Armėnai - Vietoje absoliučiai neįsimenančios Eurovizinės dainos atsiuntė visiškai neįsimenančią radijo dainą.

Manau, dauguma Eurovizijos fanų ne "dar tik nerado tinkamos merginos", o "kaip ir dideli penio fanai"

Nyderlandai – Palaiko Pojavio idėją „stovėti kaip suparalyžiuotiems“. Gal ten grindys elektrifikuotos? Šiaip gauna taškų už tai, kad galėtų būt kokiam Disnėjau fantasy filme fonu montažui apie Pasakų Meilės šalį.

Rumunija – Grąžinkit jį į gimtąjį filmą apie sunkų homoseksualių blogio burtininkų gyvenimą. Šiaip jo... falcetas ir vaizdas nesiderino, nes neskambėjo taip galingai kaip atrodė. O gaila! Šiaip Rumunai šiemet, atrodo, pasistengė. O pagriebė pirmą fyfarą, įgrūdo jam dainą iš „Atsitiktinių dainų apie meilę generatoriaus“ ir pastatė ant scenos.

"Thank you, you are my soul, I love you" - Melas, vampyrai sielos neturi!

UK – Feminisčių mėgstamiausia dalis, nes čia apkūnoka savo seksualumu pasitikinti moteris metuose dainuoja. Kita vertus, dar viena daina, kuri vietoje „grynai sukurta Eurovizijai“ skamba kaip „tokia neišskirtinė radijuje, kad net LATGA tavęs neieškotų, jei nupiratautum“. Tikrai žydra švytinčia apyranke kalami vinys į Bonny Tyler karjeros karstą.

Švedija – kuo arčiau kameros, tuo storesnis atrodo. Aš jau neatsimenu, apie ką dainavo.

Švedijos atlikėją ir palaikymo šokėjus rengia UAB "Sprogimas IKEA Audinių Fabrike"

Vengrija – Nežinau, kas tas „Katvašan“, bet tikiuosi su katėmis nesusijęs. Persenęs hipsteris, hipiškas video fonas ir kalba, kurios niekas Europoje nesupranta – nežinia už ką tašką duot. Bet atrodo kaip toks mėmė, kad už scenos Rumunų atlikėjas sulaužė jo akinius ir atėmė mobiliaką.

Vengrija savo pirmą dainos versiją prarado, nes rašymo metu ant jų MacBook "Starbucks" lankytoja netyčia išpylė kavą.

Danija – Turi savo mini-Shakira. Vizualiai gražiausias šou – ir ne vien dėl ugnies atspalvių ar uniformuotų vyrų. Tikėtina, kad šiemet laimės, nes derinys arčiausias Eurovizijos žiūrovų skoniui ir

Sprendžiant iš spalvų, Danija dainavo apie meilę metalo liejykloje. Ar ugnikalnyje.

Islandija – visą laiką tikėjaus, kad jis nusiplės savo kostiumą, pasiims gitarą ir viskas baigsis ugnim ir metalu. Vienas dalykas yra žaisti su stereotipais, kitas – taip giliai sukišti juos į nosį, kad visiškai iššvaistytum atlikėją.

Tuo tarpu Twitter visi verčiasi vienas per kitą, kad pajuokautų kaip Islandijos atlikėjas primena Thor! Na, bent jų humoro stoka neaplenkčiau.

Azerbaidžanas – jų Radžis tai tik dar viena variacija Švedijos tema „soliariuminis metroseksualas“.

Atrodo, kad Azerbaidžano šokėjas tik uždarytas į stiklo dėžę suprato, kaip nori į tualetą.

Graikija – nusprendė sukonfuzint žiūrovus iš balkanų šalių. Kita vertus, tema „Alcohol is free“ yra artima dažno širdžiai. Šiaip kol kas smagiausias pasirodymas, bet laimėt vis tiek danai turi.

Graikijos senolis groja su didžiausia gitara, kurią sugebėjo įpirkti Graikijos vyriausybė.

[Šiaip gerai, kad nelaimėjo. Juokeliai "jie neturės pinigų surengt konkursui, lol" ir taip darėsi per dažni]

Ukraina – ar aš prastai kitas Eurovizijas atsimenu – nieko nuostabaus, turint minty jų turinį – ar dabar tikrai visi atlikėjai stoviniuoja kaip statistinis Lietuvos atstovas Eurovizijoje?

Pirmas įspūdis apie Ukrainos pasirodymą? Hodor. Hodor, Hodor Hodor.

Italija – Nusiuntėm stereotipinį vaikiną iš gatvės, mūsų darbas atliktas!

Jei Italija kitais metai įdės dar mažiau pastangų, tai mes tris minutes žiūrėsime į labai vienišą mikrofono stendą.

Norvegija – BENT jau kažką įdomaus atsiuntė. Laukiame jos pasirodymo fantastikos filmo reboot treileryje!

Norvegija: "Prašau, prijunkite mano dainą prie mažytės CGI studijos sukūrto liūdno fantastinio filmuko ir įmeskit į YouTube"

Gruzija – Gruzija, jei mano Išsamusis Geografinių Stereotipų Atlasas nemeluoja, pas jus turėtų būt kažkas panašaus į kazokus. Atsiųskit juos su tautiniais rūbais ir liepsnojančiais šašlykų iešmais! Juos, o ne Meh ir Eh.

- Kuris Eurovizijos pasirodymas tau patiko?  - Tas, kuriame buvo soliariuminis metroseksualas sulaižytais plaukais.

Airija – Nepaisant visų gališkų simbolių ir Dothraki būgnininkų, padarė vieną mažiausiai išskirtinių pasirodymų.

Netiesa, kad Eurovizija yra vieta, kur dainos eina mirti. Ten savo paskutiniosios sulaukia ir vedėjų juokeliai.

Iš tų, kur nemačiau:

Suomija – ei, yra priežastis, kodėl čia nėra JAV!

Rusija savo dainą dedikavo Baltijos šalims.

Estija – fun fact, kai pradžioj visi atėjo su vėliavom? Maniau, kad ten Lena. Jau ir apsidžiaugęs buvau!

Ko neatsimenu iš to vieno apsilankymo Švedijoje kai vaikas dar buvau? Prasto Švediško humoro.

Bet šiaip vienas iš turbūt retų konkursų, kur gali praleisti 10 dalyvių, bet realiai nieko nepraleisti.

Nors tai gal tinka ir lietuviškiem realybės šou.

Kad ir kaip baisiai mes dainuojam Eurovizijoje, tai dar ne taip blogai, kaip juokauja švedai.

Asmeniniai favoritai, nes visiems svarbu: Graikija, Norvegija, Rumunija, Danija ir Fuck It, Reikia Sudaryt Penketuką, Estija.

Švedijos daina apie save – liūdniausias dalykas visą vakarą. O šita Eurovizija buvo tikra ašarų pakalnė – liūdna ir nusivažiavus.

Visoje Europoje šiek tiek raustantis jaunimas tėvams aiškina ką reiškia "Hashtag MILF"

BALSAVIMO BAJERIAI

Jei San Marinas laimėtų Euroviziją, tai atlikėjų būtų tik 13, nes daugiau kaip ir netilptų.

Švedija – GAH! Jpop! Kita vertus, po dviejų metų gal ir aš galėsiu taip padaryt, nuo mūsų Lietuvėlės.

Jokia kaiminyste nepaaiškinsi Albanijos 12 Italijai. Ženklas, kad ten vyrai nebegali turėti telefonų.

Nyderlandai – jūs davėt 12 taškų Belgijai. Aš jos visai nepamenu.

Vokietija: Hispteriai <3

Anglija – Anglai vis dar stebisi, kad juos vis kviečia į šį konkursą.

Izraelis – Mossad naudoja Eurovizija ištvermės treniruotei.

Ukraina – jums reiktų atsakingiau prižiūrėti Čenobilį. Vienas va pabėgo.

Apskritai, balsavimas yra varžybos tarp dizainerių atgrubnagiškumo ir anglų kalbos žinių stokos.

Moldova – Kol kas seksualiausia!

Armėnija – taip visai be ryšio padainavo... visai kaip Švedai pajuokavo!

Suomija – ne visai vieta prisipažint esant lesbietė, bet ok!

Ispanija - „Coragulations!“

Baltarusija – Putinas tuoj skambins Lukašenkai, kad susitvarkytų su balsavimų komisija.

Latvija – Bandė nusižudyt šokdama per langą – neišėjo, ištraukė iš medžio, bet šakelės ji taip ir nepraleido.

Bulgarija – Bulgarijos balsus pristato... Suomijos dainininkė!

Belgija - „Merde, nei vienas iš mūsų nemoka Englaise!“

Vokietija – Rawr! Lena, Lena, Lena!

Lietuvis Airijoj: Tėvynė Tėvyne, bet Pojavis gali eit velniop.

Islandija – Pasirodo, kai darai pakistaniečio imigranto akcentą, įžeidi ne tik Pakistaną, bet ir Islandiją.

Slovėnija – Ei, ir mes galim juokaut taip prastai, kaip švedai!

„Mes jau turime nugalėtoją, bet priimsim ir tų likusių kelių luzerių balsus“.  

Taip ir prabėgo Eurovyža. Ar mes laimėjom? Ne, bet tie taškai, kuriuos surinkome, ir taip yra per dosnūs pasirodymui, kuriame scenografija neegzistavo, o žodžiai buvo nuskalbta nesąmonė, su absoliučiu banalumu prasilenkianti tik dėl tos absurdiškos batų dalies. Kita vertus, šiemet neišskirtinių gabalų buvo krūva, ir vienas toks šūdo gabalėlis vos nelaimėjo.  Ko mes nepasimokome iš istorijos? Skamp ir LT United judėjo scenoje. Ir nedainavo apie meilę.

Turėkite tai galvoje, kai kitamet skųsitės, jog latviai už mus nebalsuoja, bet baisėsitės, kad balkanuose kas nors skyrė taškų kaimynui. 

[orderinc]

...out of fucking nowhere!

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A royal alternative to your favorite fast food chain 

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Found an interesting new site: http://thrilling-tales.webomator.com/derange-o-lab/pulp-o-mizer/pulp-o-mizer.html

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Trift store blues