AlamoVampire

Kinda, but its accuracy ends at the credits. Real world madness uses lincoln logs too if a cat meows in the woods does the gorilla on the empire state building have lasagna? 131610202023

Scientist 125710202023

Floor 4399: The Works of Homer 115010202023

Neither! Its a walk! waiter did the fly in their soup lose its wings to become a walk? 114710202023

Waltz of the flowers is stuck in my head so i ban you 113910202023

Suddenly the bucket clears its throat. There are strange things done in the midnight sun By the men who moil for gold; The Arctic trails have their secret tales That would make your blood run cold; The Northern Lights have seen queer sights, But the queerest they ever did see Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge I cremated Sam McGee. Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows. Why he left his home in the South to roam 'round the Pole, God only knows. He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell; Though he'd often say in his homely way that "he'd sooner live in hell." On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way over the Dawson trail. Talk of your cold! through the parka's fold it stabbed like a driven nail. If our eyes we'd close, then the lashes froze till sometimes we couldn't see; It wasn't much fun, but the only one to whimper was Sam McGee. And that very night, as we lay packed tight in our robes beneath the snow, And the dogs were fed, and the stars o'erhead were dancing heel and toe, He turned to me, and "Cap," says he, "I'll cash in this trip, I guess; And if I do, I'm asking that you won't refuse my last request." Well, he seemed so low that I couldn't say no; then he says with a sort of moan: "It's the cursèd cold, and it's got right hold till I'm chilled clean through to the bone. Yet 'tain't being dead—it's my awful dread of the icy grave that pains; So I want you to swear that, foul or fair, you'll cremate my last remains." A pal's last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail; And we started on at the streak of dawn; but God! he looked ghastly pale. He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day of his home in Tennessee; And before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of Sam McGee. There wasn't a breath in that land of death, and I hurried, horror-driven, With a corpse half hid that I couldn't get rid, because of a promise given; It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say: "You may tax your brawn and brains, But you promised true, and it's up to you to cremate those last remains." Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code. In the days to come, though my lips were dumb, in my heart how I cursed that load. In the long, long night, by the lone firelight, while the huskies, round in a ring, Howled out their woes to the homeless snows— O God! how I loathed the thing. And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and heavier grow; And on I went, though the dogs were spent and the grub was getting low; The trail was bad, and I felt half mad, but I swore I would not give in; And I'd often sing to the hateful thing, and it hearkened with a grin. Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge, and a derelict there lay; It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it was called the "Alice May." And I looked at it, and I thought a bit, and I looked at my frozen chum; Then "Here," said I, with a sudden cry, "is my cre-ma-tor-eum." Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, and I lit the boiler fire; Some coal I found that was lying around, and I heaped the fuel higher; The flames just soared, and the furnace roared—such a blaze you seldom see; And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal, and I stuffed in Sam McGee. Then I made a hike, for I didn't like to hear him sizzle so; And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled, and the wind began to blow. It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled down my cheeks, and I don't know why; And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak went streaking down the sky. I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear; But the stars came out and they danced about ere again I ventured near; I was sick with dread, but I bravely said: "I'll just take a peep inside. I guess he's cooked, and it's time I looked"; ... then the door I opened wide. And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar; And he wore a smile you could see a mile, and he said: "Please close that door. It's fine in here, but I greatly fear you'll let in the cold and storm— Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, it's the first time I've been warm." There are strange things done in the midnight sun By the men who moil for gold; The Arctic trails have their secret tales That would make your blood run cold; The Northern Lights have seen queer sights, But the queerest they ever did see Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge I cremated Sam McGee. 010010202023

fairchild c119g flying boxcar 005310202023

The bucket with an etherial voice that is at once thunderous yet lyrical yet resplendent commands the pelicans, kittens and eels to a full stop and when the buckets voice stops it causes a thunder crack that banishes jarjar into nothingness that cauterizes the timeline removing his memory from all and preventing his return. 003510202023 005410202023

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Our bucket drops onto center stage the complete works of: Chaucer, Shakespeare, Poe, and Homer and begins to read them. 142810192023

To get a recipe for frito pie 113710192023

Floor 4397: a lone skull on a pedestal. 113610192023

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Our bucket stops center stage: To be, or not to be, that is the question: Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, Or to take arms against a sea of troubles And by opposing end them. To die—to sleep, No more; and by a sleep to say we end The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks That flesh is heir to: 'tis a consummation Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep; To sleep, perchance to dream—ay, there's the rub: For in that sleep of death what dreams may come, When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, Must give us pause—there's the respect That makes calamity of so long life. For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, Th'oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, The pangs of dispriz'd love, the law's delay, The insolence of office, and the spurns That patient merit of th'unworthy takes, When he himself might his quietus make With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear, To grunt and sweat under a weary life, But that the dread of something after death, The undiscovere'd country, from whose bourn No traveller returns, puzzles the will, And makes us rather bear those ills we have Than fly to others that we know not of? Thus conscience doth make cowards of us all, And thus the native hue of resolution Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought, And enterprises of great pith and moment With this regard their currents turn awry And lose the name of action. 113410192023

Banned cuz cold hot wings 113110192023

No worries im sure someday ill find the tunnel exit, till then its sunburn free lol 222810182023

Thanks man! Just one question? You wouldnt happen to know where the end of the tunnel is would you? I just really wish i could honestly figure out why i keep getting kicked around like a cursed soccer ball. 202310182023

Floor 4395: a really tired of the world person, namely me, just staring into the distance with joyless eyes and a haunted expression. 193910182023

Internet goes poof while doing a flight in flightsim. Glad i chose to not fly on vatsim… internets been down at least 40 minutes… and of course its radio silence from my isp… i really hate my birthday… 193710182023

Thanks! 192210182023

Our bucket finishes its production of Cats: You've heard of several kinds of cat And my opinion now is that You should need no interpreter To understand our character You've learned enough to take the view That cats are very much like you You've seen us both at work and games And learnt about our proper names Our habits and our habitat But how would you ad-dress a cat? So first, your memory I'll jog And say: A cat is not a dog Now dogs pretend they like to fight They often bark, more seldom bite But yet a dog is, on the whole What you would call a simple soul The usual dog about the town Is much inclined to play the clown And far from showing too much pride Is frequently undignified He's such an easygoing lout He'll answer any hail or shout The usual dog about the town Is inclined to play the clown Again I must remind you that A dog's a dog, a cat's a cat With cats, some say one rule is true Don't speak 'til you are spoken to Myself I do not hold with that I say you should ad-dress a cat But always bear in mind that he Resents familiarity You bow, and taking off your hat Ad-dress him in this form: "O' cat!" Before a cat will condescend To treat you as a trusted friend Some little token of esteem Is needed, like a dish of cream And you might now and then supply Some caviar, or Strassburg pie Some potted grouse or salmon paste He's sure to have his personal taste And so in time you reach your aim And call him by his name So this is this, and that is that And there's how you ad-dress a cat A cat's entitled to expect These evidences of respect So this is this, and that is that And there's how you ad-dress a cat 160810182023

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Floor 4393: a handbook on how to fake being human. 080610182023