gdp's Comments

The Toast : Go On, Get Out Of Here

Sat, 2 Jul 2016 18:01:33 +0000

..And so, at long last, The Toast came to an end. The great halls and palaces stood silent and deserted, the ballrooms empty save for a thin sprinkling of diamond dust, the harbors and quays abandoned. Only far out on the horizon, grey sails like birds' wings rode the wind to distant shores. All the people had taken to the Sea. Then suddenly a fire burst forth from the mountain, and The Toast was scorched; and there came a mighty wind and a great tumult of the earth. A great wave rose up above the hills, green and cold and plumed with foam, and the land slid, and The Toast went down into the Sea, with all its towers and its gardens; and all its beauty and its riches, and all its monks' cells and its owls' nests; they vanished for ever. But far away, out on the Sea, the people wept for their loss, and clung to each other; and in doing so they were comforted, and soon enough they were talking and laughing together. And the ships sailed on. And what happened next? Well! They had many, many wonderful adventures. But that... is another story. (GAZES WISELY OVER RIMS OF SPECTACLES, CLOSES HUGE IRON-CLASPED LEATHER BOOK)

The Toast : An Open Thread, and Sea Room

Sat, 2 Jul 2016 01:11:28 +0000

I made us a picture. It is all of us, sailing away to a place where we can stay together forever. <img src="http://i.imgur.com/y4tdXee.jpg"/>

The Toast : An Open Thread, and Sea Room

Fri, 1 Jul 2016 20:43:51 +0000

Thank you all so much for this. I felt alive here, I felt like a healthy living person for a while. I wish I had something to give you all, I wish I had really known you, near-friends. Everything goes away, but I think the world must still be a good place. I can't see that most of the time, but sometimes I saw it here with you. Please keep seeing it for me. Keep making the world a good place with each other, as much as you can, for as long as you can. Goodbye all of you. This was such a good place, and I am so glad that we could share it for a little while. Goodbye.

The Toast : Portraits Of "The Wrath Of Achilles" That Just Make Me Wanna Cuddle Him

Thu, 30 Jun 2016 16:18:33 +0000

This, then, was the Golden Age of Emotive Flopping Around. Here we see the Wrath of Achilles, as he in his wrath sort of sprawls, and flings his arms out, and lounges, and flops around. The Flopping Around school was well suited for any subject of extreme drama or emotion. Passionate romance? Flopping around. Profound sorrow? Droopily flopping around. Mass warfare? Vast surging crowds of soldiers, all flopping around on each other.

The Toast : How To Tell If You Are In A J.R.R. Tolkien Book

Wed, 29 Jun 2016 20:48:24 +0000

In fact this is easily accounted for. Bilbo heard the Elves singing their silly songs as he and the Dwarves arrived at Rivendell, after an arduous journey through the Wilderland. Keep in mind that Hobbits are passionate smokers, and Bilbo's personal store of pipeweed must have run out long ago. All of which is to say that Bilbo, who would have had no familiarity with the herb-lore around Rivendell, was very likely scavenging any likely-looking weed along the path and smoking it in heedless desperation. He smoked dragontail fern; he smoked wraithweed; he smoked orcwort; he smoked spiderbite moss; he smoked Wargsbane; he smoked Yavanna's Tears; He smoked Mithril Haze; he smoked Eriador Gold. Bilbo was therefore plainly stoned to the gills when he staggered into Rivendell, eyes as glazed as a palantir, seeing Elves up in the trees singing "Tra-la-la-lally!" and taunting him about his gut. We know that his account of the journey is unreliable in certain respects, and written with an eye toward the entertainment of Hobbit-children. All things considered, it's not surprising that he saw no need to mention the several days he spent in Rivendell sweating through withdrawl. He probably should have steered clear of those luminous barrowshade mushrooms, too; but, you know, Hobbits.

The Toast : How To Tell If You Are In A J.R.R. Tolkien Book

Wed, 29 Jun 2016 16:17:10 +0000

I suppose I must be in a Tolkien book, then. Because I'm glad that you're all here with me, here at the end of all things.

The Toast : Two Recipes for Cheesecake

Thu, 23 Jun 2016 22:04:44 +0000

That top picture, "Dog Watching Cheesecake," is the visual equivalent of "Theme from Jaws."

The Toast : How To Tell If You Are In A Regency-Era Novel Written After The End Of The Regency

Thu, 23 Jun 2016 21:53:08 +0000

1. ursine 2. trapezial 3. prehensile The De Lesseps were a singular lineage, indeed.

The Toast : "The Ant and the Grasshopper" Is Proof That Art Doesn’t Work

Wed, 22 Jun 2016 18:48:21 +0000

Look, it is unreasonable to assume that all nations and eras should have the same approach to anthropomorphism. Obviously France was still struggling with the concept at that time, but the allegory seems plain enough. Here is a girl who is so improvident that she is gallivanting around with nothing but a scarf. But now it is autumn, as testified by the fading foliage, and how will she make it through the cruel French winter with only a gauzy wrap from Lavello? This image was probably one of a diptych, the other featuring a smug-looking young woman warmly ensconced in a vast puffy fur-lined Burberry winter coat. Artistically, the image isn't too different from the "furry" art of our own time. All she needs is a small set of antennae and a giant throbbing ovipositor.

The Toast : Reasons I Would Make An Excellent Member Of The Wild Hunt And You Should Consider Me For The Positio

Mon, 20 Jun 2016 20:16:54 +0000

"Lord love me, I’m a follower" By the next harvest moon, the Wild Hunt had a new, even more terrifying leader.

The Toast : Link Roundup!

Mon, 20 Jun 2016 16:26:37 +0000

'(...) “An Evening With Annabelle,” which consists of a lecture, videos, buffet dinner, and later, we’ll all learn, an impromptu acoustic cover of the Beach Boys’ “Sloop John B.”' yesss join us embrace the nightmare ph'nglui mglw'nafh brian wilson r'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn iä! iä! iä, iärbärä änn

The Toast : The Toast Looks Back: The Best of Fan Fiction

Sat, 18 Jun 2016 00:35:32 +0000

You are very welcome, and I am glad I have been able to add some small crumbs of additional enjoyment to a profoundly enjoyable site. But: cripes! "Storied tenure?" There are stories? LIES, ALL LIES unless you were referring to my own stories. Which are also lies. Yet still, I hope, "lies breathed through silver," as C.S. Lewis put it. "These beautiful hand-crafted lies, breathed through brilliant sterling silver, are sure to please any collector. All these lies will go up in value! No, just kidding, I'm lying again." C.S. Lewis' final years were notoriously cash-strapped, as his frequent late-night appearances on QVC testified. Still, if you ever run across any Legends of Narnia™ collectors' plates at a garage sale, snap them up, most of them sell like hotcakes on eBay. For gods sake don't eat off them though, that paint is almost pure lead. Mostly I'm just happy to have been noticed in a positive context, so thanks again for that. I had no idea anyone recognized my username from one thread to the other. If the ending of The Toast has any silver lining for me (breathed through lies or otherwise), it is that I might not ever reach the point where I'm posting heedlessly at 3 AM, say something unforgivably crass, and am forced to flee the site forever in shame, as I have at basically every other website where I have ever routinely commented. It'd be nice to end things on a personal high note instead.

The Toast : The Toast Looks Back: The Best of Fan Fiction

Fri, 17 Jun 2016 05:07:22 +0000

You see, many years ago (yet, after all, perhaps not that many? For what is a human life against the grand span of Eternity?), a young child learned that she was different. Unable to abide the foolishness of others, bewildered by their casual cruelties, she withdrew from them and learned instead to forge her own path, alone. "Brilliant, of course," the teachers told her parents. "If only she were not so... unconventional." For indeed, this child had no small amount of genius, in addition to unnatural poise and charisma and also elf ancestry from somewhere probably. Also, and most unaccountably, a passion for adopting stoats. Forbidden to bring them into the house, she had turned a disused woodshed behind the house into a stoat farm where her charges could romp and frolic to their hearts' content. Asked about this strange predilection, the child would only speak of "A Voice" from her earliest memories. HER PARENTS DID NOT UNDERSTAND. Failing to see her genius, they tried to force her to conform. "Her peculiarities will bring scandal down on the good name of Ravenrune," they said when they thought she could not hear. "It's almost as though she knew of that ancient prophecy, that a child of the Ravenrunes would be Chosen for a grand exalted destiny." "Grandmother would have said that the child was a changeling," they said, prompting the child to smile her secret smile in the shadows. But then the fateful words were spoken: "Maybe we should take her stoats away." This was too much. She fled from that house, out to the woodshed, curled herself up among the stoats, and wept in her special inner way, her quiet way, with a face of stone. And as she wept, she plotted. She must leave this place. A shadow moved at the door. She rose to confront it, prepared to denounce her cruel parents. But it was not they. It was indeed a Shadow, seemingly borrowed from one of the stoats. But now it moved of its own volition, enlarged itself, moved toward her. And from this Shadow, this Void, this Stoat that was not a Stoat, spoke the Voice that the child remembered from her earliest days. And the Voice said: Toast, not stoats. Save the Toast. Not the breakfast item, it hastened to clarify. A website. You do not know what it is yet, but it is your Destiny. You have been Chosen. Go now into the world, and learn its ways. Prepare yourself. Embrace your inner Power. Learn to write both humorously and wisely. Her violet-grey eyes were downcast in quiet humility. "I cannot write humor and wisdom," she said, studying the stoat-gnawed toes of her shoes, which she could see perfectly well even in the darkened woodshed due to elvish heritage probably. The Shadow rose up indignantly. Indeed? The Voice thundered. Then what of the note that your English teacher Ms. Garrity wrote on top of this essay? It produced the paper from somewhere, and she read again the note in red pen: "HUMOROUS AND WISE! VERY UNCONVENTIONAL! A " "Well...I guess maybe I can do that," she acknowledged humbly. Now you must go, and seek your Destiny, said the Voice of the Nonstoat. Mnicollary Sue Ravenrune, you are Chosen, and the stoats love you. She stood, heart ablaze with a new soul-consuming fire. She was not "different," she was special. The path of her fate stood out before her. She strode out to meet it without hesitation. And as she walked, the stoats followed.

The Toast : The Toast Looks Back: The Best of Fan Fiction

Thu, 16 Jun 2016 22:12:18 +0000

(Note: This story takes place a couple weeks before the end of The Toast) It was a sad time at The Toast. Of course, everyone wished the editors well in their future endeavors, and all were doing their best to be positive and supportive. Still, there was the sense that something uniquely precious and special was ending. The "Best Of--" articles brought fond smiles of remembrance, yet also cast a distinct pall over the final days of the community, like holding a wake for a relative who wasn't quite dead yet. The atmosphere was so bittersweet, it was like drowning in bakers' chocolate. Suddenly, at the witching hour, a mysterious stranger appeared. Her gaze conveyed a curious quality of ancient nobility that belied her youthful demeanor, yet with a fey aspect of mirthful chaos in her sparkling greyish-violet eyes. Tousled coppery locks framed delicate elfin features. She was dressed boldly in haphazard travelers' motley, or maybe a wizard robe, anyway something like Pippi Longstocking as designed by Tim Burton. Her corset was made of knives. "Who are you?" said a person. "I'm Mnicollary Sue Ravenrune," she said in a dusky twilight voice, "and I've come to save The Toast."

The Toast : Owls Are The Most Terrifying Detail In Every Painting

Thu, 16 Jun 2016 02:41:35 +0000

How about that? You are very welcome. I feel lucky that I decided to skim over some of my favorite articles here. I am glad I was able to contribute to your enjoyment of the site, and also glad you joined up, if only for the swan song. I wish that we'd had more time to goof around. Still, I am glad that you are here with me, Morgstress, here at the end of all things.

The Toast : The Toast Looks Back: The Best Of Movie Yelling

Tue, 14 Jun 2016 16:22:54 +0000

Word on the street is that "Walk of Life" by Dire Straits is the perfect song to end every movie. I dunno about that, but has anyone thought about what would be the perfect song to complement the end of The Toast? Other than "the entire soundtrack of 'Hamilton,'" obviously.

The Toast : Friday Bargain Bin

Fri, 10 Jun 2016 16:32:34 +0000

I'd like to believe that somebody will dig up my grave someday. If I could prepare for that, I would. In fact I'd like to deliberately mess with future generations. "Why was this person buried in a clown costume?" they'd ask after they opened my grave, along with "When will the nightmares end?" and "How did the automatic confetti horn still work after all this time?" Sadly I don't have the resources to have my stuff interred with me, otherwise I'd totally do that too. In fact I'd be cool with just having my stuff buried, and they could just donate my carcass to science or leave it in a ditch somewhere. The ancient Egyptians believed they would need their stuff in the next world. I just don't like the idea of it all being thrown away after I die. Yes, it's garbage, but it's my unique and personal garbage. Sealed properly in a watertight environment for a thousand years, it might well be a marvelous trove for archaeologists, a welcome addition to any museum display. "Late 20th-early 21st Century Pile of Crap."

The Toast : The Worst Weather In America

Thu, 9 Jun 2016 20:48:49 +0000

I think it's long past time that a committee of concerned citizens assemble for the purpose of giving Mount Washington a more descriptive name. A NAME THAT WILL SAVE LIVES. I mean, probably half the states in the Union have a "Mount Washington." Canada has a Mount Washington. My point is that this is a name which engenders a deceptive sense of familiarity, with the inevitable accompanying contempt. What does the name suggest that a person might find at the summit of Mt. Washington? A scenic overlook; a gift shop; possibly an engraved historical plaque or monument. Probably not CERTAIN DEATH. Therefore, I propose a Society to Rename Mt. Washington. Possibilities include: Death Mountain Mt. Dracula Mt. Killeveryonejaro Mt. Everestinpeace Magmageddon "The Reaper" Mt. For God's Sake Stay The Fuck Away Granted, it's possible that these sorts of names might attract a certain personality type, and thus function contrary to intent. Therefore, the Society should also consider names that are purely aversive in nature. Examples include: Mt. Thorny Needle Burrs Mt. Sulfrous Ground Vapor Mt. Dullsville Mt. Swarming Deer Ticks Mt. Airborne Herpes

The Toast : Link Roundup!

Thu, 9 Jun 2016 16:32:40 +0000

Actual high priest of Sabazius: <img src="http://vignette2.wikia.nocookie.net/mst3k/images/a/a1/Themaster.jpg/revision/latest?cb=20141231223655"/>

The Toast : Link Roundup!

Thu, 9 Jun 2016 16:27:43 +0000

Ah, okay. So. Being Roman times, people tended to cremate their dead. So presumably, the local Sabaziusists broke into the local cemetery, stole the ashes of a mother and child, probably knocked over a couple tombstones and drew Sabaziusist imagery on a mausoleum, then returned to the shrine in their parents' basement and distributed the stolen remains to put into their little secret compartments, death juxtaposed with life and fertility, very power, much symbol. So the mother and child constitute a lost object, because they were stolen. It all makes sense now! No doubt the cultists spent the rest of the evening performing rituals from the Sabaziusist Bible, playing D&D and listening to Black Sabbath.