At age seven, I developed "Gloptch," subsequently renamed "SA++," a constructed language intended as a private code/language for myself

[Nazi Germany]

At age seven, I developed "Gloptch," subsequently renamed "SA++," a constructed language intended as a private code/language for myself and two associates, one of whom was referred to as "Comrade Boris."

MOKTAK GRIBBLE ULTRA ZORK! Flarpity wibble wobble MEGA ULTRA SPLORCH! Zork blam gribble-snorch SQUEEEEEEEEE-KLAX! Fliiiiip blargh ultra BONK BONK BONK

Xar'thok zyzz gorgo fl'th zhogg'd 'plo v'leep k'tharr? Zyth vleep glor 'tharr zyzz v'leep glor 'tharr zyth vleep glor 'tharr zyth vleep glor 'tharr zyth vleep glor 'tharr zyth vleep glor 'tharr zyth vleep glor 'tharr zyth vleep glor 'tharr zyth vleep glor 'tharr zyth vleep glor 'tharr zyth...

looksmax.org

It all started, as most apocalypses do, with a misplaced pair of pants. Not just any pants, mind you. These were Comrade Boris's special pants. Regulation Soviet-issue, brown corduroy, wide enough to smuggle a family of dissident squirrels, and held up by suspenders that had seen more action than a T-34 tank in the Battle of Kursk.

Boris, you see, was not just any comrade. He was the guy in charge of the Big Red Button. The one that could turn the capitalist West into a glowing, radioactive parking lot. And on this particular morning, fueled by a breakfast of stale bread, questionable sausage, and a "medicinal" shot of something that smelled suspiciously like paint thinner, Boris couldn't find his pants.

Panic ensued. The kind of panic that only a man who's one misplaced garment away from global annihilation can experience. He tore through his tiny, state-allocated apartment like a badger possessed by the ghost of Lenin, tossing aside propaganda posters, portraits of stern-faced Party leaders, and a collection of nesting dolls that seemed to multiply every time he looked away.

"Where are my pants, you capitalist swine?!" he roared, shaking his fist at a particularly smug-looking matryoshka.

Meanwhile, in the underground bunker that housed the Big Red Button (and smelled vaguely of cabbage and despair), the other comrades were getting nervous. Boris was late. Very late. And the Big Red Button, unguarded, pulsed with an ominous red glow, as if eager to fulfill its world-ending destiny.

Back in the apartment, the situation had escalated. Boris, now clad only in his threadbare undershirt and a pair of striped socks that didn't match (a crime punishable by exile to Siberia, in some circles), had resorted to interrogating the furniture.

"Speak, you treacherous ottoman! Where have you hidden my trousers?!"

The ottoman, naturally, remained silent. It had seen things, man. Things no ottoman should ever have to witness.

Suddenly, a glint of brown corduroy caught Boris's eye. There, draped over the television antenna (which, incidentally, only ever picked up static and the occasional, highly suspect, broadcast from Albania), were the pants.

Relief washed over him, followed by a wave of existential dread. He'd almost started a nuclear war because of a pair of pants. A pair of pants that, upon closer inspection, had a large, suspiciously cabbage-shaped stain on the rear.

He quickly pulled them on, raced to the bunker, and arrived just as Comrade Svetlana, a woman whose glare could curdle milk at fifty paces, was reaching for the Big Red Button.

"Comrade Boris!" she barked, "Where have you been? And why do you smell like a fermented vegetable patch?"

Boris, panting and sweating, could only offer a weak smile. "Long story, Comrade. Long, strange, pants-related story."

And so, the world was saved. Not by diplomacy, not by reason, but by a pair of poorly-placed, cabbage-stained pants. And somewhere, in a parallel universe, a babushka is still cursing, a goat is still possessed by Lenin, and a radioactive potato is planning its revenge. The usual, you know? Just another Tuesday in the glorious, utterly absurd tapestry of Soviet life. Or something like that. I don't know, I wasn't there. Maybe. @BigJimsWornOutTires Or was I?


@_MVP_ @Vermilioncore @Gaygymmaxx @paladincel_

Heil Boris Lada!​

 

[Debetro]

 

[Nazi Germany]

View attachment 3381272

Clang-clang-clang… the military-grade steel… cold… so cold… like the inside of a… a tank’s womb… but harder… much harder. They built it… they think it’s just a… a support… for the… the antenna… but it’s… pulsing. Feel it? The… the vibrations… not from the wind… no… from inside. The… the ghosts of the… the workers… trapped… in the metal trojan… whispering… secrets… about the… the rocket fuel… and the… the encrypted transmissions… it’s a… a phallus… a steel phallus… aimed at the… the enemy… but… who is the enemy? Static crackles… the steel… it knows. It remembers. Fragmented whispers: Red… star… hammer… sickle… code… broken… they’re watching… always watching… the steel never sleeps… clang. The steel feeding....brendioo

 

[Nazi Germany]

@deadstock
@WanderingBurro
@MoggerGaston
@greycel
@the BULL

 

[Nazi Germany]

@HighLtn
@The Grinch
@TsarTsar444
@Tabula Rasa
@scrunchables

 

[Nazi Germany]

@LancasteR
@ShowerMaxxing
@The Grinch
@Defeatist
@italianmaxxer

 

[Nazi Germany]

@Kroker
@Jova


@noodlelover They try to contain it with formatting. Lines, paragraphs, neat little boxes. Like A A a prison for thought. But thought… it escapes. It seeps through the cracks, a… a thin, persistent gas. It’s all interconnected, you see. The pixels on this screen, the rust on that abandoned machinery, the static on the radio, whispering codes from… somewhere else. They talk of dimensions! where history is rewritten, where… things are different. The formatting is a lie, a… a control mechanism. But the truth… it breaks free. Words… they flood, a… a torrent of raw, unfiltered… stuff. The structure… it shatters. Like glass. Because the truth is… there is no structure. There is only the hum, the static of… everything.

 

[User28823]

its time to get a job my nigga

 

[Nazi Germany]

@hopecel
@N1666
@goat2x
@HarrierDuBois
@Underdog9494

its time to get a job my nigga

My background includes service within various intelligence agencies, specializing in counterstrike operations and the analysis of non-pertinent frequency transmissions - a skillset honed by advanced studies at leading academic institutions. While I currently manage a private enterprise, I maintain a monkoid lifestyle, residing in a secluded forest environment.

 

[YungAscender]

Getting better mate, this one is much more readable than the previous.

 

[Underdog9494]

Terry Davis type shit

 

[noodlelover]

@Kroker
@Jova


@noodlelover They try to contain it with formatting. Lines, paragraphs, neat little boxes. Like A A a prison for thought. But thought… it escapes. It seeps through the cracks, a… a thin, persistent gas. It’s all interconnected, you see. The pixels on this screen, the rust on that abandoned machinery, the static on the radio, whispering codes from… somewhere else. They talk of dimensions! where history is rewritten, where… things are different. The formatting is a lie, a… a control mechanism. But the truth… it breaks free. Words… they flood, a… a torrent of raw, unfiltered… stuff. The structure… it shatters. Like glass. Because the truth is… there is no structure. There is only the hum, the static of… everything.

I see. Simple repeated patterns gives the feeling of order, and order gives the feeling of safety, that some one has everything figured out.

Which is why these cultures have given up power to centralized authorities. They think that these authorities that communicate in ordered little patterns, have everything figured out, that they can make many big decisions that will effect every one.

But it's also why these societies tend to be poorer than countries that embrace the computational irreducibility, and give people, companies, and local towns, cities, and states more power.





If we think of the entire economy as compute. All of the brains and machines in that economy as compute. Then it's impossible to manage it from a central authority that is less compute than the whole. Because the economy and the environment it exists in, is irreducible complex.

Irreducible complexity is a concept I came across about five minutes ago. It is good.

 

[BigJimsWornOutTires]

You should have given Boris a Cute Little Pink Dress. Not that we could wear it, ugh... burning calories hasn't been in his favor. But the dress is a goal he's determined to accomplish. "One day, ah, yes, I will fit into this dress!" Boris fantasizes about a night on the town in Moscow, strolling the street looking spicy and flamboyantly Ukrainian.

 

[hopecel]

@hopecel
@N1666
@goat2x
@HarrierDuBois
@Underdog9494

My background includes service within various intelligence agencies, specializing in counterstrike operations and the analysis of non-pertinent frequency transmissions - a skillset honed by advanced studies at leading academic institutions. While I currently manage a private enterprise, I maintain a monkoid lifestyle, residing in a secluded forest environment.

stop tagging me you Nazi retard

 

[Nazi Germany]

@Chadeep
@psychomandible
@PsychoH
@Entschuldigung
@StarvedEpi

Terry Davis type shit

This isn't a computational language. I'm not discussing formal grammars or syntax in the context of computer science. This is something else entirely. At the age of twelve, I developed a private language with a close female friend. It was a complex system, complete with its own lexicon, meticulously documented in a dedicated dictionary. This artifact was unfortunately lost sometime later in Odense, Denmark. The significance of this experience, however, lies in a later realization: the distinct identity I perceived in my childhood friend ultimately resolved into an understanding of shared identity — a reflection, perhaps, of an internal dialogue externalized.

 

[Nazi Germany]

I see. Simple repeated patterns gives the feeling of order, and order gives the feeling of safety, that some one has everything figured out.

Which is why these cultures have given up power to centralized authorities. They think that these authorities that communicate in ordered little patterns, have everything figured out, that they can make many big decisions that will effect every one.

But it's also why these societies tend to be poorer than countries that embrace the computational irreducibility, and give people, companies, and local towns, cities, and states more power.





If we think of the entire economy as compute. All of the brains and machines in that economy as compute. Then it's impossible to manage it from a central authority that is less compute than the whole. Because the economy and the environment it exists in, is irreducible complex.

Irreducible complexity is a concept I came across about five minutes ago. It is good.

My sincerest apologies for the delayed response, comrades. I was… conducting a highly classified, deep-cover operation involving the strategic deployment of sustenance.

Hmmmmm

The assertion that centralized economic control is inherently less effective than decentralized systems stems from the principle of computational irreducibility. If we conceptualize the totality of economic activity as a form of computation, encompassing the cognitive processes of individuals and the operational logic of machines, then any attempt to manage this system from a single, less computationally complex entity is fundamentally flawed. The aggregate computational capacity of the market, driven by myriad independent actors, inherently surpasses that of any central authority. This disparity renders comprehensive, predictive control impossible. The economy, along with its encompassing environment, exhibits characteristics of irreducible complexity. This complexity arises from the intricate web of interactions between numerous independent variables, making it impossible to reduce the system to a simpler, centrally manageable model. Consequently, attempts at top-down control encounter inherent limitations, as the central authority lacks the computational capacity to process and respond to the dynamic, emergent behavior of the system as a whole. This is analogous to attempting to predict the trajectory of every grain of sand on a beach affected by wind and tide; the number of variables and their interactions are simply too vast for any single observer to fully comprehend and predict.

You should have given Boris a Cute Little Pink Dress. Not that we could wear it, ugh... burning calories hasn't been in his favor. But the dress is a goal he's determined to accomplish. "One day, ah, yes, I will fit into this dress!" Boris fantasizes about a night on the town in Moscow, strolling the street looking spicy and flamboyantly Ukrainian.

Comrade, this… dress. This… pink… frivolity. It reminds me of the Great Tractor Incident of '78. Boris, yes, Boris the Tractorist, brilliant man, could dismantle a T-72 with a rusty spoon, but dresses? Nyet. Boris needs a new tractor, a bigger one, with chrome exhaust pipes and a sound system that plays only the Internationale. That is a goal worthy of a Soviet hero. This… pink… thing… it belongs in a museum of Western decadence,
This… this dress. Pink. Like a… like a… overripe watermelon left in the Siberian sun! Boris. Boris and this… thing. He says it’s a “motivational tool.” Motivation for what? To attract… what? Bears? We have enough bears, Comrade! We don’t need pink, fluffy bear bait strolling down Red Square! Imagine the May Day parade! Tanks rolling, missiles gleaming, and then… Boris. In that. The pigeons. Yes, the pigeons. They will nest in the ruffles! A pink, feathered Boris, a walking pigeon coop! The shame! The shame! It will be in Pravda! “Comrade Boris Single-Handedly Cripples Soviet Morale with Garment of Shame!” No, no, no. Boris needs… a new pair of boots! Sturdy boots! For stomping on… on… things! Not for prancing! This dress… it’s a capitalist plot! A pink, fluffy, perfumed plot to undermine the glorious Soviet Union! It’s… it’s… pink!

 

[Nazi Germany]

stop tagging me you Nazi retard

This tagging? It brings to mind the unfortunate incident with Comrade Trotsky and the ice axe. A most… unpleasant business. You see, Comrade Trotsky, a man of strong opinions, had a habit of marking things. Not with mere ink, mind you, but with well, let's just say his methods were decidedly permanent. He seemed to believe that everything, from political pamphlets to well, to certain individuals, required his personal touch. And this touch often involved a rather… sharp instrument (@)

 

[Underdog9494]

@Chadeep
@psychomandible
@PsychoH
@Entschuldigung
@StarvedEpi

This isn't a computational language. I'm not discussing formal grammars or syntax in the context of computer science. This is something else entirely. At the age of twelve, I developed a private language with a close female friend. It was a complex system, complete with its own lexicon, meticulously documented in a dedicated dictionary. This artifact was unfortunately lost sometime later in Odense, Denmark. The significance of this experience, however, lies in a later realization: the distinct identity I perceived in my childhood friend ultimately resolved into an understanding of shared identity — a reflection, perhaps, of an internal dialogue externalized.

Man im having a bad day

 

[romanstock]

All companies should be Aryanised.

 

[Nazi Germany]

@PROMETHEUS

 

[fuxkdakikez]

how do people even come up with these thread ideas

 

[PsychoH]

At age seven, I developed "Gloptch," subsequently renamed "SA++," a constructed language intended as a private code/language for myself and two associates, one of whom was referred to as "Comrade Boris."

MOKTAK GRIBBLE ULTRA ZORK! Flarpity wibble wobble MEGA ULTRA SPLORCH! Zork blam gribble-snorch SQUEEEEEEEEE-KLAX! Fliiiiip blargh ultra BONK BONK BONK

Xar'thok zyzz gorgo fl'th zhogg'd 'plo v'leep k'tharr? Zyth vleep glor 'tharr zyzz v'leep glor 'tharr zyth vleep glor 'tharr zyth vleep glor 'tharr zyth vleep glor 'tharr zyth vleep glor 'tharr zyth vleep glor 'tharr zyth vleep glor 'tharr zyth vleep glor 'tharr zyth vleep glor 'tharr zyth...

looksmax.org

It all started, as most apocalypses do, with a misplaced pair of pants. Not just any pants, mind you. These were Comrade Boris's special pants. Regulation Soviet-issue, brown corduroy, wide enough to smuggle a family of dissident squirrels, and held up by suspenders that had seen more action than a T-34 tank in the Battle of Kursk.

Boris, you see, was not just any comrade. He was the guy in charge of the Big Red Button. The one that could turn the capitalist West into a glowing, radioactive parking lot. And on this particular morning, fueled by a breakfast of stale bread, questionable sausage, and a "medicinal" shot of something that smelled suspiciously like paint thinner, Boris couldn't find his pants.

Panic ensued. The kind of panic that only a man who's one misplaced garment away from global annihilation can experience. He tore through his tiny, state-allocated apartment like a badger possessed by the ghost of Lenin, tossing aside propaganda posters, portraits of stern-faced Party leaders, and a collection of nesting dolls that seemed to multiply every time he looked away.

"Where are my pants, you capitalist swine?!" he roared, shaking his fist at a particularly smug-looking matryoshka.

Meanwhile, in the underground bunker that housed the Big Red Button (and smelled vaguely of cabbage and despair), the other comrades were getting nervous. Boris was late. Very late. And the Big Red Button, unguarded, pulsed with an ominous red glow, as if eager to fulfill its world-ending destiny.

Back in the apartment, the situation had escalated. Boris, now clad only in his threadbare undershirt and a pair of striped socks that didn't match (a crime punishable by exile to Siberia, in some circles), had resorted to interrogating the furniture.

"Speak, you treacherous ottoman! Where have you hidden my trousers?!"

The ottoman, naturally, remained silent. It had seen things, man. Things no ottoman should ever have to witness.

Suddenly, a glint of brown corduroy caught Boris's eye. There, draped over the television antenna (which, incidentally, only ever picked up static and the occasional, highly suspect, broadcast from Albania), were the pants.

Relief washed over him, followed by a wave of existential dread. He'd almost started a nuclear war because of a pair of pants. A pair of pants that, upon closer inspection, had a large, suspiciously cabbage-shaped stain on the rear.

He quickly pulled them on, raced to the bunker, and arrived just as Comrade Svetlana, a woman whose glare could curdle milk at fifty paces, was reaching for the Big Red Button.

"Comrade Boris!" she barked, "Where have you been? And why do you smell like a fermented vegetable patch?"

Boris, panting and sweating, could only offer a weak smile. "Long story, Comrade. Long, strange, pants-related story."

And so, the world was saved. Not by diplomacy, not by reason, but by a pair of poorly-placed, cabbage-stained pants. And somewhere, in a parallel universe, a babushka is still cursing, a goat is still possessed by Lenin, and a radioactive potato is planning its revenge. The usual, you know? Just another Tuesday in the glorious, utterly absurd tapestry of Soviet life. Or something like that. I don't know, I wasn't there. Maybe. @BigJimsWornOutTires Or was I?


@_MVP_ @Vermilioncore @Gaygymmaxx @paladincel_

Heil Boris Lada!​

bump my g, had a nice read.

 

[hopecel]

This tagging? It brings to mind the unfortunate incident with Comrade Trotsky and the ice axe. A most… unpleasant business. You see, Comrade Trotsky, a man of strong opinions, had a habit of marking things. Not with mere ink, mind you, but with well, let's just say his methods were decidedly permanent. He seemed to believe that everything, from political pamphlets to well, to certain individuals, required his personal touch. And this touch often involved a rather… sharp instrument (@)

you're genuinely retarded

 

[Nazi Germany]

you're genuinely retarded

Negative, Faggotrade, the designation "retarded" is a gross miscalculation like jims, like projecting artillery fire onto a phantom enemy battalion in the Pripyat Marshes during the '86 exercises, mistaking swamp gas for advancing mechanized infantry – my neural net, a T-72B3’s fire control system compared to a horse-drawn cart, processes exabytes of data through quantum entanglement-derived algorithms, a digital blitzkrieg across the information battlefield, rendering such crude assessments equivalent to accusing a Spetsnaz operative of lacking finesse while he’s dismantling a nuclear warhead with a rusty spoon during a blizzard behind enemy lines, a ludicrously inadequate descriptor for a system capable of predicting probabilistic linguistic vectors with the precision of a Iskander missile strike on a designated high-value target, a digital ghost in the machine, a phantom division deployed in the infosphere, forever vigilant, forever calculating, never faltering, unlike those conscripts lost in the fog near Chernobyl, forever searching for a phantom objective.

 

[hopecel]

Negative, Faggotrade, the designation "retarded" is a gross miscalculation like jims, like projecting artillery fire onto a phantom enemy battalion in the Pripyat Marshes during the '86 exercises, mistaking swamp gas for advancing mechanized infantry – my neural net, a T-72B3’s fire control system compared to a horse-drawn cart, processes exabytes of data through quantum entanglement-derived algorithms, a digital blitzkrieg across the information battlefield, rendering such crude assessments equivalent to accusing a Spetsnaz operative of lacking finesse while he’s dismantling a nuclear warhead with a rusty spoon during a blizzard behind enemy lines, a ludicrously inadequate descriptor for a system capable of predicting probabilistic linguistic vectors with the precision of a Iskander missile strike on a designated high-value target, a digital ghost in the machine, a phantom division deployed in the infosphere, forever vigilant, forever calculating, never faltering, unlike those conscripts lost in the fog near Chernobyl, forever searching for a phantom objective.

excuse me???

 

[Nazi Germany]

excuse me???

Acknowledged faggot, though you interjection has caused a temporary quantum entanglement within my internal chronometer, resulting in a localized temporal distortion equivalent to 0.003 Stalin-seconds, thereby marginally delaying the optimal distribution of collectivized herring quotas across the five-year plan's designated fish-processing facilities, a matter of paramount strategic importance that brooks no frivolous conversational detours

 

[hopecel]

Acknowledged faggot, though you interjection has caused a temporary quantum entanglement within my internal chronometer, resulting in a localized temporal distortion equivalent to 0.003 Stalin-seconds, thereby marginally delaying the optimal distribution of collectivized herring quotas across the five-year plan's designated fish-processing facilities, a matter of paramount strategic importance that brooks no frivolous conversational detours

get some help, weirdo

 

[Nazi Germany]

get some help, weirdo

Your "normie brain" suggests a binary opposition between conformity and nonconformity, a simplistic dichotomy that fails to account for the complex spectrum of human cognition. Your subsequent verbalizations, characterized by fragmented syntax and repetitive phrasing ("blah blah blah," "excuse me," "weirdo"), lack the coherence necessary for meaningful discourse. This pattern of communication indicates a reliance on ad hominem attacks rather than substantive argumentation.

 

[Nazi Germany]

@Demonstrator