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🍔 QuarterpounderJeremy Hambly / The Quartering / MTGHeadquarters / Unsleeved Media / Midwestly - Buttblasted alcoholic manchild upset he was banned from a childrens' card game, Grifter, supporter of the cancel culture, cucked by a Jewish bull (Adam Sellers), pisses in basement, shits himself, FLAGGOT, stalks little girls in public, scammer, sex pest
"I'm uhhh... I'm *shifts uncomfortably in seat while touching his face* I'm putting together uhhhh...I'm putting uhhh...*checks pulse* I'm putting together a team."
That sort of thing is like Baby's First M:tG content creation video. There's a slop youtube channel that does Magic and Warcraft and other nerd top 10 type lists (hirumedex or something) that is like patient zero for this shit and where he likely nicked it from, but it's like everywhere.
This is very surface level shit, and stuff that Hambeast just straight up got wrong. Pradesh Gypsies, for example, wasn't banned because of the artwork, but because of an offensive name.
All he did was talk about cards on the 'culturally insensitive' ban list from 2020. He could've talked about the artwork change for Unholy Strength (it depicted a pentagram and we were just coming out of the 80s Satanic Panic), Trouble in Pairs (blatant art plagiarism), the One Ring Dan Frazier edition (more plagiarism that is actually topical and might be of interest to the algorithm that Hambeast is beholden to), or if he wanted to do his culture war bullshit cards like Bearscape (a "hilarious" alternate art featuring gay men) or the Aragorn card (he's depicted as black and it had a lot of people shitting their pants over it) or whatever.
This is just lazy ass zero effort shit from Hambeast. As per usual.
I'm gonna put my take I the bag.
I think that Hannah Claire made a few shitbag moves, and partially damaged her credibility.
Even so it isn't irreparabile damaged, since she didn't openly sweep and cosign.
So leaving her alone though she'd deserve a feltening is tactically smart and necessary, the felts should be given to Jer, melonless Mac, and Jon del arroz.
(Verse 1)
We can grift if we want to
We can leave your clips behind
'Cause your friends won't stream and if they won't stream
Well they're, no friends of mine
Say, we can go where we want to
A place that Susan will never find
And we can act like we're winning on a Rumble stream
Leave the real world far behind
And we can grift, griftez!
(Verse 2)
We can post when we have to
Rumble’s long and so is the grind
And we can read real bad from the headlines we had
And surprise them with a stuttering cry
Say, we can act if we want to
If we don't, the Casino will
And you can act real rude and totally removed
And I can act like an imbecile
(Chorus)
And say
We can grift, we can grift
Everything's out of control
We can grift, we can grift
Kino’s doing it from pole to pole
We can grift, we can grift
Everybody look at the stats
We can grift, we can grift
Sixteen thousand in the chat
It's a grifty dance
Oh well it's safe to grift
Yes it’s safe to grift
(Verse 3)
We can grift if we want to
We've got Hannah's life and mine
As long as we abuse it, never going to lose it
Chrissie makes it work out right
I say, we can grift if we want to
We can leave your friends behind
'Cause your friends don't dance, and if they don't dance
Well they're no friends of mine
(Chorus)
I say, we can grift, we can grift
Everything's out of control
We can grift, we can grift
Kino’s doing it from pole to pole
We can grift, we can grift
Everybody look at the stats
We can grift, we can grift
Sixteen thousand in the chat
(Outro)
Well it's safe to grift
Yes it's safe to grift
Well it's safe to grift
Well it's safe to grift
Yes it's safe to grift
Well it's safe to grift
Well it's safe to grift
It's a grifty dance
Well it's a grifty dance
Oh it's a grifty dance
Oh it's a grifty dance
Well it's a grifty dance
I am absolutely in awe of his intellect, more precisely in its perfect resemblance to that of a cow. Unless I imagined it, a large slow housefly struggled upstream against the whistling gasps of his breath, landed on a fat lower lip and crawled into the waiting darkness while he stared glassy eyed and tried to compose his thought–singular.
This is not to ignore the vessel his intellect chose to inhabit–at least a hogshead if not a tun–and neither my eyes nor my nose afforded me the option. I assured him that my weekend had been spent in pursuits of the highest caliber and to my own complete satisfaction. He did not offer his hand, and at this a faint, previously unnoticed sense of dread lifted and a smile formed at the corner of my lips.
My eyes fixed on the stained fingers of the unoffered hand, pondering despite myself the cause of the brown smears and black spots on the thumb and first two fingers. Minutes might have passed before I remembered myself. Our hero had not noticed the attention. A bitter taste rose through the tightness in my throat. "Um," he said.
The reader will be understandably confused when I claim that despite the preceding he represented an intellectual challenge unparalleled in all the subsequent decades of my career. Allow me to explain.
"Um," he repeated, apparently still completely operational. At this cue the fly took to the wing, buzzing erratically and describing lazy irregular orbits as it spiraled to the floor, no longer the healthy animal it had been moments earlier. His round, motionless and masklike face betrayed no hint of annoyance or impatience. I imagined knocking on its wooden surface.
Retrieving a thin fold of black leather from an inner jacket pocket, I extracted a small white card and presented it to him, holding it up a few inches in front of his nose where the cloudy ice-blue orbs remained fixed. "A. Warski" it read, and "Parks & Warski" on the second and final line. He read it aloud, by the syllable and slowly. After a few attempts he managed it, but showed no indication of having benefited from the effort.
I struggled to reconcile what I knew of the man–why I was here–and what I was seeing. He had given his name. This was his address. Even the face was right. But where was the master charlatan? Who could the… man before me have ever deceived? A dull cough interrupted my confusion, the warm blast bringing hints of rum pudding and cinnamon to the fore above a background aroma best left undescribed.
Here I attempted to collect myself. Hypothesis, analysis and judgment could wait—should wait. A tinkling of glass on glass drew my attention to a small pyramid of miniature bottles at his feet. Where had they come from? Someone might have said "um" again, with no insistence in the voice.
We moved inside to his office. But "we moved" is imprecise. I moved. I walked. I descended stairs. I sat. I don't recall how he moved at all. I cannot remember him moving.
Seated across from him, I retrieved a pen and paper from my bag. I looked at him. In the small confines of the underground room the odor was much more intense. And yet for some reason I thought about coffee. In my haste to leave the hotel and the usual disorder caused to one's schedule by travel and sleeping in an unfamiliar room, I had missed my first, and by now my second cup.
There was nothing I wanted less than a cup of coffee prepared here, of all places; by him of all people. The path from the front door had been mercifully short, but involved careful footwork and micronavigation ordinarily reserved for poorly frozen lakes or busy landfills. In visual aspect the similarity to the latter was striking.
Yet the coffee stayed at the front of my mind. I could picture it steaming in my usual mug, a splash of heavy cream going in. But the smell was not roasting beans or fresh brew.
There was work to do, questions to ask. Still the fixation persisted. My stomach turned but I asked anyway. "If it isn't too much trouble, would you mind making coffee?"
The Grifty Dance
THE T.I.S.M. ARCHIVE HAS JUST DROPPED AND YOU CAN VIEW IT RIGHT NOW:
