So who got busted by there RL partner?

http://www.sltrib.com/nationworld/ci_2943321

News of the weird




Keyboard lust: An official monitor in the online role-playing game Second Life told BBC News in April that he knows of spouses of game players who have actually paid money to online-game detectives to learn whether their mates are committing ''virtual adultery'' with other players' characters in the course of the game. (Second Life encourages players to create a character and live out a made-up existence, which can of course include having an affair with another player's made-up character.)


- Compiled

by Chuck Shepherd


LOL

Search New World Notes for "Your Cheating Heart" or "Watching the Detectives".

Husband: Mmmmm...hot hot pixel action,

Wife: HONEY i'm back from my sister- O_O

Husband: ITS NOT WHAT YOU THINK!!

Wife: Waaahhh!!! My husband is doing Pixelated moobs and coochies!!!!! Time to go to my sister's and cry and eat chocolate and write to some editorial about my husband being a two timeing jerk!!!!!1111one!!11one11twoonetwo!!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ahem, I know this is a serious problem to some people,
but to me, : HAHAHHA haaahhahaahha....hahahahahahaaha...OMG...LOLZ LMAO....

Okay i'm done,

Just suppose...

What if his wife wasn't the retard he made her out to be??

What if he couldn't hide that outrageous cell phone bill from her??

What if he had this horrible awful nightmare that left him thinking, nay, BELIEVEING something truly dreadful, perhaps even Deadly, would happen if you two didn't break up??

What if there were untraceable hang-up calls to your home and cell from his area code when he's the only person who ever called from that state??

What if he wasn't "divorced" divorced, you know, but more like separated???


Sound familiar girls?? LOL


1) Who's really the retard?
2) Like you forced him to call you 5-10 time a day
3) Yep... Dreams do come true!! Time to start living yours!!
4) Oh, it was all wrong numbers, really...
5) You mean separated as in she's in the other room??

.






No, she definitely wasn't a Medusa. Not to the eye, anyway.

"Mr. Templar, I think my husband is having an affair," she said, watching me closely.

"I'm not a marriage counselor, lady," I shot back, charging my voice with only slightly-exaggerated weariness. I was tired of taking these adultery cases. The money was crap, the emotions ran high. And I always got left with a pile of garbage the size of a First Land plot.

"It's not just that," she offered. My face painted itself with skepticism like a barn is painted with red. She flushed and continued, "I saw him with his mistress. Using an alt, I got up close to them. They were shopping for a gun. I think she's going to try and kill me."

I'd had enough.

I stood from my desk and threw on my coat, sighing, "It's Second Life, lady. You can't die here. Besides, looks like you're already doing fine on the detective work."

Opening her own coat, she leaned forward, gripping my desk, displaying a pair of breasts whose sliders had been dialed just past the point of credibility for her slender frame. They stared up at me with a magnetism that I had difficulty resisting.

I heaved another sigh. It was going to be another one of those nights.

You're lucky I still had part I cached, enabran:


It was one of those nasty nights in Bonifacio. Lag so thick it washed the slime off the sidewalk outside my office. I was tired. It was quitting time. The stink of old cigars and self-importance hung in the room like a bad toupe on a bald, splotchy skull.

Just as I reached out to turn off my low-prim desk lamp, she came to the door. I knew at once I wasn't alone -- my already pitiful framerate dropped even further into the murky toilet where it seemed to live. She let herself in, not even bothering to knock, her demure face expressionless as she fixed her gaze on me. Her prim hair glistened in the moonlight and I counted no less than three thousand red-brown, cut, twisted, hollowed, shiny torii, writhing like metallic snakes emerging from the head of a digital Medusa.

But she was no Medusa...
__________________

Part I is in the other thread.

*blinks*

Suddenly Hiro realized something was very wrong. Two threads had appeared where there was previously one. Perplexed, Hiro's first instict was to hit the delete post key. He staved his hand tenuously, only by the allure of descriptions of large mammary glands and film noir. He would follow this mystery ... follow it to the end ... even if it meant his.

*sound of scratching record*

Whoa. I gotta cut down on the caffeine.

It was a dirty town, a half-constructed plywood misaligned shanty that a few scared newbies called home. I'd just finished making a chrome hip-flask for my latest invention - a scripted shotglass pounding back whiskey whenever I mentioned *her* name.

Dammit, you've got to stop thinking about it...

You rise and fall, soar to 10k meters and drift down, watching the red hues of another sim-set, and you still think about her. What the hell is wrong with you....shaking my head, I headed out, the lag swirling around my legs as the sim struggled like a fat man sucking spaghetti through a coffee stirrer.

It was a good night, the sharp red of Mira's place painted the north walls of every structure in sight, occluded or not. I could hear the soft clicking of a john frantically requesting new perversions from his escort, the automatic register-ring playing counterpoint as impressionable Teen-Gridders, graduated from their safe and soft world, and made it to the big city, eyes bright with new ideas, pockets bulging with newly-bought L$.

I smiled, and rounded the jagged blocks of the local brothel, put up last week by the newest entrepreneur du jour. It was called 'XXX'-something-or-other, like it really mattered.

Inside, I had a job - some Jane was looking for the reason her staid-and-sedate husband had jumped the tracks. "I think he's just going through a phase." she said. I hate it when they try to second-guess, it never works out, ever. Finishing my scripted cig - it derezzed before hitting the ground, as I clicked on the massive doors and stepped through.

Hopefully i wouldn't get stiffed on my retainer this time...

OMG.......... LMAO..... I LOVE these..... what a great way to start my morning!

Well Hiro there is a whole other side to you. I want to see more of your writing ....WOW Its so reminded me of Sin City.

Great Thread!

this thread makes me want to buy a sim just to build a giant city in all greyscale.....get some lonely saxophone wailing in the background...

Great stuff! I want to hear MORE.


more.

ROFLMAO.

Would anyone please build a Cyd Charisse and Fred Astaire avatar, after the Mickey Spillane spoof at the end of "the bandwagon" ?

hahahahahah THAT was great! Thanks for providing me with my new sig

Fan. Don't forget the fan. Oh, and someone should be smoking.

I find it odd/interesting that although the author made this blurb in the Salt Lake Tribune completely gender neutral, every post in these two threads which assigns gender to the parties in question assumes that the male is not a cuckold.

The avatar genitalia was the color of a television tuned to a dead channel...

I will never fully understand why all these silly people get involved in so much drama.

OMG EGGY are you cheating on me again?

In reference to the title of this thread.

they're - A contraction of the words "they are".
They're going to the club.

their - A possessive pronoun used to show ownership of something.
Their house isn't as big as ours.

there - A deictic (pointing word) used to indicate place or position.
My new car is over there and there is a cat on its roof.

~Ulrika~

The red diamond sun cast steeple like shadows on the snowy roof of the glass greenhouse. I sat on the bench under a Silver Trumpet tree waiting for him. Despite the chill, my palms were sweating. I’m always apprehensive about meeting new clients you never know whether it’s a legitimate job or the cheating spouse of another client sporting a push gun. They never blame themselves you know.

According to my Ingersol watch, its five o’clock, he should have been here by now, sighing, I stood up, waiting for the griefer and the inevitable nauseating spin into the next SIM. Instead, a tall, rather gaunt gentleman, sporting an exclusive Midnight suit and open black raincoat walked into the greenhouse, bushing particles of snow from his shoulder. Neon colors from adjoining buildings begin to filter though the windows of the greenhouse giving his long silver hair and beard a surreal quality.

I stood up to greet him, somewhat regretful that I’d decided to wear my usual denim ensemble and worn navy pea coat. As a rule, I find that dressing down puts people at ease, whereupon they part with more information than usual. Judging from his stiff and formal manner, I doubt that will be the case. I was not surprised by his formal use of my surname in greeting, but I was taken back by the soft southern lilt of his words.

The description of Second Life in that little story sucks.

http://www.bulwer-lytton.com/

You should send something in next year.


"... As he stared at her ample bosom, he daydreamed of the dual Stromberg carburetors in his vintage Triumph Spitfire, highly functional yet pleasingly formed, perched prominently on top of the intake manifold, aching for experienced hands, the small knurled caps of the oil dampeners begging to be inspected and adjusted as described in chapter seven of the shop manual."


"...India, which hangs like a wet washcloth from the towel rack of Asia, presented itself to Tex as he landed in Delhi (or was it Bombay?), as if it mattered because Tex finally had an idea to make his mark and fortune and that idea was a chain of steak houses to serve the millions and he wondered, as he deplaned down the steep, shiny, steel steps, why no one had thought of it before."


"...The children of Hamelin were led away by a pied piper (it's common knowledge) to parts unknown; whither they went is now herein revealed, however the precise location is cloaked in accordance with International Fantasy Regulation IFR.02.3a governing site specifics as, for example, in any Harry Potter story the locations are indeed identified, but just you try and find them."


"... It was a dark and stormy night, although technically it wasn't black or anything -- more of a gravy color like the spine of the 1969 Scribner's Sons edition of "A Farewell to Arms," and, truth be told, the storm didn't sound any more fierce than the opening to Leon Russell's 1975 classic, "Back to the Island.""


"... Patricia wrote out the phrase 'It was a dark and stormy night' exactly seventy-two times, which was the same number of times she stabbed her now quickly-rotting husband, and the same number of pages she ripped out of 'He's Just Not That Into You' by Greg Behrendt to scatter around the room -- not because she was obsessive compulsive, or had any sentimental attachment to the number seventy-two, but because she'd always wanted to give those quacks at CSI a hard time."


"...'Why does every task in the Realm of Zithanor have to be a quest?' Baldak of Erthorn, handyman to the Great Wizard Zarthon, asked rhetorically as he began his journey to find the Holy Hammer of Taloria and the Sacred Nail of Ikthillia so Baldak could hang one of Zarthon's mediocre watercolors, which was an art critique Baldak kept to himself unlike his predecessor, whom Zarthon turned into the Picture Frame of Torathank."

He stood on the street corner, watching the hoochie-hair clad escorts wriggle and advertise their wares, hips and thighs swaying to the beat of an ages-old mp3 stream heard only in their ears. The rain was like every other rain on a cold night as this, falling silently and at the limit of his particle count. He'd turn off the show particles option, but the rain was a silent partner, sharing in his depression like a suicidal lover.

A flicker of movement caught his cam, and his view shifted all too subtly...the Linden trees stirred in the unfelt breeze, the trash can under it overturned, flicking in and out of visiblility. "Noobs," he thought to himself, the telltale quivering of prims betraying the presence of a cloaking sphere. "Never send a newbie to do the job of a FIC assassin," he mumbled to himself. His hand slipped into his pocket, pulling out his rusty winchester Hand-Of-God sidearm, tossing it nonchalantly into the bushes, carefully sitting down before the blast cleared the sim.

He'd just stood up again when out of the corner of his eye he noticed the blue square signifying the arrival of his target for the night. Letting out a deep sigh, he flicked his cigarette into the gutter, watching it bounce and jiggle, the rain making the physics engine groan and whine like a tired overworked beast. He punched up his notecard, the logfile on his target. Some guy by the name of Fribbit Quintum, the creator of CRingo, the addictive substance that was creating brain-addled addicted zombies all over SL. This guy was a real winner, all right. His well-intended invention inadvertently enslaved the grid. Then again, a grid infested with addicted brainless zombies was good for business.

As he hit the button to teleport, he hoped he landed in a damage-enabled zone. This was a big contract, and he was hoping to kill far more than just time. He owed "The Feted" a lot of money, mostly to cover his losses at SLingo. Last thing he needed was Don Philippo breathing down his neck. Even going into hiding as an Alt didn't protect one from the Don.

"Should've married that troll back in WoW when I had the chance," he though, just as the loud rush of TP enveloped him in blackness.




- Newfie