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How-To: Blog Post to ThreeFourt

Welcome to the first installment of the new series, “How-To Blog Post:”! This is a crash course to introduce you to the life of a full-time blog-poster (blogger?), and walk you through some of the rigorous steps required to create a high-end post suitable for the judgmental eyes of the many.

Today will be the technical side of posting, where we assume we have all body and formatting complete and wish to deposit our enlightenment unto the blog-o-sphere. I know to you tech-savvy nerds out there, this may seem redundant or repetitive to the skillset you’ve acquired throughout your life, but not all of America is a large, round object sitting around a computer developing poor acne from the vast array of frequencies excreted from your tower of Mountain Dew cans, dusty electrical components, cat hair, and fingernail clippings (or perhaps you have individual stacks for each of these items; some basement dwellers are organized).

STEP THE FIRST (1)

Before we can possibly begin, you absolutely need to navigate to the main page of the blog. Since our domain has expired, we are now located in a sad sub-domain, and instead of our full-fledged URL we have to settle with “https://threefourt.wordpress.com/” (Feel free to click the link, it’ll send you right over).

STEP 2?

Now that you’ve navigated successfully to my website/webpage/webblog, you can begin to make an impact! Down on the bottom right of the right-hand collumn of the main page (where it says “home” at the top and underlined), just below the “Blog Stats” entry and even further below the “Login” text (the first one) and subsequent “Register” hyperlink, therein lies the gateway and door to the realm of quality blogging. I know this may sound confusing, but I’ve provided an image to show you what you are looking for when on my page/site/book. Just click the “Log In” link and you should be sent to step 3.

STEP NUMBER THREE

This is a verification step. After the hard troubles of the previous step, you will know if you were successful if your webpage has something that looks like the following image. If it does not, try going back to Step 2 (or Step 1 if you suspect a faulty webpage).

#4 A STEP IN PROGRESS

Oops I’m sorry, I forgot about the login screen. This screen should actually show (so disregard step 3, it’s only relevant after step 4). The login username is [Yourname] followed by [yourpassword]. Remove the brackets when you type it in! For example, my username is [zzzdude] and my password is [••••••••] without brackets.

STEP FIFTH

Now follow step #3 and skip step #4 for step #5 and instead go to step #6 when you’re done. Should look like this:

STEP SEVEN SIX

We’re almost there! All we have left to do is follow strict methodologies to concoct a substantial composition of fundamental testaments which can be portrayed as a doctrine of principle for my acolytes.

(Easy part)

Once you have the “Title”, “Content”, and “Tags” fields filled out, you can go ahead and Save the Draft ( I won’t go into the details), or you can do as I do and immediately click the PUBLISH button as seen in the last image of this series.

And you are done. For ever.

You will rarely have to edit this post (I may go into this further at a later time), and you will have a large fanbase applauding in no time.
Until the next update,

this has been zzzdude

AKA threefourt

AKA Stephen G. Mangum

AKA BagOfDucks

AKA That Asshole Who Won’t Get Off the Public Computer So I Can Finish My Twelve Page Essay

What the hell is building in there?

My Saint Feed is reporting no signs of Sinter Claes today. Let’s hope for the best.

‘Twas the Night Before Chernobyl

Twenty kilometers southeast of Bykhaw, Belarus sat a very sad man. His family, all have gone. People don’t live in these parts, for good reason. Everything was dying, and there were no prospects in these areas after those fatal days in ’86. Last year, the year before, and possibly this year, his family had slowly died, or worse. He watched his wife and his daughter be taken away from him, to some place he hopes he’ll never go himself.

The fake carnation his wife once held up in her hair sat in his palms, slightly damp from his sweat and his tears. The rose tint of the flower haunted him. His daughter’s coat, from when she was but 4 years old was blue and draped like a dead animal over the mantle place. This home was a mostly underground studio, with a large horizontal window along one wall and a smoke escape on the other (near a door for entrance and exit). Under the mantle brewed the same Kusmi Tea he had every time this part of the year came around.

His eyes were soaked and bloodshot, the near year was moving closer, reminding him of the previous year’s fatal incident, hoping he wouldn’t see those eyes again, but longed for his wife’s. He had spent the year saving for a rifle, and on top of that blue coat, it sat, ready for whatever demons would try and take away what little left he had to love.

He wiped the tears from his eyes, and put his woolen gloves back on his hands. He picked the pot out of the flames and poured himself a mug of the beverage his wife had prepared for his family previously.

He moved the chair, the table, and the rifle towards the window, and locked away the carnation and coat in the footlocker. The rifle looked upon the fields between him and the fog in the distance. For the next two hours he slowly sipped the jasmine-scented potion.

Midnight was soon to strike, and he continued to see nothing. Perhaps this year would be different. What would the beast want from him? Suddenly, a rasp at the door. He scanned the fields, not wanting to give up whatever possible opportunity to end his pain and misery to answer the knock.

Two more rasps followed. He let out a sigh, with more doubt leading towards the possible return of the incarnate. He left his outpost to open the door.

When his hand pulled the door towards him, he burst into tears. There alone sat a small girl, wearing a bright red holiday garment with long, blonde hair. He fell to his knees, wrapped his arms around the child, and rest his face upon hers.

And immediately retracted.

His daughter had returned, but she was cold, stiff, and emotionless. He pushed his head back to stare into her eyes, to ask a question, but the tears and sobbing prevented it. And there she stood, staring back into him without even a smile. She was cold to the touch, and he had started to become worried. He said her name aloud, “Snegurochka…,” wondering if this really was his daughter. She turned around, to face someone behind her.

Except, it wasn’t someone, but something. There stood a tall shadow of a man, wearing the same red colors, but where his limbs and face should be, was nothing but a pitch black, amorphous shade. Where a mouth should have been was a cone instead, which immediately opened up to show silver teeth. They moved individually, mechanically, and started to rotate around each other. Sounds came from this, nearly inaudible, and at a very high tone.

By the time he felt the pain in his ears, he was already back in his house, throwing the door shut. It didn’t close all the way. A small foot had stood in the doorway. A loud crash came from the table as he fell upon it in shock, spilling what little was left from his libation. Why, why are you doing this to me?, he thought to himself.

He stumbled for the rifle, and attempted to point it towards the creature crawling in through his front door. A loud bang followed, with no response from the hellish entity. He knew he didn’t miss, and it continued to lurch towards him.

A long, shadowy arm without fingers wrapped around the barrel, and it was ripped from his hands and thrown out the window. “Snegurochka!,” he yelled, hoping that deep down inside that shell his daughter could hear his scream. He remembered him and his wife, singing holiday songs together, and then he saw black, as he was engulfed in the shadows of the devil.

The last thought he had was a simple jingle of holiday bells, he heard each note slowly, each one longer after the other. The tune had never finished.

Protected: Is Santa Clause Real?

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Apologies; Ode to Santa Clause

The CapturerI’ve done it. I’ve managed to escape the prison the demons had set out for me. I’m free and finally resting in front of the soft, white light emitted by this lonesome public computer in a large room of the nearby community college. People are giving me strange looks, perhaps because of my dirty demeanor; my hands covered in soot and mud and my hair looking no better. My shirt may be inside out, and this sweater may be torn, but that is the least of my worries.

I’m here to reach out to each and every one of you. I’ve seen some things; terrible things. This man, if you could call it a man, had me locked away in the cellars without light nor hope, where things grow old just so they can die in pain, agony, and suffering. Christmas time is coming around, and the last thoughts on my mind were my friends and family, for perhaps it could read those images of love. I didn’t want him to touch you, see. It’s mouth when it spoke, would spin at such a high frequency that caused his teeth to appear as razors. His words cut deep into the wounds he had already placed, with the bull-hide whip in one hand and a pillow case of many a bar of soaps in the other.

I am to never use Irish Spring again.
My face is perhaps bruised and cracked, I haven’t washed my face in what feels like centuries, despite it only being a year away in inprisonment. The moderator for the library is telling me I must go, so excuse me if things feel rushed. I just need you to know to watch out these holidays, this man thing is loose, and in need of new souls to feast on. He won’t go after me again, I’ve been completely drained of holiday cheer and joy.

So, it is with these last passing thoughts that I request the kind readers of Threefourt of sympathy and understanding, for I have not updated the blog as frequently as I had promised or wished, and I feel the blame is not entirely on my own being, but rather on the well-being that the holiday icon took stole from me.

Merry Christmas, if there’s any merry left to give,

Stephen “zzzdude” Mangum

TF2 and it’s Effect on Public Society.

When I was a boy, I was learning to become a man. That is what childhood is about. Maturing and educating to help better your own future. Video games helped a lot with this. My father started me off on the NES with a game I liked to call Mario. It was a fun, childish game, but a game nonetheless. It had taught a valuable lesson, about how development can take a simple, twisted idea, and turn it into a masterpiece, such as Super Mario Brothers. I learned that as a child, any small idea can amount to anything.

The same can be said for Team Fortress 2. Remember TFC? That’s Team Fortress Classic, for you young babies. It was a simple idea, a simple mod, that had eventually grown into a full game! And after that? IT HAD A GODDAMN SEQUAL.

Now you may be wondering where I’m going with this. Can you relate reality to Super Mario? I recently did a fact search: 12% of all Americans own at least ONE T-Shirt which references the iconic plumber. That’s pretty fucking big. Team Fortress has had a similiar effect. Back in 2009, we had a SNIPER UPDATE (was actually a spy), which had released hats. What are hats? Hats are these wonderful thing that increase both your Ego and your Height, merely by placing one atop your own head.

This has grown into the real world. Since early January of this year, there has been a steady incline in baseball caps and other various headgear (small, but still imminent)

caps

Caps are a type of hats, for those who don't know.

Even I have been affected. Since Mid-February, I have collected approx. 17 pieces of head adornments, all of them unique. On one hand, I am proud to represent one of my favoured video games, but on the other, I really wish we could show off a better aspect of the complex system which is Team Fortress 2, and not the simplistic, elitist, controversial subject which is, in a word, hats.

the ROUGH RIDERS are looking for MANLY guild members!

We here at <THE ROUGH RIDERS>  are the manliest men known to man on the realm. So fucking hardcore we play World of Warcraft with boxing gloves on. We dry-shave our BARE CHESTS with chainsaws on cold Alaskan nights. We brush our teeth with razor blades and use motor oil as paste. We regularly rape BEARS, with our FISTS. For breakfast we have a steady diet of sheet metal and concrete bricks, and milk from our own damn mothers. We shit duct tape and piss blood. We are so manly all of our members must have facial hair, arm hair, chest hair, leg hair, and palm hair. Skinheads are welcome!

You know that ol’ chap Roosevelt? Yea, he was in this guild. But he died; it is just that intense. Are you a pussy? NO?  Good, we don’t like that kind around here. Have fun!

Account Action: Education

Offense: Extreme Sexuality/Violence
This category includes both clear and masked language which:

 * Refer to extreme and/or violent sexual acts
 * Refer to extremely violent real life actions

Details (Note - Times are listed in Greenwich Mean Time, GMT):
2010-01-24 12:53:18
Ramag: <ROUGH RIDERS> We use hammerhead sharks as masturbation aids.

2010-01-24 12:45:06
Ramag: <ROUGH RIDERS> We eat babbies for breakfast.

2010-01-24 12:44:09
Ramag: <ROUGH RIDERS> We regularly rape BEARS.

<THE ROUGH RIDERS> is a guild located in the Velen Realm of the Battlegroup Retalion in the game  World of Warcraft. If you are manly, and would like to be in our super-secret club, contact our Guildmaster Vancleave, and we will pit you against the manliest of all challenges in order to prove yourself to the manly group of men, the <ROUGH RIDERS>.