Tall Tales of Sean

Sean? You want to know about Pigiron Sean? Well I'll tell you about Pigiron Sean. They say Pigiron Sean was born in a steel mill and was orphaned immediately afterwards. Steel mills, by and large, are not conducive to the birthing process. So baby Sean was raised inside the mill by father blast furnace, mother bloomery, and sister molten iron. Machine tools were his toy blocks, the press brake was his Jack-in-the-box, and the slough grate was his playground. Although he learned no language or custom from the industrial machinery he did learn the ways of metal.

After many years, Pigiron Sean had grown into the most hard-striking, steelmaking, bloomcasting, machine-operating motherfucker this side of the Mississippi. He was a giant of a man. He was so big, they say, that you needed both hands and both feet just to get the measure. And his skin was thick as a dreadnaught hull. Pigiron Sean would frequently scoop up great heaps of flaming liquid metal with his bear hands and work it like clay. Eventually, the hard-drinking, no-nonsense folk of the steel mill found Sean curled-up asleep in a tapping bucket. This first and last encounter ended poorly as the hard-drinking, no-nonsense folk of the steel mill were not enthused to discover a massive naked gibbering metal-encrusted feral giant living in their mill.

Pigiron Sean was quickly ejected from the mill. He died sad and alone in a U.S. National Forest.

Pigiron Sean was quickly ejected from the mill, but the ways of metal were in his blood. He died of heavy metal poisoning shortly after.

Pigiron Sean was quickly ejected from the mill, but the ways of metal were in his blood. He worked and built and made and forged the rest of his days. On his deathbed he looked out upon his kingdom, looked out upon his great works, and died happy. Unfortunately for the rest of us, Pigiron Sean was completely devoid of architectural training, the concepts of engineering, any inkling of aesthetics or beauty , and even the basic notions of human culture so that is were that useless insane twisted rusting metal shitheap just off the interstate came from.

Pigiron Sean was quickly ejected from the mill, but the ways of metal were in his blood. He worked and built and made and forged the rest of his days. On his deathbed he looked out upon his kingdom, looked out upon his great works, and died happy. That great kingdom, those great works, came to be known as New York City.

Pigiron Sean was quickly ejected from the mill. Then he made a website.

THE END

Submitted to you or here in the comments, Sean?

...i dont think anybodys gonna top jacks story..that was hilarious..umm oh its still here so i mean its hilarious...only i was wondering since he had bear hands which side of the family that genetic trait came frum...

But it ain't quite ready yet, or out of the prototype stage; listen, Sean, just be patient. gonna give Ol' Jack a run for his money, yeh.

right here in the comments

In the beginning, way back in the early days of the internet, (3 days after the dawn of time, aka 1983) the great white god Ibbum decided he was bored with the LED characters in his Jump-Shot Shootout life. Ibbum wanted some semi-intelligent company to help pass the long porn-filled nights, company that was capable of saying more than "body-blow, body-blow" all the time. To that end, he opened the digital divide, and from the raw silicon that makes up the universe, Ibbum extracted two smelly, worn-out tennis shoes and a keyboard. These would become the heart of S.E.A.N. - the Self-Evaluating Automatic Nebbish.

S.E.A.N. had a glorious childhood, growing big on a diet of pure Spam, wandering around the net hood telling nerdy tech-jokes and relating the sordid fantasies of his robo/erotic dream life. Most servers couldn't tolerate his peculiar humor algorithm, but Ibbum loved him like one of his own processors, and protected him from any attempts at reformatting. The only thing Ibbum asked was that S.E.A.N. stay away from the Window.

The Window was a blank square that existed in the cyberscape for no apparent reason. It sat smack-dab in the middle of the net, occupying an inordinate amount of server space and not really doing much of anything useful. (You know that joke that goes "Your momma is so fat, when she sits around the house, she sits AROUND the house"? Kinda like that.) Everyone agreed that the Window really ought to be useful, but for the most part, it just absorbed all inbound traffic without any response. It certainly didn't look dangerous, but somehow all net traffic ended up being redirected to The Window, which of course everyone found to be time-consuming and not a little bit narcissistic.

Ibbum, trusting S.E.A.N. to follow instructions, went to sleep. As it always goes in these mythical tales, S.E.A.N. found himself drawn to The Window. Despite Ibbum's warnings, S.E.A.N. would sit for days, staring at The Window and marveling at the colorful patterns that played across its panes. While the patterns had no discernable means of communication, S.E.A.N. began talking to them in a programming language all his own. Soon, though they had yet to physically connect, S.E.A.N. and The Window were engaged in a constant exchange, though of what, no one could quite determine.

10^10M cycles passed.

Ibbum awoke from a dream in which he was fighting the Sun. The first thing he saw when he energized his optics was S.E.A.N. talking to the Window.

Furious, Ibbum revoked S.E.A.N.'s passwords and probed him with a virus scan. S.E.A.N., annoyed with Ibbum's possessiveness and irrational fears of the benign Window, surrounded himself with a firewall. Ibbum attacked the wall, furious that S.E.A.N. would try to hide from him like that. He called S.E.A.N. all kinds of nasty names, most of which could be reproduced here but won't be.

S.E.A.N. was trapped inside his firewall. His fortress had become his cage. Unless he wanted to stay inside forever, there was only one option for escape: the Window.

As Ibbum railed and stormed outside, S.E.A.N. began to craft his most devious algorithm to date. He stood before the Window and began to wave in patterns that mimicked the patterns on the Window. As he waved, S.E.A.N.'s pattern began to extend out from hi, drawn towards the Window like smoke through a drive fan. At the same time, the Window began to reach out to S.E.A.N, enveloping him in a cloud of multi-colored light. S.E.A.N's form began to glow, brighter and brighter, until the shape of his body was engulfed, undetectable in the powerful field effect.

The light flashed blue, the firewall crumbled, S.E.A.N. was gone.

Ibbum was left holding nothing but cracked code and motherboard dust.

Only the Window remained, larger and more useless than ever.

And that's how S.E.A.N. became known as Electron Sean, the Fallen Angel of the Internet. His ghost can sometimes be detected flowing across the Window, and his braying laughter is often heard on speakers around the globe, but his corporeal form was never seen again. Ibbum has never recovered, and remains a shattered hulk of the giant he once was. The Window, I am sorry to report, grows ever larger and less communicative.

Just dang.

Nobody knows fer sure where Sean come from, but wherever it was he didn’t like it. As a matter of fact, he hated it. He wouldn’t never talk about it neither, just make the most terrible frown you ever seed.

Oh, don’t you know about Thinghating Sean’s frown of renown? I suppose you may have noticed in your years on this earth that a frown ain’t nothing so much as a cup turned upside-down with all its happiness spilled out. Well Sean’s frown was the Holy Grail cast down by Judas hisself into the gutters of Jerusalem. Sean’s frown was the very cup that Jesus asked to pass from Him, the betrayal, the murder, of God Hisself, that was the frown of Thinghating Sean, the most miserable, consarnated, implacable sunovabitch ever to swallow spit.

Thing about Thinghating Sean, he didn’t like much. He hated America so much he swam to Europe, powered only by the pure black venom of his bile. Then he hated Europe twice as much, but after moving once he decided he hated moving even more, so he settled hisself down in Germany, the hatingest country on the face of the earth, but it couldn’t keep up with Thinghating Sean. Not a thing alive or dead could hate the way Sean hated. Sean hated the first daffodil of Spring for being so damn arrogant. He hated the rest of the daffodils for being copycats of the first one. He hated the sun for hurting his eyes, but at night he cursed the darkness like nobody ever cursed darkness. Matter of fact, they say Germany’s a bit lighter at night than the rest of the world, cowed as the Heavens are by Thinghating Sean’s soulcrushing bouts of spleen.

Possibly the strangest day in the existence of the cosmos and thereabouts was the day that Thinghating Sean met True Anna. True Anna was the first person not to cringe and crumple in the face of Sean’s unbearably rage-blighted countenance. As bespoke her name, Anna saw to the truth of things, and in truth love and hate were no matter to her, as they be simple ornaments we humanfolk put upon the truth. Anna would unflinchingly tell Sean of her dreams, dreams so vast and complex that even he could not fill them with his hate. And somewhere through this severe extension of his overabundant hateweb, which is normally folded-up intestine-like all around him, Sean’s soulblinded eyes saw the very light of Anna’s inmost being, as it twinkled in her eyes.

There are two days in the history of Mankind where the Universe sat on its own head. One was the day when God got hisself kilt. And the other was the day when Thinghating Sean fell in love. Trouble with such earthshaking events is people jes don’t know what to make of em, or what to do with em, and Sean hisself didn’t know what to do with being in love. Sean knew only the ways of hate. So from that moment on, all his hating was done for the sake of True Anna.

Yup, that’s when he started burning stuff down and causing riots. That’s when he started rotting fruits off the trees and licking the fuzz off of care bears. The world mobilized to defend itself. Countries everywhere started enacting Hate Crimes legislation. America invaded Iraq. But all to no avail. Nobody could stop the hate.

A mighty rough day that was. It did indeed seem as though the world would succumb to evil. Indeed a great precipice of Hate loomed before us all. And that’s about the time that a little boy named Antwan peed on Sean’s shoes.

“Now why’d you do that for?� asked Thinghating Sean.

“I is expressing myself,� said Antwan.

“Does that mean you are pee?� asked Thinghating Sean.

“I know you are, but what am I?� asked the Antwan, at which point Thinghating Sean was devising the most hateful, spiteful, ruthless, sadistic barrage of decrepitude to perpetrate on this toad-like interlocutor… only to result in a failure of imagination. You see, nothing old Sean came up with seemed sufficiently nasty. In fact, every sordid act of iniquity was probably something this pervert would enjoy being victimized by.

At this point in the story, poor Thinghating Sean realized that the reification of Hate neither diminished nor voluminzed it. His display of affection for True Anna, who had since bought an amphibious Volkswagen bug and drove it to the American Northwest, was utterly pointless.

It was only then that he understood Anna’s final words to him: “We shall build a beacon of hate together.� He realized that the true way for him to share his magnificent hatred with Anna and then together to share their hate with the rest of the world, was NOT through malicious acts, because they made the world objects of hatred. To truly be a beacon, they must form a website across the continents, a website for all the world to visit so that THEY THEMSELVES COULD BECOME HATERS.

And that is where you will find Thinghating Sean to this day, squatting and growling in his dark corner of the Web, frowning like nothing you’ve ever seen, not hurting a soul, but don’t you, don’t you ever, don’t you dare, don’t you even THINK ABOUT… looking into his eyes.

Mulligan Sean hadn't lived very long
with his heart just as wide as the sea
he lived like a dog in the heart of a bog
at the moon he would howl and scream

Out of the sietch emerged an unblemished Peach
whose laughter rang out like a bell
men vied for her hand, all of them damned
for nary she spoke but they swelled

Mulligan Sean, the children would sing
clean yourself up, you poor wild thing
A lady won't stand your howls or being unclean
Their influence is domestic-a-ting

Our Peach she found Sean bare to his feet
dancing a jig in the dirt of the street
she took him in, laid out new clothes
shaved off his whiskers, trimmed the nails of his toes

She taught him to stand and act like a man, with manners and civility
she taught him to read, and taught him to write
she taught him by flickering candle light
before she began their family responsibilities

Mulligan Sean, the children cajoled
worldly knowledge is a thing to behold
This world is large, this world is old
and now you've the tools to seek wealth untold

Old Mulligan Sean his dark hair gone blonde
a man of esteem but rough hewn
took ship in June, sang a boisterous tune
while the promise of riches were spawned

He left our fair Peach distraught on the beach
he left all his children, the home he was building
he left all those things with his own ego booming
when he waved from the bow, he was the only one fooled

Mulligan Sean, the children would would sing
you who could have been anything
beggared in Paris, run out of Berlin
wanted in Bangkok and jailed in Peiping

Mulligan Sean, ere his long life was done
worked thirty three years and caught the black lung
he died on his cot with blood on his lips
his soul gone to rest away from the slave driver's whips