Today is the birthday of h. p. lovecraft, August 20, 1890
I suspect that means the end of the world will be exactly 7 years from today, in 2012
By the mad Arab Abdul Alhazred!
I did not know this…My birthday’s the 21st.
Oooh. You’ve got the 122-year span that masonic conspiracy folks love, the Mayan eschaton of 2012, and the next transit of Venus (with its implied additional “122.”) Nice.
I call “dibs” on being eaten first.
I sent him a gift.
(Or was I the only the one who knew he’d lived on, moving from body to body after faked his own death…)
I’ll be sure to perform indescribable rituals (as laid out in the hideous and forbidden Necronomicon) on top of a mountain at midnight on this full moon night in honour of our macabre master.
Last year for his birthday, I was devoured by an invisible monster in the marketplace.
No wonder I was awakened at 2 in the morning, drencehed in a cold sweat, with half-remembered dreams of an eldritch, cyclopean horror above the noisome, squamous masses slogging blindly in a ruined city.
You were at my wedding?
If you got the Necronomican from the library, please return it. It’s months overdue and other people are waiting for it. Like me.
He got better.
In shadow haunted Innsmouth, on the ebon, sullen Miskatonic River, the squat, scaly citizens huddle in fear neath the ivy-bedecked walls of the only steeple crowned structure in this benighted hamlet. They are impelled there by the eldritch heritage that lurks in their cold, sluggish blood. Their gravelly voices whisper ia a horrid unison:
Happy birthday to you,
Happy birthday to you,
Happy birthday dread overlord,
happy birthday to you.
What phase of the Moon is it, tonight?
No special reason to ask…just askin.
Also, can anybody give me a lift to Providence? And the load of a spade?
No special reason.
Good question. That reminds me…I need to get some more silver bullets. My stocks are running low lately.
I survived for one more year.
Last night I heard the antediluvian Old Ones whispering softly in the walls of my house, where the angles are wrong. Unable to sleep due to the half-seen, half-guessed visions of Old Ones, I chased them away by singing “Pack Up Your Troubles In An Old Kit Bag” by Erich Zann.
That was hysterical. Thanks.
Send more ice, please.