[log] [Marines vs. Machines] [OPEN! :D]
First open log! I am tha weiner!!!
Who: Iruka and YOU!
What: A snack break gone *horribly, horribly wrong.
Where: The main rec room
When: Saturday afternoon
Warnings: None so far, but we'll see who shows up.
There was more at stake here than Nilla Wafers.
Iruka pressed his forehead against the glass, the very picture of dejected and desperate need. The baggy of cookies hung tantalizingly from the corkscrew hook, taunting him, the little bastards. $3 in quarters had been sacrificed to the mechanical monstrosity, $3 and fifteen minutes and a raise in blood pressure that had no right to rear its ugly head on a Saturday. He wasn't even scheduled to work on Saturdays! Yet for all the blood, sweat and tears, for all the hours spent staaaring into microscopes until his eyes burned and his head ached, not even the goddamned vending machine could conjure up enough respect to function properly. Hell, not even the fact that he could lift the thing over his head (with enough huffing and puffing) seemed to intimidate his would-be lunch.
In an anguished sort of moan he declared his foe a "piece of flaming turd" and flopped onto a nearby couch, arm thrown over his eyes, his expression truly woebegone.
Nothing vanilla should cause such torment.
[*Because nothing is more horrific than blinking text. MUA-HA-HA-HA-HA~]
Who: Iruka and YOU!
What: A snack break gone *horribly, horribly wrong.
Where: The main rec room
When: Saturday afternoon
Warnings: None so far, but we'll see who shows up.
There was more at stake here than Nilla Wafers.
Iruka pressed his forehead against the glass, the very picture of dejected and desperate need. The baggy of cookies hung tantalizingly from the corkscrew hook, taunting him, the little bastards. $3 in quarters had been sacrificed to the mechanical monstrosity, $3 and fifteen minutes and a raise in blood pressure that had no right to rear its ugly head on a Saturday. He wasn't even scheduled to work on Saturdays! Yet for all the blood, sweat and tears, for all the hours spent staaaring into microscopes until his eyes burned and his head ached, not even the goddamned vending machine could conjure up enough respect to function properly. Hell, not even the fact that he could lift the thing over his head (with enough huffing and puffing) seemed to intimidate his would-be lunch.
In an anguished sort of moan he declared his foe a "piece of flaming turd" and flopped onto a nearby couch, arm thrown over his eyes, his expression truly woebegone.
Nothing vanilla should cause such torment.
[*Because nothing is more horrific than blinking text. MUA-HA-HA-HA-HA~]