Oh, how I’ve fallen in the world. There was a time when I wrote these posts from an actual desk, a queen-sized bed, or occasionally even a hammock. I’m typing this one from a floor mattress, sprawled on my stomach in that awkward position that strains your shoulders and kinks your neck no matter how you rearrange yourself. There’s laundry drying just above my butt, approximately three inches of Korean dust on my laptop screen, and bread pizza with hot dogs in the toaster oven I scored for free with my phone contract.
Huh, it doesn’t sound so bad when I phrase it that way. I actually love my Seoul apartment, and I do have a real-ish bed balanced on two mold-combative plastic pallets. I just wasn’t feeling the inspiration over there.
Also, compared to the Langurds’ house it’s a downright port-a-potty so I think I have full license to complain.
Seriously. Just look at that golden glow on the wallpaper. Look at it and weep.
Delilah: Welcome to your new room, Duke! And good news, as the oldest you get it aaaalll to yourse— wait, who is that?
Riza: Just the disappointing child of a doomed relationship. Don’t mind me.
Happy New Year! And a joyous farewell to 2018, the most desolate year on the Blog of Langurd: home to nine posts, only two-thirds of which were actual updates. Oh my.
This is the year 3019, and revolution is upon us. Fingers will fly across keyboards, updates will churn, comments will be replied to, and babies will be born.
I may just end up half-assing my way to the good stuff because these screenshots are stale enough to break a tooth on.
And Trelilah’s relationship is growing seven kinds of toxic mold, but that doesn’t stop me trying to salvage it.
Delilah: Let me just get this straight. You, Trance Langurd, are admitting your idiotic mistakes and begging for forgiveness.
Trance: Indeed… I think I am.
Delilah: Could you say it one more time so I know I’m not losing it?
Trance: I, Trance Langurd, have behaved like human trash. Can you find it in your heart to take back an unworthy imbecile?
Delilah: Depends. Can I get that in writing?
I’m doing my darnedest to keep this momentum going, so let’s get straight into the next act of the shitshow!
Here we see a typical morning at the Langurd Lodge for Futuristic Wayfarers. After arriving with a crash of thunder that ruins my screenshots and wakes the baby, a guest makes himself at home in the nursery.
Colby: Ah, what a quaint little transport vessel! I believe this is what they called a bort.
It’s precisely at this point that I rage-delete the time portal and leave Colby forever stranded. I hope he learns how to sail that bort the fuck outta here.
Well. I just laid out the screenshots for several more chapters and let me tell you, Siesta’s generation is going to be a saga. Today’s update is coming to you in a smaller package so I will feel less daunted by the task ahead.
We find the family in much the state we left them, i.e. total disarray after our resident knight turned out to be robotophile, and our resident robot turned out to be a bitch. Who knew?
The latest trend is that Siri keeps asking Breandan to “train” her on the ballet bar, which is as unsubtle as it is stupid.
Breandan: Work that plié, you arousing slab of tin!
Siri: This is all I ever wanted!
Hello, and welcome back to the Langurds! For real this time – no more filler bullshit. If you don’t believe me, take a moment to breathe in the scent of decaying tofu dogs and evaporating brain cells.
Oh yeah, we’re back alright.
Turns out I remember zero things from last generation, but I do know that there was a terrible, awful, very no good heir poll and y’all panic-voted this box-headed fool into leadership. I think we will regret this soon, but for now it’s full steam ahead!
Commence the celebratory tea! (I hope she showed up on time)
Siesta: Hey Prototype, I’ve been thinking.
Prototype: God help us all.
Siesta: Since I’m in charge and stuff, I’m going to rename you Siri.
Prototype: Pray tell why?
Siesta: Don’t be silly, Siri. You answer my questions, not the other way around!
Prototype: You poor dense soul.
You guys voted for this star-crossed lovers business, and honour compels me to deliver on my promises in the fullest way possible. Which means—you guessed it—the Langurds are about to enter that shadowy, foreboding territory we call PLOT.
Don’t worry—Siesta’s generation will be played and written as much by the seat of my pants as the others have been. It’s just that after playing detective so many times in Gen. 6, I felt it would be helpful to put all of my “COINCIDENCE? I THINK NOT” moments in one place.
So please humour me as I don my Halloween-store trench coat and cap, and attempt to mash together disjointed happenings into a wad that can conceivably be called “evidence.”
Without further ado, let us open the case!
Well, here we are at last on July 12th! Happy Birthday Langurds and R.I.P. Sam’s sanity!
I can smell the light at the end of the tunnel (not a typo; caffeine does strange things to your senses) so I’m going to give it my all for these last 13.5 hours. Hopefully without having to cut things in half and without wasting the potential of these screenshots. You are all lovely and supportive and I’m sure it’s only me cracking the whip at this point, but there is no whip more terrifying than the one in my own hands. (Cripes, a few cups of coffee and I’ve turned into Omen?)
Things have been moving pretty fast. Our eldest heir candidate is a teen, our youngest a child, our heiress a middle-aged underachiever, and her ex-husband a corpse.
Only Rhapsody has yet to get a kick in the pants from Father Time. Of course she’s busking in the park when it hits.
Rhapsody: Thanks for coming to celebrate my birthday with me!
Corren: I didn’t. Where’d your guitar go?
In my haze of exhaustion last night, I completely failed to acknowledge a feat I have not accomplished since Chapter 1.3: two legit updates in one day! Universally recognized as the first sign of the apocalypse, so start hoarding those cans. Given that in Tewl’s day my average post length was a weak 40-45 screenshots, I think I get to claim victory over myself here.
To celebrate that victory, and because everyone begs for this shit on Leisure Day, the Langurds are opening up their glorious yard for entertaining!
Like any good party, this one begins with a fumbled pizza delivery.
Pizza Girl: Tada! Did some ants order a pizza?
Or rather, the new anthem of my life: “No Sleep Till 6.13.” But don’t ask me to rap; I don’t do that in public.
I didn’t want to jinx myself by mentioning this early on, but if I DO get through seven chapters by Wednesday, that may actually bring us to the end of Calamity’s generation. In other words, we could have an heir poll as early as THREE DAYS FROM NOW WTFBBQ.
That seems like a very short time for our heir hopefuls to develop personalities, hopes, dreams, quirks, flaws, and the kitchen sink, so let’s get cooking, guys!
Kip: I am twelve steps ahead of you.
Kip: Do you want me to elaborate or do you want me to finish these muffins?
She may be the first child in Langurd history to figure her life out so early, and the first Langurd in Langurd history to get gud at cooking. Our little indoorsy slob is going to be a chef. It is known.