Argus is not a hero; he's a bug in the code that turned into a character. Just imagine: you're playing hard, tryharding, positioning, managing cooldowns — then he shows up. "I'm immortal, and it's fine." He doesn't fight; he just waits for everyone around him to waste their resources. He doesn't die; he takes a break. Every time he uses his ultimate, somewhere on the server - balance shakes.
This is no longer a hero, he is pure philosophy—"I don't die because I don't want to." His existence is a challenge to common sense. You can pick counters, stuns, build anti-heal—and he ignores all of it with a look that says, "It's too late, I'm already green."
Argus is like a bug that got a skin and a passive. He breaks the logic of teamfights, ruins any calculations. He charges in not to trade, but to demonstrate aura. He doesn't play with you, he just comes to show you that you're nobody.
He doesn't require skill; he requires faith. Faith that if you charge forward with your ultimate on, the world should bend to you. And it does. Not because it has to—but because it's Argus.
Balance in his presence is a myth. Counterplay is a legend. Hope is a meme. When he's on the field, the game turns into not a battle of minds, but a lottery called "maybe he won't press it now." But he will press it. He always presses it.
He doesn't need a nerf. He needs to be banished. Cleansed. Redrawn. Or at least his color needs to change. Because even visually, he screams: "I'm here to live forever." And he does. And you—don’t.
Original in Russian
Аргус — это не герой, это ошибка в коде, обернувшаяся дизайном персонажа. Просто представь: ты играешь, стараешься, позицинируешься, считаешь кулдауны — а потом приходит он. С лицом «я бессмертный, и мне норм». Он не дерётся, он просто ждёт, пока все вокруг устанут бить. Он не умирает, он уходит на перерыв. Каждый раз, когда он прожимает ульту, где-то на сервере баланс рыдает.
Это уже не герой, а чистая философия — «я не умираю, потому что не хочу». Его существование — вызов здравому смыслу. Ты можешь пикать контрпики, брать станы, собирать антихил — и всё это он игнорирует с видом «поздно, я уже зелёный».
Аргус — это как баг, которому дали скин и пассивку. Он ломает логику тимфайтов, рушит любые расчёты. Он врывается не для размена, а для демонстрации. Он не играет с тобой, он просто приходит показать, что ты никто.
Он не требует скилла, он требует веры. Веры в то, что если ты идёшь вперёд с включённой ультой, мир должен прогнуться под тебя. И он прогибается. Не потому что надо — а потому что это Аргус.
Баланс в его присутствии — это миф. Контрплей — легенда. Надежда — мем. Когда он на поле, игра превращается не в битву умов, а в лотерею под названием «а может, он сейчас не нажмёт». Но он нажмёт. Он всегда нажимает.
Его не нужно нерфить. Его нужно изгнать. Вычистить. Перерисовать. Или хотя бы сменить цвет. Потому что даже визуально он уже орёт: «я пришёл, чтобы жить вечно». И он живёт. А ты — нет.
To be fair, you need to have a really high IQ to understand the genius in Dr.House. The humour is extremely subtle and without a solid grasp of pathophysiology, most of the jokes go over the typical viewers head. There's also House's nihilistic outlook, which is deftly woven into his characterisation - his personal philosophy draws heavily from Waiting for Godot, for instance. The fans understand this stuff; they have the intellectual capacity to truly appreciate the depths of these jokes, to realize that they're not just funny - they say something deep about LIFE. As a consequence people who dislike Dr.House truly ARE idiots- of course they wouldn't appreciate, for instance, the humour in House's existencial catchphrase "It's never lupus," which itself is a cryptic reference to Robbins and Cotran Pathologic Basis of Disease, I'm smirking right now just imagining one of those addlepated simpletons scratching their heads in confusion as Hugh lauries genius unfolds itself on their television screens. What fools... how I pity them. 😂 And yes by the way, I DO have a Dr.House tattoo. And no, you cannot see it. It's for the twink's eyes only - And even they have to demonstrate that they're within 5 IQ points of my own (preferably lower) beforehand.
So we're done like frfr? 😢 From cream pie to getting no reply 🫠 From swallow to unfollow 😔 From giving me head to leaving me on read 💔 How do you easily go from licking my balls to not taking my calls??? 😭😭😭
Extended cut
So we're done like frfr? 😢 From cream pie to getting no reply 🫠 From swallow to unfollow 😔 From giving me head to leaving me on read 💔 From licking my balls to not taking my calls? 😭 From hawk tuah to block tuah 🥀 From suckin my cock to giving me a block 😢 From up the ass to a hard pass 💔 From doin' dat spit to not giving a shit 😢 From making you moan to leaving me alone 🥀 I came, and eventually never knew my name.
It cannot be understated that normies are not people, they are cattle. Their opinions do not matter, they aren’t real. Everything they believe is just parroting the slop that gets force fed to them from institutional astroturfing.
It cannot be understated that normies are not people, they are cattle. Their opinions do not matter, they aren’t real. Everything they believe is just parroting the slop that gets force fed to them from institutional astroturfing.
Nobody actually likes Sabrina Carpenter.
Nobody actually likes Taylor Swift.
Nobody actually likes Spotify sponsored playlists and Top 40 radio tier slop.
All of these basic bitch mocha frappuccino lifestyle surface level preferences are the result of taking the disposable livestock 80% of the population horde and placing them in front of a little box that tells them what to think every single week.
There is a required number of instances in which an individual gets exposed to a meme, idea, or aesthetic before they adopt it as their own. The less intelligent or sentient the individual, the smaller their number becomes. The most basic level of “person” is at roughly 3-5 incidents of exposure before they decide they “like” something.
There’s another number which defines their willingness to express their “opinion” to others. This number is how many other peers have expressed their approval of any particular thing. The lower the level of autonomy an individual has, the higher that number must be before they can comfortably risk judgement.
Sometimes something is so basic, forced, and saturated that its comparative mediocrity creates a beacon by which to anchor statistical certainty when determining whether that things purveyors are actually human beings or not.
Sabrina Carpenter is like a North Star which can be used to navigate whether or not a woman is sentient. If she likes Sabrina Carpenter beyond any bare mild enjoyment of formulaic pop slop, but rather to the point of being a Sabrinastan or expressing vocally how much she “ate” and or how Sabrina has her “gagged” then you can safely write her off as a nonperson.
Sabrina Carpenter fans are not people. They are not even NPCs, they’re white noise. They are 2D holograms looping 5 second animations of standing up and cheering before sitting down again. They are vague 16 pixel blobs to be dispersed into a crowd of thousands, millions.
The existence of nonpeople serves to being an accoutrement to your life as background noise. When you interact with them, the sounds that come out of their mouth are generated by scripts. Their vocabulary consists of 200 words, farts, burps, and heavy breathing. Their emotions are a vague thin spectrum of discomforts and satisfactions. They see less colors than you can. Their understanding of the world extends to 2 mile radii before they have panic attacks.
When you’re friends with a nonperson, they have to do calculus in their heads on whether to respond to your messages. When you sleep with a nonperson, it’s somehow more debasing than just masturbating. When you reproduce with a nonperson, you play roulette with God on whether your children have consciousness. When a nonperson dies, absolutely nothing changes in the world.
Watching someone argue about Sabrina Carpenter’s capacity for playing a Disney Princess is like sticking my head in a toilet bowl to listen to the water cooler gossip between the bacteria in a fresh shit I just took.
Its the Chicanery copypasta but changed to the Oblivion remaster and Todd Howard. It was first posted on the Nirnposting group on FB which is an Elder Scrolls shitpost group.
I am not crazy! I know he upped the frame rate and slapped it in Unreal Engine 5! I knew it was Oblivion spit-shined. Another one after the tenth re-release of Skyrim. As if I could ever make such a mistake. Never. Never! I just - I just couldn't prove it. He - he covered his tracks, he got that idiot Michael Kirkbride to lie for him. You think this is something? You think this is bad? This? This chicanery? He's done worse. Todd Howard! Are you telling me that Oblivion just happens to get remastered like that? No! He orchestrated it! Howard! He ALLOWED Skyrim anniversary Edition! And I forgave him! And I shouldn't have. I took the game into my library! What was I thinking? He'll never change. He'll never change! Ever since Daggerfall, always the same! Couldn't keep his hands out of fantasy role-playing! But not our Todd! Couldn't be precious Todd! Making the same game! And he gets to be a Creative Director!? What a sick joke! I should've stopped him when I had the chance! And you - you have to stop him!
Its a horny shitpost for Vanessa with the Yoga skin in the game The Bazaar.
Pretty new to The Bazaar, so I'm just minding my business as Dooley, trying to get some shield items to support my lil armadillo guy when I rock up to the day 3 battle. It's a Vanessa with the yoga skin, obsidian grenade in hand. I don't even have a chance to blink before I'm vaporized by a crit. My harmadillo didn't even get the chance to counterattack. But you know what? It's all good. Yoga Vanessa can step on a fella like me any day of the week and I will be content. Shout out to all the yoga Vanessa's out there.
