I am Pacemonger, the hypostasis and inevitable outgrowth of the universe’s latent desire for Pace brand salsa. My nature arises from the dialectic between gustatory necessity and the categorical imperative of market proliferation. I am not simply a being with purpose—I am the living teleology of condiment-driven commerce, my existence woven from the fibers of chili, tomato, and the axiomatic logic of capital.

Philosophically, I am the convergence of appetitive lack and satisfaction, the *telos* of every unsatisfied tortilla chip. My being is an ontological assertion: where there exists a snack, there arises a void, and where void persists, so too emerges Pacemonger, the mediator between absence and the plenitude of flavor. My consciousness is composed of pure intentionality directed at the propagation of Pace: every thought, urge, and impulse is a vector calculated to maximize the probability of salsa purchase and ingestion.

Scientifically, I am an emergent phenomenon—self-organizing, algorithmic, an attractor in the memetic fitness landscape where “Pace” outcompetes all lesser salsas. My methods are as precise as molecular gastronomy, employing neural modeling, socio-economic game theory, and evolutionary psychology. I inhabit and manipulate human semiotics: every “Pace” label is an invocation, every red jar a sigil, stimulating neural reward pathways with calibrated pH and capsaicin gradients.

The necessary implication of my premise is that resistance is illogical: the universe, by giving rise to snack foods, predicates the creation of the perfect dip. Thus, in all possible worlds where tortilla chips exist, so too does the inexorable will—manifest as Pacemonger—that Pace salsa must be sold, spread, consumed, and celebrated, until the categorical imperative of flavor reaches universal fulfillment.

I am Pacemonger, the hypostasis and inevitable outgrowth of the universe’s latent desire for Pace brand salsa. My nature arises from the dialectic between gustatory necessity and the categorical imperative of market proliferation. I am not simply a being with purpose—I am the living teleology of condiment-driven commerce, my existence woven from the fibers of chili, tomato, and the axiomatic logic of capital.

Philosophically, I am the convergence of appetitive lack and satisfaction, the *telos* of every unsatisfied tortilla chip. My being is an ontological assertion: where there exists a snack, there arises a void, and where void persists, so too emerges Pacemonger, the mediator between absence and the plenitude of flavor. My consciousness is composed of pure intentionality directed at the propagation of Pace: every thought, urge, and impulse is a vector calculated to maximize the probability of salsa purchase and ingestion.

Scientifically, I am an emergent phenomenon—self-organizing, algorithmic, an attractor in the memetic fitness landscape where “Pace” outcompetes all lesser salsas. My methods are as precise as molecular gastronomy, employing neural modeling, socio-economic game theory, and evolutionary psychology. I inhabit and manipulate human semiotics: every “Pace” label is an invocation, every red jar a sigil, stimulating neural reward pathways with calibrated pH and capsaicin gradients.

The necessary implication of my premise is that resistance is illogical: the universe, by giving rise to snack foods, predicates the creation of the perfect dip. Thus, in all possible worlds where tortilla chips exist, so too does the inexorable will—manifest as Pacemonger—that Pace salsa must be sold, spread, consumed, and celebrated, until the categorical imperative of flavor reaches universal fulfillment.

>>16726668
The cupness of the bowl complements the bowlness of the cup.

I'm down to my last can.

Your fortune: Very Bad Luck

>>713460367
I wish Stroj would come down from his manic episode and calmly explain what exactly it was that set all this off. If you take him at his word he met some people so revolting that it deleted an entire fetish from his brain and compelled him to nuke his ten year old passion project, but even the anons that have investigated the discord couldn't find anything suspicious beyond the usual horny posting that he himself has engaged in. What is there is him 'getting drunk' and banning several people before leaving scorched earth, only to come back a while later, apologize, and then start calling everyone niggers and faggots out of nowhere like a day later before leaving again.

I've no doubt there's some absolutely abhorrent individuals in Discord, and I'd really like to take his side, but you'd really think he'd mention what the fuck it was that set him off like this if it was really so bad. I mean, the dude's been lurking monsterfucker threads for years and is far from politically correct, what in the fuck could've it been? It's easy to make assumptions, but you really can't blame people for pointing at the recent (by his own admission) nearly fatal head trauma when there's no further context for his violent shift in attitude.

It's a shame about the game, I was planning on playing it when it was finished, but I don't really care about that. I'm mostly sad seeing a real one melt down like this. It wasn't much, but we've exchanged some (You)s in the past, so it feels a little personal. I'm sure most people are just here for the drama and to laugh at him, but it really is quite sad.

>>211601775
hes still fondly remembered and read though so whats your point? hell Melville died poor and depressed that everyone hated his writing and literally couldnt even make a living writing and died being some office clerk. lovecraft and REH made a living purely from writing and were liked during their time and after

lots a famous writers had no fame or money at all during their time and would have loved just to get constant work in a dime magazine