Welcome to the Clover County Chronicles, an ongoing neighbourhood story in The Sims 2!
Warning: this journal may contain uncensored nudity, violence, profanity and sexual themes.
Updates Monday, Wednesday, and Friday every week!
Pretty soon I’m gonna have to truncate that Previous Chapters shit or I won’t have room for the actual images.
Edit: Wow, I wasn’t thinking that until here?!
I can’t believe that fit on the sidebar.
Margaret: Sorry Stephen, Stewart’s not able to come to the phone.
Stephen: Why would I want to talk to that dweeb, honeyblonde?
So… you’re all puffy.
Ever gonna… stop it?
Thanks a lot, guys.
I go to all the trouble of making a dead robot shrine, and NOW THERE’S NO DEAD ROBOT.
I’ll put a shitter there instead.
Margaret: Yes, Stephen. Your son and I have had sex. No I will not give you details!
Margaret: Hang on, I’ve got some stupid family business to take care of.
Shadow: .oO(Apparently that was load-bearing fluff.)
You don’t look that upset.
Margaret: Hey, not my cat.
You don’t look that upset.
Stewart: I was just working on the shower. I’ve been past insane for hours.
Gerard: I was gonna steal your newspaper, but this looks way more interesting.
Stewart: NO PLEASE NOT SHADOW
Gerard: Take him instead!
Stewart: Let’s not get crazy here…
Stewart: Okay, get ‘er done.
You’ve been a good cat, Shadow.
Shadow: .oO(How would you know? You never paid me any attention.)
That’s what you call a good cat owner.
The Grim Reaper: SHADOW. YOUR NAME IS SHADOW? THAT’S THE CAT EQUIVALENT OF “JOHN.”
Shadow: .oO(Even that’s being generous. It’s more like the cat equivalent of “Hey, cat.“)
Stewart: I’LL MISS YOU SO MUCH
Margaret: How old was he?
Stewart: I dunno, I didn’t pay him much attention.
Stewart: But you still have to be nice to me now.
Margaret: Man, fuck you, cat.
Stewart: Alright, you guys have fun, some of us have shit to do.
Shadow: .oO(Thanks for the food occasionally, scratchpad.)
How does one get a cat to take the next step, anyway?
The Grim Reaper: YOU KNOW HOW CATS CAN JUMP REALLY HIGH?
The Grim Reaper: DON’T TRY THIS AT HOME.
The Grim Reaper: THANKS FOR THE CAT. CATS ARE NICE.
What a lovely pet cemetery.
Please make sure to spell the sign right.
Whatcha got in the bag? IS IT A DEAD CAT?
Stewart: Smells like it.
Stewart: In Shadow’s honour, I’ll clean the bed that was a fucking mess while he was alive.
I’m not sure “honour” is quite the right word for that.
Stewart: And now, to flush his poops.
Rosemarie: Cat’s dead, eh? Won’t need this anymore.
Margaret: Technically true.
Margaret: Hey, Ms. Young!
Abigail: Stewart! You’re being burgled!
Abigail: She took the doorbell!
Stewart: DON’T COME IN
Abigail: Congratulations on adulthood, Stewart! Two out of eight ain’t good.
Stewart: Our family tree is a Dutch Elm.
Abigail: Lookin’ good! For a given definition! Said definition being “Like Stewart.”
Stewart: Still the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.
Stewart: I hear parents and their children do this together sometimes.
Abigail: Can’t imagine why.
Abigail: I guess it has some merit as a physics demonstration.
Stewart: I keep throwing the ball and then having it in my hands again without you throwing it back. How are you doing that?
Abigail: Quantum superposition, bitch.
♪ Breaking Bad theme ♪
Stewart: Science rules.
Abigail: Nah, we’re talking quantum here. As far as fiction and quantum physics go, science = no rules.
Abigail: I’m basically a goddess.
Shane: Can I have a pony?
Abigail: You’re thinking Santa Claus.
Abigail: What’s your name?
Sir Wally: Sir Wally the Grey, good lady.
Abigail: Who called you that?
Sir Wally: Some asshole.
Sir Wally: Open one of those windows, would you? I can’t fucking breathe over here.
Abigail: How will you learn if I just do it for you?
Sir Wally: I’M A FUCKING PARROT. That’s the only way I learn!
Stewart: My Dead Cat: a poem by Stewart Murphy.
Stewart: WHY IS MY CAT DEAD
Abigail: That’s my boy! According to mostly reliable sources.
Abigail: I wonder why he has turkey in here. It’s not Thanksgiving yet!
Abigail: …this is last year’s.
Abigail: THIS IS LAST YEAR’S TOO
Stewart: Why My Cat Should Come Back to Life: a poem by Stewart Murphy.
Stewart: I don’t have one of those resurrecto thingums.
Stewart: I don’t like my cat being dead.
No WAY are you displacing that much mass.
Gretchen: I SAW IT FIRST
Gretchen: Fine. Go ahead. Put it back in. THINK INSIDE THE BOX, PLEB.
Abigail: Get out of here before I disintegrate you.
THE CAN FIRST
Abigail: I’m a slave to my programming.
Stewart: I’m just fat.
Abigail: Must have been the pampered upbriging we gave you. According to mostly reliable sources.
Stewart: Yeah! Badass! Respect the abs, past mom! Present mom’s a lost cause.
Margaret: She is kind of a bitch.
Abigail: I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you when you were young, Stewart, but look at it this way: I was there for Kyle and Oliver and Franklin, and Faith and Yvonne, and look how that turned out.
Stewart: Correlation does not imply causation, Mrs. Scientist.
Abigail: He’s definitely my kid.
Margaret: I’m surprised you noticed.
Margaret: If you go to the supermarket, could you pick us up some more of these painted wood shavings?
Sir Wally: Aw yeah that shit is gold woman!
Margaret: How come you haven’t done anything good lately.
Abigail: EXPLAIN. QUICKLY.
Margaret: It’s just that you’re a famous scientist and all, known worldwide for saving us all from the zombie plague, and creating robots and stuff, and yet here you are in skinny jeans with a bleach-blonde hairdo living with a douchebag and adopting papergirls.
Abigail: Have you ever heard the story of the Little Engine That Could?
Margaret: We made this joke already.
Abigail: No we didn’t. Do you know what that story’s about? It’s about how you can overcome any obstacle if you think you can.
Abigail: THERE’S NO STORY WITH NO OBSTACLE.
Stewart: Something doesn’t feel quite SHIT
Stewart: Please go home before I do something stupid.
Abigail: I’m not a time-traveller, Stewart.
Margaret: You’re the only pet left now, Sir Wally. The only sponge to soak up our affections.
Sir Wally: Pass.
Stewart: How’d you get along with mom?
Margaret: I honestly don’t know.
Margaret: I think she’s feeling a little lost without an entire world to save.
Stewart: She needs an evil twin to foil. They could sustain each other indefinitely.
Stewart: Speaking of sustenance…
Stewart: FUCK ME LIKE MY FAMILY LOVES ME
Stewart: …I’m not sure what that meant.
Margaret: I am.
Margaret: I’m your family now.
Stewart: Please don’t die, then.
Stewart: My family always dies.
Margaret: Bet I live longer than you.
Stewart: I’ll take that bet, ‘cuz what do I have to lose.
Sir Wally: Just so we’re clear, you’re both committed to feeding me, right?
Stewart: Margaret? You left the handset on the big tiled receiver again.
Stewart: I WANT A GARDENER
Gardener: Do you have a garden?
Stewart: DOESN’T MATTER
Stewart: I’M A HOMEOWNER AND I WANT A GARDENER
Margaret: Ew, no homeowner.
Celeste Wade: It’s good to be wanted. Creepy, but good.
Stewart: Hey WEDNESDAY! What’s up?
WEDNESDAY: Regretting my decisions.
Margaret: We should commiserate.
Elle: WHAT HAVE YOU BEEN DOING YOU BASTARD
What have you NOT been doing, you BITCH?
Stewart: You are way out of my league, you know that?
Margaret: I like to play it safe.
WEDNESDAY: Are you gonna hang up, or…?
Stewart: I’m glad everything worked out.
Margaret: I’ll bet you are.
Stewart: A mime, though? Really?
Next mime: …
Next TIME: love and friendship for the minor characters.
Hey, you gotta make a few eggs to break ’em.