The quantum nature of doughnuts is directly proportional to the acceleration of baguettes. These are the words that Mr Pendleton DIDN't keep in his mind, and now he paid the ultimate price by getting progressively devoured by a mob of angry 3 year olds.
but you can save Mr Pendleton from such torment, yes you can indeed, however I am not going to tell you how, that is up to you to find out. Just remember, think clearly, and bring plenty of cucumbers, and under ALL circumstances avoid the color red.
I
Want a Hentai girl for me,
to make me happy
I
Want her so I can,
stop using my hand,
Every single day,
while watching anime
I'd pull from my screen,
just like in my dreams
I want to feel her touch,
mainly on my crotch
such is life of latvian
Fill my ear with delicious, salty yellow piss and shit into my charred old pipe. Call me Todd Howard and get banned for posting a snipe. Make like a rabbit and fuck off. Now I'll fart into your nose, and into your mouth I will shove my hose.
daddy would you like some sausages
[QUOTE=fudge blood;49889029]daddy would you like some sausages[/QUOTE]
yes please
[sp]8=====D[/sp]
i wish i knew what it was like to finish the last word in a
it was me austin
"Stop right there, criminal [I]scum[/I]!"
whooooooosh
it's a beautiful day outside. birds are singing, flowers are blooming...
If I had a portal device, i'd try to use it for self pleasuring, and then fail. Because you can't put it in your own butt. That's a fact.
there once was a hobbit that lived in a hole... a hobbit hole....a fiwfy hobbit hole
[t]http://45.media.tumblr.com/f765151d7465b59b6c90b5d4504bc8bc/tumblr_nynbhwAzfu1umsmpio1_540.gif[/t]
nightmares are made of these. who am i to disagree?
Creative writing, yay :toot:
“Hey! Who goes there?”
“[I]I[/I] do, who the hell is suspiciously stranded in the middle of the road with a conveniently broken cart?”
The apprehensive look of the man standing in the middle of the road turned into one of confusion and mild surprise. I didn't think he'd expect his perfectly reasonable question be thrown back at him with any serious expectancy for him to validate his position. After all, it was quite clear to any onlooker that his cart had broken down in the middle of the road and he was keeping his hands full with keeping a lookout as it was being fixed by a rather too-serious looking young man.
“Well, [I]I[/I] am,” said the probable owner of the broken vehicle, his confusion fast turning back to apprehension, then smoothly transitioning over to suspicion, to finally land somewhere between “guarded” and thinly veiled hostility. “You didn't answer the question stranger, who goes there?”
He seemed to have a healthy dose of suspicion regarding strange men suddenly happening upon him in the wilderness at a most vulnerable moment, given his intonation of the word “Stranger.” Like he was addressing a dubious piece of brownish unidentifiable matter in a bowl of soup from a seedy tavern.
“Who I am isn't necessarily the important question here.” I answered, in an unnecessary (and enjoyable) cryptic fashion. “What seems to matter most in this situation is my [I]destination[/I], and the fact that it seems to be shared by the three of us.”
“Well first of all,” Replied the wagoneer, “That was unnecessarily cryptic. Second; if you're looking to hitch a ride, I'd be more inclined to offer you one after you've given me at least a single convincing argument of you not being a murderer, bandit, rebel, rapist, assassin or anything in between. Those arguments would ideally start with you giving me your name, [I]stranger[/I].”
At this point I was having an internal debate whether or not to play the “How long can I keep the conversation going without saying my name” game, but my sore feet and the fading sunlight were valid arguments to save that perticular verbal joust for another day.
“Logan Blackfyre at your humble service” I said with a decent bow. “And yours?”
“I'm asking the questions here Blackfyre, and until you answer them I'll be inclined to treat you as a potential highwayman. Now, what are you doing on the kingsroad at this time of-”
“If I may interject an argument before you start questioning me, how do I know [I]you're [/I]not a pair of highwaymen, robbers, bandits or rapists, out to sodomize my tender body and leave me quivering by the side of the road?
“I.. Beg your pardon?”
I was starting to enjoy this conversation, now that I had the wagoneer on his proverbial toes. He'd gone straight from thinly veiled hostility to sheer bafflement at my ludicrous accusation. Anyone with a pair of eyes and a functioning brain could see that he was an upright citizen, with graying, sandy hair, a relatively clean cotton shirt and honest lines in his face. The kind you only get from smiling in a genuine manner all of your life. He probably even payed his taxes with a stoic “the king protects us, the least we can do is pitch in” –sort of attitude. I on the other hand [I]did [/I]look like your run of the mill potential highwayman, (albeit a decently well-off one) with my dark cloak, black leather tunic, a seemingly, yet not obviously honest face, and a shortsword prominently displayed on my left hip. The fact that I was standing boldly in the middle of the road with my hands placed firmly upon said hips did nothing to alleviate my already questionable moral fiber.
“Allow yourself to see the situation from my eyes,” I offered. “I've been walking on the kingsroad for two days straight, then suddenly I come upon a seemingly broken down wagon with two able bodied men attempting to fix it. In my altruism I decide to help you out. Of course you question me first, and put up a reluctant front so I won't get suspicious, and just as I'm helping you to lift the wagon you pounce me, take my money, force yourselves upon me in a beastly fashion, and leave me penniless and disillusioned with the world. Now I see your need to verify I've no ill intent, but a decent man would not expect another man to explain his intentions so, without first assuring him of his own noble intentions, don't you agree?”
It was clearly written upon the man's face that he did in fact, not agree with my sentiment at all. However, the sheer audacity of my statements and the general absurdity of this conversation seemed to have put the poor man in such a state of genuine confusion that he seemed to temporarily shelf his healthy, and fast becoming well placed suspicion in me.
“Wh.. My name is Veldth, Arliden Veldth. That's my son Cristoph over there, fixing the wagon.”
The younger sandy haired man grunted. I noted with some amusement that his “[I]I'm a serious young man and I demand you take me seriously[/I]” attitude had taken a sharp left turn somewhere south of me accusing them to be men of dubious sexual orientation.
Arliden continued: “We run a Tavern in Nightfall, we've just picked up a shipment of whine and cider from Westbrook, and were headed back to town when the axle broke.” He raised his thumb behind his back, indicating the wagon.
Without skipping a beat I asked in a formal tone: “If you have a barrel of fine Cider, going at 1 ponda and 20 pennics a gallon, how much would you be left with after selling it, given that the tax man takes his usual cut?”
To Arliden's credit, he only took a few seconds to add it all up in his head before confidently stating: “A wee bit over 35 Ponda, how so?”
“Well then I know beyond doubt that you sir, are telling the truth. No bandit would so effectively calculate the total selling price of a barrel of cider, let alone know how much the tax man would claim, having never paid taxes in his life.”
The taste of mud.
Family.
All these thoughts.
It's so cold out here.
No mercy.
Guns that hate texas.
Time to flex.
Don't forget to eat weapons.
Amateur hour is over.
Forget the old days.
Power.
Never slow down.
Dry.
Can't wait.
Cool.
[QUOTE=DocWalrus;49609883]The hotel room looked like a butcher shop that someone had thrown a grenade into. Most of the victim rested in the center of the room, ruining a perfectly good shag carpet. The rest of him...or her?... Was everywhere else. “Pretty enthusiastic work, here,” My partner, Gecko, pointed out. “Maybe even too much for this to be personal. You'd expect more of a motif to it if it was personal.” He paced from wall to wall, carefully stepping over sensitive material, with his tail curled close to his body so he wouldn't knock any vases over this time.
I snorted out an almost-laugh. “Whoever did this has a better work ethic than us, I can tell that much.” My gaze drifted up from the ruined torso beneath me to the wall beside me. A curving blood spatter, turning brown at the edges as it dried, added some flair to the kitschy floral print of the wallpaper. I followed the curving trail to the other side of the dusty bed at the end of the room. A head met me there, staring at nothing in particular. “Found the head. Victim is male, white. Short haired, buzz cut.”
“Just a little bit off the top?”
“Funny.” I looked back at the wall. There was a splash of blood in the center of the curve that was much larger than the sprinkles of red and brown around it. If a pincer-like weapon had snipped the head off with enough force, then maybe it could have bounced and... “I think this is another kill from Crab-Man,” I said.
“No, no,” Gecko protested. “Look at these perforations on the body. The Spider turned this guy into a pincushion.”
“And then ripped his head off and threw it at the wall? With what? HQ says The Spider doesn't even have arms.”
“HQ says the Cuban families don't have the technology for this. Don't worry about what HQ says.”
I groaned and rubbed my temples as I carefully stepped over an estranged forearm and hand, then regrouped with my partner in the center of the room.
“Getting another migraine?” Gecko asked, with false amusement.
“I hope so. It'd be a pleasant distraction.” He chuckled at that. We were quiet for a moment, both lost in thought. “What if it's a new guy?” I asked.
“Oh, god. I don't think we've got room in this town for three killer cyborgs.” Gecko scanned the room again. “What if Crab-Man and the Spider teamed up?”
I furrowed my brow at the thought. I knelt down closer to the torso and checked the pockets of its ruined leather jacket. There was a wallet, of course, with an ID in it in one pocket. “Victim's name was Kip Casper, age 29. I recognize the name; he was a radio DJ.”
“Never heard of him.”
Casper's other pocket seemed empty at first, but I managed to fish out some shards of plastic and something glass-like, probably pieces of the created sapphire screen of an expensive phone. “Perp broke his phone, then stole the thing anyway. Victim was unarmed. Why team up for an easy kill like this?”
Gecko shrugged. “Maybe whatever the guy had on his phone was important enough to make the mob desperate. Desperate enough for this level of overkill.”
“A lot of people have important crap on their phones. We've got a third cyborg at large, Gecko. We need to talk to the staff here.”
My partner sighed at the thought of that. “You know they didn't see or hear anything. Just like everyone else.”
I turned to glare at him. We weren't letting this one get away. “We'll ask them harder this time. Come on.”
Our work done, we wrote down our observations and left the crime scene, heading back down to the lobby. The elevator was out of order, unsurprisingly; we assumed the stairs were still functioning. An unusual number of the hotel's guests ran upstairs past us as we descended; I shared a concerned glance with Gecko.[/QUOTE]
My browser is pretty slow.
What seems to the human eye as mild mannered Dick Johnson is in reality Porn-man! The Pornographic superhero! Bitten by a radioactive porn star, Porn-man has devoted his life to stop crime and deliver sweet justice to those who have been...naughty. Using his special ability to turn every situation into a porno, Porn-man brings peace, prosperity and entertainment to the citizens of Schlongsdaile!
last night i dreamed my wife was dead, but it was alright.
I couldn't give two fucks about about anybody or anything on this planet and the reason for that is because I find everybody's intelectual intellegence far less superior than that of my own, so I couldn't give two fucks about what happens to anybody or anything on this planet. In all honesty if something does happen to you, I won't care either, I don't care if anything bad or anything good happens to you, I'll praise you, yeah, but I'm not gonna care. I may empathise I do but I really won't, so here's a word of advice, you can comment on this and say anything you want, but I won't care, nor will I comment back on the feed.
Just know this, if a zombie apocalypse happens, and I hate you all, if you all become zombies, do not think I will not hesitate to kill you, because as soon as I kill you whilst you're zombies, I will take your bodies and make a house out of them and paint it with your very blood, I will not care, I actually look forward to a zombie apocalypse myself. A lot of people do, in fact, if a zombie apocalypse happens one of two things I'm doing is either: A, going around surviving, possibly killing off people who just got bit, maybe people who haven't even been bitten I won't care, but I will definitely be killing people who are already bitten, infected and trying to eat me, I will not care, I will not hesitate, you will die, over and over again. I will make sure of that myself.
The zombies are actually my forte, I have an arsenal of weapons down in my room, that I will keep. Oh thanks for that Alex, this is just like watching two pre-schoolers fight. It kind of was which was very interesting, but the zombie apocalypse, I welcome you, gives me a reason to do perfect murder, kill someone who isn't infected and say they were infected, they'll believe it too, because as soon as they're dead, a zombie will sense if they're another one of them or not, because the decaying rotting flesh that is on they're bodies. So, I don't care about any of you just out there right now, I may look like I do, but I honestly don't.
I hope i'm never as pretentious as some assholes.
Every day I think of weird scenarios, and today I thought of a father who was increasingly becoming unhappy. I want to write them down just so I don't forget them, but I'm not that great at writing.
"Doctor, I've been feeling a little weird. I've got a happy life, you know. I've got a wife and kids, and I can pay the bills, but something is starting to eat away at me. There's something inside of me that I just can't describe - I don't know how to say it. But I'm looking around, and I guess my big secret is I can't look at people anymore. I can't look at my family, or my boss, or my friends. They're all disgusting. Everyone is just disgusting. And I mean that figuratively and literally - I feel like we're all just animals with impulses and an ego. And it makes me sick, and I feel like I'm the only one that sees it. But I know I couldn't do a damn thing about it because I'm no better. Everything I do is truly revolting."
"How long has this been going on for?"
"I don't know, probably something like a month or two. At some point you just feel distracted - nothing changes so you stop paying attention to the time. You block out the details and hope it goes away, but it doesn't. I just don't feel like the day is changing anymore - the name is arbitrary and gives the illusion of change but nothing changes. Everyone talks about tomorrow as if it is a new day but the reality is that tomorrow [I]is [/I]today.
It's so easy to be distracted at that point. I get distracted a lot when I'm behind the wheel, for instance - I just zone out. I forget that I'm here - I become an automaton and my mind is somewhere else. I've been distracted by the thought that - well, I could never tell my wife how I feel."
"How do you feel?"
"That I hate her. That I've learned to hate her smile. I don't know how she does it. The world is falling apart and every morning I wake up to her smile. There's no guilt. She's not ashamed. She's not afraid. She loves me, and I hate her for it."
"Now, why do you think that is?"
"You would only marry someone if you didn't trust them to never leave you. Marriage brings the government into personal matters in a way that gives her the legal gun to my head. She owns a piece of me - I can't leave with all of my stuff. There's legality determining how much I'm worth and how much she's allowed to have of me after the fact - and only because we've learned that stacking things in front of the door is what love is. People think love is asking another person to "sign here to prove your love". That's not love. That's documentation. That's law and that's disturbing. It's not human. I don't know what it is but it shouldn't be normal."
"But you agreed, didn't you?"
"As I've explained before, I'm no better. A part of her belongs to me. And I am rewarded for my efforts. She provides sex, food, a clean house, and two healthy children. She takes a lot of the stress out of being a man by doing it for me in compensation for my salary, part of my worth, and my name. And every day of my life I feel so guilty, but I'm more willing to be comfortable and confident in my broken surroundings than to risk everything. You wouldn't trust a rabbit hole, would you?"
The robotic conscripts had tried to process what had just happened in front of them.
Isaac, their head commander, had just used a sword to slice the limbs off an enemy combatant bot from their opposing Apex forces. At least, a dummy of one.
"You see here that this Apex bot is now neutralized. It can't reach for its weapon when it doesn't have arms to begin with. With this being said, it is now essentially a stationary computer. With that in mind, it can be collected and tinkered with for information. Base locations, movement plans, and a whole lot more important stuff." One of the conscripts raised their hand. "Commander, the sword has such a small range compared to our rifles. If we were to attack them head-on like that, we'd be desecrated in mere minutes!"
Isaac nodded. "True. That's why I offer using these melee weapons as a mere alternative. A back-up weapon, even. If you ARE attacking them head-on and run out of ammo entirely and can't find any form of ammunition, just get out of there with the sword. If you know exactly where to strike, you can disable practically any foot-soldier you come across, granted you attack before they do."
Another hand shot up. "Commander, say if the enemy had their own swords, or used one of ours against us, and took off an arm or leg?" Isaac hadn't quite thought of that, but lit up once he recalled something important. "This may seem a bit morbid, but if you lose a limb, you could just detach one from a fallen bot and attach it to yourself. Plug-And-Play systems like that is what made Babel robots like us easy to produce. One could even raise the age old question, 'If a robot replaced all his limbs with someone else's, is it the same robot?' However, we don't have the time to get philosophical. The raid is at sundown."
(Writing at 2 in the morning is weird.)
"Did you sleep well?"
"No, I made a couple mistakes."
"With pecs like these, who needs T I D D I E S"
I like using everyday objects as insults
"YOU FUCKING DOLE BANANA"
"You goddamn potato."
"You greasy elbow"
Sometimes when I'm pooping I think about how my poop flies around the pipes. I contemplate the motion it feels as it shoots down the tubes to it's final destination. How does it feel to be the waste of a human, to know that the entire life cycle of food. Being such a pretty arrangement of greens and meat, but to turn into a brown lump getting chucked into the sewage system. It sucks I suppose.
3=======================D~~~~~~ O.O
Silent penisese
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