let me tell you a story

The Something Awful Forums > Archives > General Bullshit > let me tell you a story

Dang It Bhabhi!: May 27, 2004; ASK ME ABOUT
BEING
ESCULA GRIND'S
#1 SIMP

here goes:

Now nothing exciting ever happened at Charlie's except when Harvey came in. Harvey was a prominent, devout, deeply committed, totally involved, commode hugging drunk. He dealt mainly in small numbers. He'd steel hubcaps off Peterbilt Diesels in the A&W parking lot and fence them at the Western Auto Store. He'd dynamite catfish in copious commercial quantities in the Little Econalhatchie river and sell them in bulk to the Howard Johnson's for scallops. Cut em out with a copper tube. But he was chiefly celebrated among the populous of our community for having imported into our thankful midst a young woman of sporting morality. An inconscienable asthete by the name of Marita, who had been drummed out of high rolling society in Phoenix City, Alabama, after her health card had been punched so many times it dissapeared into thin air. And this Marita considered herself an interpretress of the modern dance. And lo, when ever the dulcet and melifluous tones of Ms. Peggy Lee were heard to resonate upon the Werlitzer, singing that grand old American standard, Fever, Marita would lose herself in engaging series of peregrenacious pirohuettes and bumps and grinds, calculated leave even the most diffident of observers frought with horn.

On this particular night, Harvey and Marita, and a randy retinue of rednecks came stompin' into Charlies's. All the local good 'ol boys were bellied up to the bar, snapping the suspenders on their big dads. Their left hands up raised in that fervid type of monodigital articulation, which bespeaks an argument in progress about the relative merits of posthole digging attachments for John Deere vis-a-vis International Harvester tractors. They turn about and beheld the entry of Harvey and Marita, and in a great man-swarm gaggle of arcadian underachievers, they sloughed crabwise over the polished floor of that gaming establishment, stoking the juke with legal tender in such a manner that Peggy Lee's Fever played 92 times.

And Marita so lost herself in a transcendental evocation of her timeless art, struggling gamely as it were, up the Olympiad of her sensiblity, that she shucked her duds right on Charlie's gerazo floor. That's the second most exciting thing that ever happened around the turkey farm after the great massacre of '53. I responded to this visual phenomenon of unslate carnality by instantly proposing marriage to a one eyed waitress who happened by. I didn't want to get into anything heavy, I just wanted to set up light housekeeping in a pup tent in the parking lot till closing time. I was out there with my borrowed ball peen hammer, and my steel tent stakes, putting that mother up in the asphalt. Some fool run over my foot with a pickup truck, emptied out his ashtray in my sleeping bag, peed in my cook fire. And the woman rejected me, so I had to go home and write this drat song. I just wanted you to know the true story so you'd understand where art comes from.

On that night of nights there were a mess of us knocking around Charlie's, scarfing up huge quantitites of an Appalachian ambrosia concocted by a craven mis-crim named Motlow, who along with a hand-picked group of charcoal filtered felons, from Moore county Tennessee, turns this fire-water in what is rumored to be short supply. Although armed with approximately eight dollars and the address of any whiskey store, I've never yet failed to find at least five shelves groaning under the weight of these rare square bottles. I'm not talking about Jim Bean, I aint talking about Ezra Brooks, JW Dant or George Dickel. I'm talking about Tennesse sour-mash sipping whiskey. I'm talking about Jack Daniels Tennesse sour-mash sipping whiskey, and this is the old Black Label Blues!
begins song. . .

# ? Jul 29, 2015 05:48

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# ? Apr 25, 2024 20:58

ghlbtsk: Apr 19, 2005; these bath mats
are
GORGEOUS

the best part of this story was when

# ? Jul 29, 2015 06:01

Vorik: Mar 27, 2014

fyodor posted:

here goes:

Now nothing exciting ever happened at Charlie's except when Harvey came in. Harvey was a prominent, devout, deeply committed, totally involved, commode hugging drunk. He dealt mainly in small numbers. He'd steel hubcaps off Peterbilt Diesels in the A&W parking lot and fence them at the Western Auto Store. He'd dynamite catfish in copious commercial quantities in the Little Econalhatchie river and sell them in bulk to the Howard Johnson's for scallops. Cut em out with a copper tube. But he was chiefly celebrated among the populous of our community for having imported into our thankful midst a young woman of sporting morality. An inconscienable asthete by the name of Marita, who had been drummed out of high rolling society in Phoenix City, Alabama, after her health card had been punched so many times it dissapeared into thin air. And this Marita considered herself an interpretress of the modern dance. And lo, when ever the dulcet and melifluous tones of Ms. Peggy Lee were heard to resonate upon the Werlitzer, singing that grand old American standard, Fever, Marita would lose herself in engaging series of peregrenacious pirohuettes and bumps and grinds, calculated leave even the most diffident of observers frought with horn.

On this particular night, Harvey and Marita, and a randy retinue of rednecks came stompin' into Charlies's. All the local good 'ol boys were bellied up to the bar, snapping the suspenders on their big dads. Their left hands up raised in that fervid type of monodigital articulation, which bespeaks an argument in progress about the relative merits of posthole digging attachments for John Deere vis-a-vis International Harvester tractors. They turn about and beheld the entry of Harvey and Marita, and in a great man-swarm gaggle of arcadian underachievers, they sloughed crabwise over the polished floor of that gaming establishment, stoking the juke with legal tender in such a manner that Peggy Lee's Fever played 92 times.

And Marita so lost herself in a transcendental evocation of her timeless art, struggling gamely as it were, up the Olympiad of her sensiblity, that she shucked her duds right on Charlie's gerazo floor. That's the second most exciting thing that ever happened around the turkey farm after the great massacre of '53. I responded to this visual phenomenon of unslate carnality by instantly proposing marriage to a one eyed waitress who happened by. I didn't want to get into anything heavy, I just wanted to set up light housekeeping in a pup tent in the parking lot till closing time. I was out there with my borrowed ball peen hammer, and my steel tent stakes, putting that mother up in the asphalt. Some fool run over my foot with a pickup truck, emptied out his ashtray in my sleeping bag, peed in my cook fire. And the woman rejected me, so I had to go home and write this drat song. I just wanted you to know the true story so you'd understand where art comes from.

On that night of nights there were a mess of us knocking around Charlie's, scarfing up huge quantitites of an Appalachian ambrosia concocted by a craven mis-crim named Motlow, who along with a hand-picked group of charcoal filtered felons, from Moore county Tennessee, turns this fire-water in what is rumored to be short supply. Although armed with approximately eight dollars and the address of any whiskey store, I've never yet failed to find at least five shelves groaning under the weight of these rare square bottles. I'm not talking about Jim Bean, I aint talking about Ezra Brooks, JW Dant or George Dickel. I'm talking about Tennesse sour-mash sipping whiskey. I'm talking about Jack Daniels Tennesse sour-mash sipping whiskey, and this is the old Black Label Blues!
begins song. . .

what is this trash

marita sounds like an animal wtf she can't control herself and just busts out dancing whenever she hears music?

# ? Jul 29, 2015 06:13

Amorphous Blob: Jun 26, 2009; by Lowtax
(and can't post for 2 years!)

Now, this is the story all about how
My life got flip-turned upside down,
And I'd like to take a minute
Just sit right there,
I'll tell you how I became the prince of a town called Bel Air.

In West Philadelphia born and raised,
On the playground was where I spent most of my days,
Chillin' out maxin' relaxin' and all cool
And all shootin some B-ball outside of the school,
When a couple of guys,
They were up to no good,
Startin making trouble in my neighborhood,
I got in one little fight and my mom got scared,
She said
'Ya movin' wit ya auntie and uncle in Bel Air.'

I begged and pleaded with her-day after day,
But she packed my suitcase and sent me on my way,
She gave me a kiss and then she gave me my ticket,
I put my walkman on and said, 'I might as well kick it!"

First class, yo this is bad,
Drinkin' orange juice out of a champagne glass,
Is this what the people of Bel-Air Livin' like?
Hmmmm... this might be alright!

But wait, I hear they're prissy, booze-wine all that,
Is this the type of place they just sent this cool cat?
I don't think so,
I'll see when I get there,
I hope they're prepared, for the prince of Bel-Air!

Well a,
the plane landed and when I came out,
There was a dude looked like a cop standin' there with my name out,
I ain't tryin' to get arrested yet
I just got here!
I sprang with the quickness like lightnin', disappeared!

I whistled for a cab, and when it came near,
The license plate said "Fresh" and had a dice in the mirror,
If anything I could say that this cab was rare,
But I thought "Nah, forget it, yo homes, to Bel Air!"

I, pulled, up to the house about 7 or 8,
And I yelled to the cabbie "Yo homes, smell ya later!"
Looked at my kingdom,
I was finally there,
Sit on my throne, as the Prince of Bel Air.

# ? Jul 29, 2015 06:15

BeefThief: Aug 8, 2007

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MlZTIUFU9YE

# ? Jul 29, 2015 06:23

Enfield: May 30, 2011; by Nyc_Tattoo

once upon a time i fart

# ? Jul 29, 2015 06:25

Enfield: May 30, 2011; by Nyc_Tattoo

the end.

# ? Jul 29, 2015 06:27

PsionicAnt: Jul 16, 2001

did not even consider reading all of that

# ? Jul 29, 2015 06:30

BLARGHLE: Oct 2, 2013; But I want something good
to die for
To make it beautiful to live.; Yams Fan

let me in mom!!! posted:

did not even consider reading all of that

# ? Jul 29, 2015 06:33

TwoFire: Sep 11, 2001; by Ralp

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WwhxXjdMPd8

# ? Jul 29, 2015 06:55

lonesomedwarf: Mar 22, 2010

Amorphous Blob posted:

Now, this is the story all about how
My life got flip-turned upside down,
And I'd like to take a minute
Just sit right there,
I'll tell you how I became the prince of a town called Bel Air.

In West Philadelphia born and raised,
On the playground was where I spent most of my days,
Chillin' out maxin' relaxin' and all cool
And all shootin some B-ball outside of the school,
When a couple of guys,
They were up to no good,
Startin making trouble in my neighborhood,
I got in one little fight and my mom got scared,
She said
'Ya movin' wit ya auntie and uncle in Bel Air.'

I begged and pleaded with her-day after day,
But she packed my suitcase and sent me on my way,
She gave me a kiss and then she gave me my ticket,
I put my walkman on and said, 'I might as well kick it!"

First class, yo this is bad,
Drinkin' orange juice out of a champagne glass,
Is this what the people of Bel-Air Livin' like?
Hmmmm... this might be alright!

But wait, I hear they're prissy, booze-wine all that,
Is this the type of place they just sent this cool cat?
I don't think so,
I'll see when I get there,
I hope they're prepared, for the prince of Bel-Air!

Well a,
the plane landed and when I came out,
There was a dude looked like a cop standin' there with my name out,
I ain't tryin' to get arrested yet
I just got here!
I sprang with the quickness like lightnin', disappeared!

I whistled for a cab, and when it came near,
The license plate said "Fresh" and had a dice in the mirror,
If anything I could say that this cab was rare,
But I thought "Nah, forget it, yo homes, to Bel Air!"

I, pulled, up to the house about 7 or 8,
And I yelled to the cabbie "Yo homes, smell ya later!"
Looked at my kingdom,
I was finally there,
Sit on my throne, as the Prince of Bel Air.

wow, nice poem... i like it,

# ? Jul 29, 2015 07:54

lonesomedwarf: Mar 22, 2010

it even rhymes, i lkike this a lot, thanks for sharing.

# ? Jul 29, 2015 07:54

macky2dope: Jun 11, 2012; meow _haha whoa!!

tl,

dr

# ? Jul 29, 2015 08:07

CoolCat: Jun 29, 2015

Tl Dr

# ? Jul 29, 2015 08:18

whoflungpoop: Sep 9, 2004; With you and the constellations

i want to hear more pls

# ? Jul 29, 2015 08:36

Dang It Bhabhi!: May 27, 2004; ASK ME ABOUT
BEING
ESCULA GRIND'S
#1 SIMP

whoflungpoop posted:

i want to hear more pls

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VOwubkdCnCc

# ? Jul 29, 2015 13:05

Gasbraai: Oct 25, 2010; Lictor my Dictor

is the op worth reading? I don't have a lot of forums time and cannot afford to waste any on a boring op.

# ? Jul 29, 2015 13:06

Applewhite: Aug 16, 2014; by vyelkin; Nap Ghost

Too long

Therefore: Didn't read.

QED

# ? Jul 29, 2015 13:07

Dang It Bhabhi!: May 27, 2004; ASK ME ABOUT
BEING
ESCULA GRIND'S
#1 SIMP

Lunixnerd posted:

is the op worth reading? I don't have a lot of forums time and cannot afford to waste any on a boring op.

here is a summary:

quote:

And Marita so lost herself in a transcendental evocation of her timeless art, struggling gamely as it were, up the Olympiad of her sensiblity, that she shucked her duds right on Charlie's gerazo floor. That's the second most exciting thing that ever happened around the turkey farm after the great massacre of '53.

# ? Jul 29, 2015 13:09

Angela Lansburial: Feb 9, 2005; Nothing to see here.

Better Nate than lever!! haw haw, good one op!

# ? Jul 29, 2015 13:18

Sponge Baathist: Jan 30, 2010; by FactsAreUseless

fyodor posted:

here goes:

Now nothing exciting ever happened at Charlie's except when Harvey came in. Harvey was a prominent, devout, deeply committed, totally involved, commode hugging drunk. He dealt mainly in small numbers. He'd steel hubcaps off Peterbilt Diesels in the A&W parking lot and fence them at the Western Auto Store. He'd dynamite catfish in copious commercial quantities in the Little Econalhatchie river and sell them in bulk to the Howard Johnson's for scallops. Cut em out with a copper tube. But he was chiefly celebrated among the populous of our community for having imported into our thankful midst a young woman of sporting morality. An inconscienable asthete by the name of Marita, who had been drummed out of high rolling society in Phoenix City, Alabama, after her health card had been punched so many times it dissapeared into thin air. And this Marita considered herself an interpretress of the modern dance. And lo, when ever the dulcet and melifluous tones of Ms. Peggy Lee were heard to resonate upon the Werlitzer, singing that grand old American standard, Fever, Marita would lose herself in engaging series of peregrenacious pirohuettes and bumps and grinds, calculated leave even the most diffident of observers frought with horn.

On this particular night, Harvey and Marita, and a randy retinue of rednecks came stompin' into Charlies's. All the local good 'ol boys were bellied up to the bar, snapping the suspenders on their big dads. Their left hands up raised in that fervid type of monodigital articulation, which bespeaks an argument in progress about the relative merits of posthole digging attachments for John Deere vis-a-vis International Harvester tractors. They turn about and beheld the entry of Harvey and Marita, and in a great man-swarm gaggle of arcadian underachievers, they sloughed crabwise over the polished floor of that gaming establishment, stoking the juke with legal tender in such a manner that Peggy Lee's Fever played 92 times.

And Marita so lost herself in a transcendental evocation of her timeless art, struggling gamely as it were, up the Olympiad of her sensiblity, that she shucked her duds right on Charlie's gerazo floor. That's the second most exciting thing that ever happened around the turkey farm after the great massacre of '53. I responded to this visual phenomenon of unslate carnality by instantly proposing marriage to a one eyed waitress who happened by. I didn't want to get into anything heavy, I just wanted to set up light housekeeping in a pup tent in the parking lot till closing time. I was out there with my borrowed ball peen hammer, and my steel tent stakes, putting that mother up in the asphalt. Some fool run over my foot with a pickup truck, emptied out his ashtray in my sleeping bag, peed in my cook fire. And the woman rejected me, so I had to go home and write this drat song. I just wanted you to know the true story so you'd understand where art comes from.

On that night of nights there were a mess of us knocking around Charlie's, scarfing up huge quantitites of an Appalachian ambrosia concocted by a craven mis-crim named Motlow, who along with a hand-picked group of charcoal filtered felons, from Moore county Tennessee, turns this fire-water in what is rumored to be short supply. Although armed with approximately eight dollars and the address of any whiskey store, I've never yet failed to find at least five shelves groaning under the weight of these rare square bottles. I'm not talking about Jim Bean, I aint talking about Ezra Brooks, JW Dant or George Dickel. I'm talking about Tennesse sour-mash sipping whiskey. I'm talking about Jack Daniels Tennesse sour-mash sipping whiskey, and this is the old Black Label Blues!
begins song. . .

i aint reading this poo poo

# ? Jul 29, 2015 14:46

FlimFlam Imam: Mar 1, 2007; Standing on a hill in my mountain of dreams

If it doesn't start with "Dear Penthouse Letters: I never thought something like this would happen to me but..." I ain't reading it. :colbert:

# ? Jul 29, 2015 14:49

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# ? Apr 25, 2024 20:58

Windows 98: Nov 13, 2005; HTTP 400: Bad post

Posting in a fyodor thread

# ? Jul 29, 2015 14:51

The Something Awful Forums > Archives > General Bullshit > let me tell you a story