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Pivotal Lever
Sep 9, 2003

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Libelous Slander
May 1, 2009

... you're just creepy ...
:firstpost:

butt implants
Oct 16, 2004

i'm gay
:secondpost:

Fetus Tree
Feb 2, 2003
Probation
Can't post for 2 years!
:secondpost:

-Misfit-
Apr 20, 2005

I come in the name of Jesus Christ by the power of the holy spirit Bitch!
look at that fukkin grill

whoflungpoop
Sep 9, 2004

With you and the constellations

Enhydra Lutris posted:

Please do Not be Sarcastic with me; I know how Homosexual Couples choose who will be the Sodomite and who will be the Catamite; my Brother has explained this to me; the more Experienced of the Pair becomes the Catamite because they must do more Preparation (such as Douching [Washing the Anus prior to Penetration so that the Penis is not besmirched with Excrement]); if both are Equally Experienced then I assume that the Man with the Thinner Penis is the Sodomite; or the Man with the Lower Body Weight.


thanks ~Salmiakki~

Charles Bukowski
Aug 26, 2003

Taskmaster 2023 Second Place Winner

Grimey Drawer

Pivotal Lever
Sep 9, 2003

Mr Tastee posted:

I once gave a hobo 40 dollars because he kept asking for money and I couldn't say no. It's why I try to avoid carrying cash nowadays.

Charles Bukowski
Aug 26, 2003

Taskmaster 2023 Second Place Winner

Grimey Drawer

Kuato
Feb 25, 2005

"I CAN'T BELIEVE I ATE THE WHOLE THING"
Buglord

Knyteguy
Jul 6, 2005

YES to love
NO to shirts


Toilet Rascal




Nagato
Apr 26, 2011

Why yes my username is the same as an autistic alien who looks like a 9 year old from an anime, why do ask?
:nyoron:

i want this guy to be real but he claimed that he was a "Taxidermist, Piano player, and Illustrator of Educational Texts" which is a little too much for me

Charles Bukowski
Aug 26, 2003

Taskmaster 2023 Second Place Winner

Grimey Drawer

Life Loving Partner posted:

Holy poo poo how do I even begin. Was sitting at work listening to my mp3 player. It's dead because it was cold as poo poo and storming. I'm sitting behind my bullet proof glass next to my register just chilling. The rain stops and this regular looking guy appears.

Crazy Man: DO YOU GOT CIGARS?!

I told him I only had strawberry Phillie blunts

Crazy Man: THATS PERFECT, A PHILLIE CAUSE I'M IN PHILLY

He's screaming at this point, I'm like whatever, I can't be bothered with this screaming guy. He's got like 6 bank envelopes in his hand and manages to find a crumpled bill in one, tosses it to me. A split second later decides he wants a 2 liter soda instead of the blunt, I make the switch, it was after this insanity starts.

He lets me know that he's from outer space, a meteorite to be exact, and he's hear because his "sarge" wants him to check out Philly because it's so large. Right now, he's in outer space, and I'm on earth, because I'm inside. He said a gas station is a perfect place for a "gravity check" and that if I should want relief, I can leave and let him inside (hah!). I'm like "Ooooooooooooooookayyyyyyyyyy" because, whatever, this guy is genuinely loving Looney Tunes, and I had nothing really better to do, there were no customers.

He continues babbling about how dinosaurs aren't dead, just sleeping under the earth and that when we get tired, they'll come out and help us and be our friends, but we gotta be careful because they'll eat us and we won't see the sun anymore (until they poop, he then made a pooping noise/gesture/grunt and face). The earth is freezing over, so we have to be concerned with that.

You see, at one point the sun and moon had burned out and there wasn't enough fuel for them to be lit, so God had the dinosaurs sacrificed for fuel so we could have the sun because God loves us and the dinosaurs.

He then asked me if he had a hat on.

I told him "no", so he shows me a special hat his mother had made from the hair that fell out of her head before she died of cancer. It was some kind of feathery white top hat, like a raver would wear. This special hat let him turn into whatever color he wanted when he put it on. He then informs me that since his cane is made of coins, it can't be affected by gravity.

That's when customers started coming back.

Over and over he'd crowd the window during their transactions and babble. It was loving HYSTERICAL watching the white people squirm and try to reach their cigarettes from 5 feet away nervously eyeballing the crazy black man the whole time.

He takes his soda and lets me know, while shaking it up, that, "this is how we drink soda in space", then he opens it to an explosive fountain and tries to put his mouth over the cap and opening while he has a lit cigar in his mouth.

I decided at this point it might be a good idea to call the cops, 911 call numero uno.

I let them know I don't really have an emergency, but an apparent mentally ill man is crowding my customers and generally putting people on edge, can you please send a squaddy by to talk to him. I had asked him to leave a few times at this point, but he insisted on waiting for the 88 bus (which he had 5 minutes earlier watched pull up, stop, and drive by, saying he couldn't get on that one, it wasn't the FLYING BUS TO SPACE).

At this point he wants to know what year it is (?), I let him know it's 2006, he guarantees me flying busses to space by 2010, so look forward to that people!

He keeps peering around the store, asking me if I want to go to sleep so he can take over (yeah right) and that if one of us sleeps, one of us dies and one of us lives if the other sleeps

He pressed his face against the glass and raved over the cigarettes only being $4.30, because they're $7.88 in outer space, and I should give him that green pack of Marlboros back there because the invisible man sitting on his shoulder wants them, and he has to carry him on his shoulder all the time because he's so big (?).

Also, we have mechanical ants and cock roaches that are actually space craft carrying people like him, so the next time you step on one it could be metal.

It takes 25 minutes for the cops to show up, during this time he lets me know his father is deceased, he had died at the same time the pope died. He let me know that because of this, his father must have been the pope, he can conclude nothing less.

Also I was informed that m&m candies (which he called "niggers" twice) foretold the coming of the millennium because I quote "they are the best candies on earth and they're still in production". He also had quite a bit to say about Keebler elves and their cookies, and that a Keebler cookies was the only true way to know that you were back on earth because of how they tasted.

At this point I was just having a ball asking him questions, he had on this badge thing like a ski pass on his coat, I asked him about it, he said it was a bus pass and that there were all kinds of colors, red, green, blue that mean different things, his was orange, which meant "mentally ill", he also had a loving HOSPITAL BRACELET on. I'm thinking "holy poo poo, escaped mental patient" or something.

Finally, the squad car rolls around, the cops talk to him for a second, they tell him to get lost, he finally does.

Comes roaring back 25 minutes later, leaning on the customers again, freaking people out, stomping around and yelling about how Benjamin Franklin invented NASA and space travel with lightning rods. Finally he really spooked a customer buying gas by crowding her and mumbling into her ear, she looked loving FREAKED. I try to get him to leave again, nothing doing.

It was windy as gently caress outside, so he wanted me to re-light his cigar for him. So he leans all the way down and presses his face into the drawer and pushes the cigar up, so I light the dumb thing, and he's leaning in and mumbling about poo poo, and making faces at me like a crazy person, I got it in my head to have some fun with him. I told him I wanted to tell him a secret, so he says "what" and I said "I was the one who killed the pope", and he started freaking out like :hellnaw: and babbling about space again.

At this point I call 911 again, let them know I had just called before about a crazy person who needs to be rousted up again, and this time he was being disruptive and threatening. *3* squad cars roll into the lot 2 minutes later, one guy from the last time gets out and yells at him for a bit, telling him he was supposed to go a mile away. At which point the crazy man points at me and is yelling about how I killed the pope, the cop looks at me and I'm just like VV

They all converse while he's sitting in the back of the car and then split. I hope he gets help or something

Probably the most fun I'll ever have at this job, I should just quit tomorrow.

Knyteguy
Jul 6, 2005

YES to love
NO to shirts


Toilet Rascal

GC posted:

Right click > save as > earn you some internet skills

Nooner
Mar 26, 2011

AN A+ OPSTER (:
hey guysd, remember the cuck meme? lol


Charles Bukowski
Aug 26, 2003

Taskmaster 2023 Second Place Winner

Grimey Drawer
There is to my mind only one solution, my friend:
Lock your friend in a room with two hired soldiers and a keyboard. Give him the sheet music for "it's a small world after all". Have him try again and again to play it on the keyboard, with the soldiers jamming a razorwire-covered baseball bat up his rear end every time he hits a wrong note.
When he has perfected the tune, let him sleep, eat, and live a normal life. Then, every night for a year, have the soldiers wake him up at a random point in the night with the assbat treatment, holding out a casio keyboard until he plays the tune. Each time, they will remove the bat when he plays the tune.
After a year, he will be conditioned so that as soon as he gains consciousness after sleep, he will be driven by fear-installed instinct to play "it's a small world after all" as soon as he possibly can for fear of being manraped with a razorbat.
Allow him a few days to think things are fine, and then drug him to the gills by slipping a mickey in his soy milk.
Saw open his skull and remove his mind, keeping it on ice in your well-stocked lab. The brain should then be implanted into the grown body of a pig embryo given fragments of human DNA in order to give it arms and legs workable with human nerve impulses.
Before consciousness is regained, manipulate the porkmate creature into a tuxedo, and glue it to the seat of a colossal hellish organ. This organ's pipes should be lined with the still-living throat and lung tissues of battery-farmed pigs, their sedated but conscious heads still weeping from the top of the pipes, kept alive by the air flowing through the pipes and nutrients from underground vats.
Your friend will awake in the nightmare ghoulform of a remade human pig, and will desperately begin playing the organ. The organ will force air through the twisted, sore, splayed out vocal chords of the sad creatures impaled on its pipes, screaming out an infernal dirge of "it's a small world" in constant agony.
Your friend will soon realise he must keep playing to keep air flowing through the reconfigured lung tissues of his mangled brethren, but to do so keeps them alive in an existence of perpetual torture. He will weep with guilt, tears of blood from sore and ill-wired tear ducts, but he will keep playing.
His audience? seven thousand PETA members, each nailed into a coital position with the rotting carcass of a dolphin, while six-foot tall raven haired valkyries dressed only in thigh high boots and collars made from dog leather whip them with flails made from the intestines of kittens.
You and I shall each sit on titanic floating thrones of ebony, malachite and ossified whaleflesh, being pleasured at random by our own chained valkyries until your friend commits suicide by choking to death on his own bitten-off bacony tongue.
...
Hold on, I have to go and wank now.

Libelous Slander
May 1, 2009

... you're just creepy ...
This one is the "bad boy" of all patterns. Anyone who has studied SS and NLP and has come into contact with the Door pattern, has found it to be evil and cruel, playing on the fears and deep insecurities of women. To give you an idea of how bad this pattern actually is - even Ross Jeffries himself has denounced this pattern and says that he does NOT encourage anyone to use it.

So... as always with stuff like that... "for educational purpose only":)

The Door pattern originated by Alex Domnikov. Mindlist:

"Whereas most patterns are about getting a woman into bed, The Door is aimed at controlling her after you've started sleeping with her. Other patterns that you've used on her have anchored immense pleasure to you. The Door creates an anchor for the loss of that pleasure.

You've already had intercourse with the girl. The ideal setting for the power of the door, which is a power and control pattern, is right after you've had intercourse and you're in bed with the girl, and at this time hopefully you've set up the fact that you're also the man of her dreams and fulfil her emotional needs. You're fooling around in bed, you've already had a great time, and you go, "sweetheart, what's that over there?" and you point towards the door. And she'll say, "well you know, that's a door, silly." And you say, "yeah, you know.. I'm a real positive person, but.. I mean, can you imagine.. I mean, you don't know what can happen from day to day, when you think about it in your mind. I mean, what would happen if I walked out that door and the door closed and as the door closed, it slammed shut, and no matter what you did, you could not open the door and you knew that you would never be able to look into my eyes again and you'd never be able to hear my voice again and you'd never be able to feel my touch again." Ok, right here is where she starts going, "I don't like this door business at all." And at this time you just reassure her.. "ok, alright sweetheart, you're right. You really shouldn't think about the door and you really don't have to think about the door." So you go back to playing around with her some more. Have some more fun with her, bring her to another orgasm or whatever and say, "you know, a terrible thing happened the other day. My friend was hit by a truck. I mean, it was awful, by the time they got him to hospital he was dead. I can't believe it, you know? It's almost as if, it would be a horrible thing you know when you think about.." (point towards the door) "..that no matter even if you were to get that door opened and you were to search, that you could never find me again.." Then she starts freaking out. You calibrate more on that part of, "you will never be able to see me again, you'll never be able to hear my voice again."

"You'll never be able.. all that fun we had together, all those great times we had together, walking along the beach, hand in hand in the moonlight, we would never be able to do those things again and even if you were to open that door, you would search and you could never find." And she's at the point where she's saying, "no no I hate this door. Let's stop this door now, are you trying to upset me?" And you say, "oh, I'm sorry sweetheart, I'm just saying these are just things that are popping into my mind, ok?" So play around some more. Get her good and nice and hot again, fool around, have a good time with her, joke, and then then get back into the door and say, "you know, God, still you know, about life's tragedies.. I mean, I just keep on thinking how.." At this point you can already see that this is starting to make her feel uncomfortable. You want to create that sense in her that you can walk out and she'll feel terrible for the rest of here life. You want to anchor that response. I'll get up and she'll say, "well what are you doing?" And I'll say, "I'm going to the bathroom." I go up to the bedroom door and slam it. That right there will freak her out. Then I'll open the door and say, "oh, I'm sorry. You know, I'm sorry, I'm just playing with this door again. You know, you really shouldn't think about this door now and you really don't want to think about this door now."

Having anchored that sense of loss and pain to the door, you can trigger it whenever needed. Whatever negative behavior may come up that you want to stop, the first time you just get up and slam the door. Whether you walk out the door depends on the level of bullshit. On later occasions you can just indicate tbe door in some manner. The example Alex gives: If he's talking on the phone and getting any crap from her, and he knows the relation of where the door is to her desk, he says, "sweetheart, could you please turn right and take a look at what's over there.." and that was the end of the bullshit."

Ex-Priest Tobin
May 25, 2014

by Reene
I think you should bend her over a park bench and gently caress her with your stinking, rock-hard gently caress staff until she’s dead. Use your keys to rip her creamy little dick cavity to shreds. Smear the blood all over your face and shaft. Then, you should poo poo into her mouth. By this, you will show her that you are in the dominant position, and that you don’t care one way or the other about her behavior. It’s the next best thing to loving severing, which you should promptly do while you vote her life a five and give her rear end AIDS. Nuke her from orbit, but at the same time, make sure you’re using fire. I am a big fat human being. I like to pick my nose and put the boogers into my erect penis. I like to pee out little rods of my compressed penis booger. God is a human being. God is a friend of the family. The Lord God Jesus Christ is a worthless human being. I kill everything I see. I can’t stop loving. I wish I could have sex. I want to gently caress so bad. I can taste your loving vagina juice. I am a friend of the family. I am a stupid stupid fat loving friend of the family. God is Hitler’s human being. There is no such thing as a human being.

whoflungpoop
Sep 9, 2004

With you and the constellations

Nagato posted:

i want this guy to be real but he claimed that he was a "Taxidermist, Piano player, and Illustrator of Educational Texts" which is a little too much for me

he's real to me in here *points to good posting heart*

Libelous Slander
May 1, 2009

... you're just creepy ...
Debate and Discussion term for a form of logical fallacy wherein a claim is justified by way of an absurd hypothetical.

From the original post by HobbitGrease:

"Is there a name for this kind of fallacy, i.e. when you rationalize something with an unbelievable hypothetical? The reason I'm asking is that I keep referring to it in my mind as the Goku Fallacy because of this line from an SA review but I'm wondering if there's a proper name for it:

One guy sent me a long, angry flame mail about my Dragonball Z: Budokai review and ended his message with 'i bet you wouldnt be talking like this if goku really was saving the planet'"

Examples of the Appeal to Goku fallacy include the "ticking time bomb" scenario as a justification of torture, and justifying the Iraq War by way of Saddam seeking nuclear weapons in order to compete with Iran.

Nooner
Mar 26, 2011

AN A+ OPSTER (:
I cant find it but pretend i posted that M R CRACKER story about when he took a tank and killed bin laden or something

Charles Bukowski
Aug 26, 2003

Taskmaster 2023 Second Place Winner

Grimey Drawer
"Forum changes"
Are you going to add an option to turn back on the old look?
- MTW

We're going to have an option where you can click it and a parrot flies to your house and reads you all the threads and then explodes in a shower of candy and you have good luck for the next seven days
- Lowtax

Libelous Slander
May 1, 2009

... you're just creepy ...
Part I

Dr. Non was anxious to see the culmination of four long years of research and engineering. True, he didn't know exactly what it did, but it was bound to be spectacular. How could it not be? This was a device sent from the stars, its blueprints decoded from a mysterious radio burst originating light years away. Ever since Earth received it on June 6, 2004, an international team of scientists worked day and night in secret, seemingly with limitless resources, to make this device a reality. The public, no doubt, would resist such a gamble, so instead they hid the research under a mostly unknown and mysterious branch of science, claiming they were colliding subatomic particles to study the limitations of the Standard Model. The public knew it by the name Large Hadron Collider; its actual name, Halo, hinted at the project's celestial origins. Even so, there was speculation that the device could "end the world." Preposterous. Mankind probably had not even evolved when the signal was created; it was unlikely to be some weapon. Merely the musings of the uneducated masses concerned only with their own selfish existence, resisting great leaps for mankind such as this.

It was hard to hide his excitement during the weeks leading up to this, warming up the complex machinery that dwarfed the engineers. It was almost childish, but in light of this elegant device, we were but children. But today, today we would finally see what it does.

One of the assistants called out from behind a monitor, "Dr. Non, the readouts; something is wrong."

Dr. Non stepped briskly to the assistant. No, this would not do. We did not need anymore delays. "What is the problem?"

"The detectors are clocking the particles at superluminal velocities."

Fool. "Obviously there is a flaw in your program," Dr. Non waved at the monitor. "It is inconsequential to the experi-"

"Dr. Non, come quickly!" an alarmed voice called from across the room.

Can these men not do anything on their own? Must their hand be held through every bump in the road? Dr. Non wondered if other great explorations were hampered by such-

His thoughts were cut short when he saw the video feed from the chamber housing the CMS detector. Engineers were running, panicked, in circles. The detector itself had taken on an odd glow. Before Dr. Non could even begin to think of an explanation, the screen filled with a dazzling light. No...as Dr. Non turned away, he realized the blinding white was in the room, surrounding him. He couldn't see further than his hand in front of him... and that was too much, his hand was dissolving. He realized he should have felt horror, but he was oddly calm. In fact, he thought he heard a choir, a heavenly choir, which soothed him even as his flesh was ripped from his bone. Dr. Non turned back to where the monitor was, and he could see a dark figure in the light, a figure that seemed to grow.

My God, what have we done? The last thing burned into Dr. Non's retina before it, too, dissolved away, was the unmistakable figure of Ronald Reagan.

Part II

"...because of equipment failure, CERN has said that it will be shutting down experiments with the Large Hadron Collider until next spring. Bolek Wyslouch, an MIT physics professor who is working on the project, said today that problems arising at this point in testing what is the world's most powerful and massive particle collider should not be unexpected. He declined to comment further on the latest problem. In related news, the rash of suicides around the world blamed on the device has been steadily rising. Today's high in Kennebunkport will reach the 60's with lows tonight in the 40's..."

The radio broadcast went unnoticed, the former President's attention was focused intently on the document laid out on the desk before him.

"You'rrrre such a dirrrty girrrl," Bush panted, clawing the pages from the lingerie section of his wife's Sears catalog. But a cough interrupted his euphoria; he threw the magazine into a desk drawer, crying out, "Barrrr- I love my wife! Excuse me, I was- what arre you doing walking into my office without knocking, who do you-" His mouth fell open when he looked up and realized who had trespassed into his sanctuary.

"But...you'rre dead! I spoke at you'rre funerral!"

Reagan smiled mischievously. "Jesus taught me something up there: you can't keep a good Republican down."

"But, how...?"

Reagan waved the question away. "I thought, as my former right-hand man, you would want to be the first to know about... my return. Unfortunately, I come with bad news, too. You won't be my main man anymore."

"What? Why?"

"Don't act innocent. You betrayed America, you betrayed her people, you betrayed me."

"I did no such thing! I continued new worrrld orrderrr we built togetherrr!"

"When I was stricken with disease, I had believed that. But I have insight now. You betrayed America by not giving the evil empire its death blow when it was at its weakest. Now Stalinism has reemerged. You betrayed our people by raising taxes and allowing a Democrat to be elected president for the next eight years, doing untold damage. You betrayed me by taking advantage of my 'sickness' and hoping I would not notice."

"No, it pained me! I always admirred you! Rrrronald, I alrrready lost you once, don't make me lose you again!"

Bush fell silent to Reagan's raised hand. "But I did notice. Though I forgive you, I have already found another. One who is already making great strides to return the GOP to it's former glory. Together, we can return America to her rightful place in the world."

"You can't mean...!"

"I do, and I have no concerns of her mocking my policies behind my back."

Bush pulled a gun from his desk and leveled it at Reagan. "I won't let you do this to me!"

At that moment, Bush's sons, no doubt alarmed by the yelling, broke through the locked door into the room. They rushed to their father's side, but were not fast enough to wrestle the gun from him before he fired off a single shot.

Despite the efforts of immediate medical attention, the former president died that afternoon from a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head. There had been no sign of anyone else in the room.

Reagan sat perched upon a gable of the compound watching the confused rush of the EMTs below, tie billowing in the wind. "If only my visit with the rhino should go so well."

Part III

"So he sticks his dick a little bit further into her, and asks if she's sure she still wants to do this, and she says 'Aw'll oo any-ing ho a iddle ed rihicle.'" A smile crept over one side of McCain's mouth as embarrassed laughter and weak applause floated from the small audience.

The awkwardness of the situation was soon broken as the doors to the conference hall were slammed open. In fact, the event was forgotten entirely as the audience whispered amongst themselves in astonishment about the intruder that was striding to McCain at his podium onstage.

"President Reagan?!" exclaimed McCain.

Reagan chose to ignore the address, instead turning to the audience. Pointing at the nominee, Reagan boomed "This is the man you have selected? This is the man you think will defeat the Democrats at this trying hour? This is the man you think can lead this nation to glory it deserves? This self-proclaimed maverick?"

McCain quickly threw off his surprise, objecting "My policies are in line with the party's! Abortion, immigration, campaign finance reform, the religious right, torture, all my positions now fit it! I am a Republican. I'm loyal to the party of Abraham Lincoln and Theodore Roosevelt. Why wouldn't I be best?"

Reagan spun around and stared into McCain's eyes. "Because, you intend to commit treason."

"This is ridiculous! Who are you? What gives you the right to make such claims?"

"You intend to commit treason on behalf of the communists, as you were compelled to when you were captured in Vietnam."

"No! I hate the gooks! I will hate them for as long as I live!"

"I don't blame you for your purposes, you remained oblivious to them. They brainwashed you. Now it's up to you to do the right thing. Serve this country and step down."

"I worked years to get where I am! After so many set-backs, I'm finally given this opportunity! I will not yield. I will not flinch. I will fight. Fight! FIGHT!"

"Then I will have to take you down myself," Reagan sighed as he drew his katana.

McCain's face, a moment flustered for a second time, quickly hardened. "Sir, with all due respect, I was trained by the greatest fighting force in the entire world, the US military." In single, quick motion, McCain pulled out two combat knives from under his jacket.

"And I played one in a movie," Reagan retorted, leaping up to the stage. The crowd gasped as katana sang, and metal clashed with metal, and though Reagan was quick, each blow seemed to be struck aside by McCain's knives. Reagan panted, "Indeed you honor our nation's fighting forces. So, I almost regret exploiting your weakness." He concluded his statement by throwing his katana through the air. McCain was about to laugh as the sword obviously flew too high to even be a threat, but stopped short as it sliced through the lighting above him.

"Nooooo!" McCain attempted to shield his head, but was only able to get his arms as far as his chest. Someone in the audience screamed as the lighting swung down and crushed the senator.

A loose wire dangled beside Reagan, which he grabbed, and swung down to the audience, sparks still flying, and swept up the vice-presidential nominee Sarah Palin. "Palin, your efforts are admirable, your successes are stunning. Together, we can lead this country back into revolution, a revolution for betterment of all her true citizens. Will you help me? Will you help our country?"

Palin swooned. "Of course, Mr. Reagan."

The audience burst into wild applause and cheers. The golden age had arrived.

Charles Bukowski
Aug 26, 2003

Taskmaster 2023 Second Place Winner

Grimey Drawer
pantsfish posted:

Dear Kantaris,

First I'd like to say thank you for mustering your courage and posting your story in Creative Convention. Between all this "natural talent" and "good material" every now and then we need what literary types call "a sun-ripened catbox full of pig intestines" to relax with.

Second of all I'd like to say my thank you was insincere and that you are arguably the biggest human being to vomit his bullshit all over what is generally a good fiction forum. Without reading - without so much as scanning - this forum, you decided you'd drop off your Vin-Diesel-Meets-Monopoly-Man-Meets-THE-UNFUNNIEST-loving-BUNCH-OF-poo poo story off here so we would "appreciate" it for you.

Well guess what, Kantaris: Nobody appreciated this piece of poo poo. I read this and my balls shriveled up inside my stomach. This story is awful. It's so bad - so outright terrible - my finger's itching to go under your name and click the "permaban" button on principle. I won't do that because I have self-restraint, something you clearly lack.

How do I know you lack it? Because you shat this out and didn't even stop to think you might delete it before you embarrass yourself. You just thought "hey, I had this TOTALLY FUCKIN RANDOM conversation with my brosef at work, better post it up for them folks at that Creative Forum". If I were you, I personally wouldn't have the time or capacity to post this. Why? Because as soon as it came off my fingers, onto the keyboard, my hands would be occupied propping a shotgun under my chin.

You wretch. You low-down, yellow-bellied cocksucker. My one hope in this life used to be to gently caress Christina Ricci in one of those mirrored-ceiling hotels. Not now. You wanna know what it is? Do you? I hope - I pray to Christ, Kantaris - that I come across an auto accident involving you and your family. I hope that the last thing you see before you die is me impaling your newborn son's head on a broken part of your car's frame. I hope that the last sound that crosses the barrier to your ears before the lights go out is the splootching sound my erect penis makes as it repeatedly penetrates the gushing wound in your wife's throat.

And you know the worst part? You think this is funny. Something so bad has happened in your life that you looked at this and you were proud enough to think - just for a second - that this is something worthwhile. You know what, Kantaris? The people who write "Drawn Together" would snub this. Pictures of old women being violently raped with Medieval weaponry are infinitely funnier than this story could ever hope to be. I'd rather watch my chronically depressed mother swing neck-first from a ceiling fan than I would ever read this again.

You ruined my forum, Kantaris. You ruined my life's one dream. You ruined fiction. All in one fell swoop, Kantaris. I hope it was worth it.

Regards, you loving scoundrel,

Evan "Pantsfish" Wade

naem
May 29, 2011

Cream-of-Plenty posted:

"Which Friends character are you most like?" I ask my date. I'm a witty guy who uses humour as a disarming mechanism (and, some might say, as a tool to masking my crippling insecurity), so I'd most likely be Chandler. But I'm smart like a scientist, so I could also be Ross. Finally, I'm klutzy and adorable--just like a Golden Retriever--so there are certainly hints of Joey inside of me. "I'm basically Chandler, Ross, and Joey." I loudly proclaim this fact, because confidence is an aphrodisiac.

Every six months, Staples performs an employee review on me and gives me anywhere between a $0.30 and $0.50 raise. This last review, my "upsells" were so high that the manager bumped me up $0.65. The trick is to target older customers and mislead them on their purchases. Thus, it only took me seven weeks to afford a pair of Toto elevator shoes, which added five more inches to my height. The problem is that the shoes don't do much once you sit down, so I've also been growing my hair out and using Axe molding clay to stand it straight up, which adds several more inches. All-in-all, I'm pretty close to my goal of adding another foot to my height.

Women love it.

"These are really great breadsticks," I complement the breadsticks. I keep eating them because, hey, free food. "Nom nom nom...hah!" She doesn't get it.

Actually, I can't help but notice that my date sits a little straighter (and therefore higher) than me. As I try to fit an entire breadstick into my mouth and chew it without also biting my tongue, I carefully eyeball the top of her head. She follows my eyes and touches her hair. "What?" she asks.

I squint and chew harder. Louder. Faster. I lean in. She smells like...cinnamon? No, nutmeg. It's hard to tell. My nose is stuffed up so I have to keep my mouth open while I chew. I suddenly imagine the ball of bread rolling around in my mouth like a load of dirty laundry and it makes me want to throw up.

"I'll be right back," I jump up from my seat and jog to the restroom. When I get there, inspiration strikes me like a bolt of divine lightning. "Eureka!" I start balling up paper towels and stuffing them into the back of my pants--I think I fit half of a roll down there. Then I waddle back to the table and quietly take a seat.

She looks mildly shocked. Or perturbed? I don't know, women are hard to read. "Are you...are you alright?" she asks.

"Who? Me? Yeah. Of course." My rear end crunches softly on stiff brown paper towels while I use her forehead as a ruler and try to estimate the height that they have added to my position. Maybe an inch--not bad, not bad. I lean forward. "Do you think there's a difference between, like...anime and manga?"

Suddenly a sharp pain hits my stomach. The breadsticks. They're interacting with the pot of lukewarm coffee I drank earlier. I wince as I feel a burning sensation running through my intestines like a G-scale model train. An "uh oh..." escapes my lips before I can stop it at the proverbial gates. I don't think I'm going to make it to the bathroom. But the paper towels. "...spaghettiooooos..." I force a smile.

I imagine a beleaguered General Adama facing down a whole Cylon army with nothing but a handful of fighters and flak guns. He meditates on the coming battle before finally saying, Alright, here goes nothing, Colonel Tigh. I close my eyes, hesitantly relax my rear end, and immediately feel a warm burbling rise up between my legs, just like I sat down in a pool of sun-baked mud or bread dough. The sensation persists for what feels like an eternity--the duration of which I am entirely silent. When it ends--mercifully--I let out a soft sigh.

When I open my eyes, I realize something very strange: I have risen another inch or so and am now looking slightly downward at my date. It is the most shocking and beautiful thing I could ever conceive of.

They say, "When god closes a door, he opens a window." I don't believe in god, but if I did, I'd swear he was with me that day.

whoflungpoop
Sep 9, 2004

With you and the constellations
True Tales of rear end in a top hat: I hosed Myself Down The Drain

quote:

I decided it'd be fun to gently caress myself earlier this evening/morning. So I greased up Mr Sunshine and went to work. I had fun for 10 minutes and came. Then I was feeling the need to shower, so I did.

This is where things get graphic. Stop here if you don't want to cry.

Shortly after I started my shower, I felt a bit of matter coming out. Not terribly unusual, I just got done pounding my rear end. It landed on the floor of the shower. A few moments later I notice it's moving... strangely as it slowly gets washed towards the drain.

Last chance to stop. It's horriffic.

I nudge it with my toe and, to my horror, realize it's one piece. As in, a connected piece, as if it were... tissue. I think it's a bit of the outer layer of the colon. I feel like I'm going to pass out. I just crapped a piece of my rear end out of my rear end. I get it down the drain as quickly as possible and then sit down in the tub, I felt like I was having a panic attack. I'd had plenty of rear end sex before and not noticed this. Maybe this happened and I simply didn't notice it, or maybe the rear end "sheds" like this on its own occasionally, and no one really notices it (or admits they did). My rear end didn't hurt at all, but it does now, kind of, probably because I haven't stopped thinking about this horror for the last 90 minutes.

So the moral of the story is I really don't want to do this again. It makes me sad because I enjoy anal sex. Maybe others have heartier colons that I. But for god's sake, use condoms. If anything with a pulse goes in there, make sure it's sheathed.

Charles Bukowski
Aug 26, 2003

Taskmaster 2023 Second Place Winner

Grimey Drawer
A beautiful story

I was perusing My Documents the other day, looking specifically for a paper I did a semester ago. As usual, I found a graveyard of half-conceived ideas, stories I'd forgotten about, successful papers, failed papers, mediocre papers, and child pornography. No, wait, scratch that last part. However, while I was skimming through the bullshit, I noticed one file labeled simply "joshdig."

This confused me. What the gently caress was this? It sure didn't sound like a paper, and it sure didn't sound like a good name for a half-finished story.

My confusion was increased tenfold when I opened the file and began to read.

I have to explain what I think are the groggy circumstances of this composition. If memory serves (maybe?), I wrote this paper sometime around Christmas last year when I came down with a diabolical case of walking pnemonia. The dubious campus doctors prescribed several things that were supposed to fix it and didn't work, some things I don't think were meant for pnemonia but did work, and then finally something that worked. For example, they prescribed cough syrup with codine at first, and then amped it up to cough syrup with vicoden later.

gently caress if I've ever taken such drugs before. I had heard of them, of course, and had even had friends who mixed them with alcohol and even marijuana, but I wasn't willing to take a trip that might wind up with me losing every possible cavity's virginity I had, depending on how hard the trip was. I guess I'm just not hardcore.

I really don't remember much about how well the drugs worked, because those days are nothing but a mire of suffering and pain to me. Fundamentally, I don't know if they fixed anything, or if they were even prescribed for something.

I vaguely remember starting this paper. I think this was the first time I took the vicoden cough syrup, and I'm basing this on how the thing seems moderately plausible at first, and then degenerates into a stream of consciousness ride of utter madness and lunacy. Apparently I thought the idea of "burying" and "digging" as a hobby was downright hilarious. To be honest, isn't vicoden a sedative, so I should've been asleep by the end, and not a chimp with down syndrome?

Of course, maybe I just went literally insane for a while, and now I'm just blaming it on the drugs. Or maybe I was just plain drunk.

For the record, I wrote this when I was still in LAC, and I didn't get kicked out, I just stopped showing up. I only know Josh as a vague acquaintance, and haven't seen him in close to a year. He probably doesn't remember my name. I think he's an engineer or something, and he wouldn't even have anything to do with LAC, much less volunteer for it. Also, I'm pretty sure his hair isn't blonde, and since when are his forearms "rippling?"

And I did edit the misspelled words, grammar problems, and real names out of the thing. I think it makes it funnier, and also, there were surprisingly few. (!) But, no, his last name is not "Brewster," nor is mine actually "Norman." I should've made it something funny like "buttfuck," though.

I mean his name. Not mine.

Okay, whatever. Read at your own risk.

----------

In the Fall of 2004 I signed up for what was called the "Liberal Arts Committee," a collegiate organization of Liberal Arts students devoted to campus projects and school-wide events so that they can distract themselves from the fact that they have no useful skills to offer society whatsoever. Or at least, that was the pretense. At the time I was an idealistic young man who foolishly thought that, maybe, with the right effort, courage, and willingness to engage in devious acts on the most nefarious of levels, I would be able to maybe, just maybe, plant the seeds of my future into the fertile manure of college, and water it with daily with the fluid of dreams until it sprouted into the growth of promise, after which it would mature into leaves of success which could be smoked by the bong of retirement, and LAC seemed like just the lovely star to hitch my lovely wagon to. For you see, words like "committee" look good on a resume (or as the French call it, "the el resume"), and, if you follow Dungeons and Dragons rules, add + 4 to credibility and charisma. But then again, words like "liberal" and "arts" both subtract 3 points from reknown. But then you would be forgetting that the involvement the Liberal Arts Committee has with the Student Government adds a whopping +3 to all Universal Saving Throws. In the end, everything balances out, provided you have a respectable strength modifier and shower regularly.

Sadly, I was mistaken. LAC was not about engaging in campus events to distract ourselves from our painfully, painfully obivous worthlessness. Rather, it was a committee set up to talk about distracting ourselves from our worthlessness, and then make petty compromises about the most mundane and ridiculous of topics. Sometimes I wasn't even sure who people were arguing with. Sometimes they were arguing with themselves, making deals with their own self-worth, reducing such activites as fixing up homes for the elderly and poor to simply driving by the homes of the elderly and poor at a very high rate, and then maybe donating some petty cash to a small and dysfunctional charity, such as Debtor's Anonymous or The Molested Parrot Shelter of Greater Ohio, which would also be a pretty good band name.

Now, I am not an idealist, even though I just told you I was. That was a bold-faced lie. I also told you I was "young" and a "man," and I think I might've said thrown something in there about being the Herald of the Rapture, too. But, regardless, the truth is, I am not a determined, idealistic person. No, these here hands have spilled blood in every state from Colorado to Connecticut; sometimes my own, sometimes other people's, sometimes a mix of the two in what the Eutaw, Alabama Daily Times called "easily the most repulsive Easter Sunday in American history." But, still, I would much rather do something than just sit on my rear end talking about how I should be doing something, or sit on my rear end talking about how I am sitting on my rear end and scheduling later hours to come in and sit on my rear end and talk about doing something, which was usually the case. But that was exactly what we did all day, or at least what we were supposed to be doing. I mainly sat in the back of the room drawing pictures of monkeys in cowboy hats engaging priates in ruthless knife fights. If there's one thing those pictures taught me, it's never to trust a monkey who's skilled with a knife. Or a pirate. They truly are the scum of the earth. Also, cowboy hats are funny, especially if you add a jaunty feather.

So, towards the end of the Fall semester, I was disillusioned with the promise of success LAC had promised me. The whole thing just didn't look right to me anymore. Maybe it was the squabbling. Maybe it was the disorganization. Maybe it was the fact that I had gone legally blind from drinking too much. But either way, I would not stay. And, given the choice between either quitting or staying in for the long haul and trying to change LAC for the better, I chose option C, which was Going Down in Flames and being kicked out. I thought this was a great idea, namely because I'm too much of a coward to tell people I hate them, but never not enough of a jackass to miss out on inspiring their hatred and contempt on a massive scale. You might say that there's some flaw in that logic, or that there's just something gramatically wrong with that sentence, but then again you might also say that gravity doesn't exist and the force we perceive is just millions of invisible hands holding us down on the face of the earth every hour of every day. But if you said that, you'd be an idiot, and people probably wouldn't want to give you a home loan or something. I rest my case.

So when it came down to me to participate in interviewing new volunteers for LAC, the opportunity seemed too fat and plump to pass up, like a Wendy's or a Taco Cabana, but not like an Arby's because their roast beef is weird and they charge too much for their other sandwiches. They scheduled me to meet a Josh Brewster in one of the conference rooms in the Student Services Building. The board was set, and the pieces were moving, and there was nothing to fear but fear itself, and something about an iron curtian and drinking tea with glass in it.

"Dress nice," they said. "Act friendly. Ask personal questions. Get to know them."

Following the Geroge Costanza method of success, I showed up wearing a gin-soaked KISS ME I'M SHITFACED T-shirt and a pair of jeans a family of possums had recently vacated when conditions had become too awful for their lofty standard of living. I also stole my friend's sports coat at the last minute, just to class things up, but being that he was a giant fat guy it looked like I was wearing a very sombre circus tent. I figured that would add the perfect je ne sais quoi (German for "shattered feces") for the meeting. I took the volunteer dossier with me, along with plenty of crayons and a sharpie so I could draw a face on my hand and perform a puppet routine in front of the bathroom mirror should the whimsy take me.

As I waited, I read over the form this "Josh Brewster" had filled out. I immediately noticed the lack of headshots, and I noted this by writing "PIX PLZ" on the top of dossier and drawing arrows randomly pointing all over the paper indicating places where said pictures could conceivably go. I decided to rectify the situation myself, and made sketches of what I considered Josh Brewster might look like.

When he showed up, he immediately lost points for refusing to conform to the standards I set. Not only was he not 90 feet tall, but he also lacked the required scales, prosthetic limbs, and the ablitity to spew rich, creamy Hershey's chocolate. Instead, he was a tall, scrawny kid with golden curls, rippling forearms, and eyes you could get lost in for hours. Unstatisfactory.

"JOSH: 0," I wrote. "NORMAN: A BILLION."

"Come in," I said.

He smiled at me. What a fag.

"Are you Josh?" I asked.

"Yes," he said.

Too trusting.

"Take a seat," I said. As he did so I wrote "ICHIRO SUZUKI SUCKS BALLS" in the "date" portion of the dossier.

I glanced up.

"Are you sure you want that chair?" I asked.

He blinked and smile a little. "What?" he asked.

I looked at him for a moment, letting the silence slowly pregnante, and then smiled coldly, like the smile you give a lover just as you're leaving after sex, because you know you're going to take all the pizza with you on the way out the door and then not call.

"Nothing," I said. "It's nothing."

"I WOULD LIKE SOME PIZZA," I wrote in the "major" portion.

"Is that your shirt?" I asked him.

"Um," he said. "Yes."

I smiled and nodded sagely. "Good. Cool. All right." I stared at him for a moment, letting it go on just a little too long. I counted his blinks. There were seven.

"I tell you what, Josh," I said. "Can I call you 'Josh,' Josh?"

"Uh-"

"You seem like a straight shooter, Josh, so I'm gonna shoot straight at you."

"Okay," he said.

"Great," I said. "You look like a digger," I said. "Do you dig a lot, Josh?"

"What?" he said.

"You've got digger's shoulders, right there. Well-toned triceps and meaty deltoids, yessir, that's digger's shoulders. We have a lot of need for a man who can bury things around here. I'll be honest, the last four didn't cut it. They couldn't bury a dead cat, let alone a live one. I know, I followed them around for days in my van. They don't dig for pleasure or for sport. They don't even own their own shovel. Not even a pickaxe. You know, you can tell a lot about a man by the way he buries something, Josh. It's a crucial thing."

I leaned back in my chair and took out a highlighter. I cracked it open, removed the ink filter, and proceeded to smoke it like a cigarette. It might've looked odd to old Josh, what with how my face was dripping with pink ink, but I was deep in the heart of Flavor Country, headed for the local Flavor Saloon and then, more than likely, the Flavor Brothel to nail some Flavor Whores in their Flavor Asses, and then I'd probably try and skip out paying them the Flavor Money, which is pink, like everything else is there, and on the one Flavor Dollar bill is a picture of a woodpecker, but I don't know why. Josh wouldn't understand, what with his snooty, lack-of-chocolate-spewing attitude.

"Yeah," I went on. "Every once in a while a man has to go out in the woods and bury something. Sometimes a man buries a thing, sometimes a thing buries a man. Sometimes you're the thing, and sometimes you're the man, and I suppose sometimes you're the shovel, if the digger had managed to fashion a crude shovel of some sort out of your bones. It's the circle of life, that's what it is, Josh. I suppose if you were really determined you could 'bury' your way out of the hole the thing buried you in, but wouldn?t that just be digging, Josh?"

"Uh-"

"Yes, yes it would, Josh. And I will not tolerate digging here. That's one thing we have to get clear. I will not. Tolerate. Digging," I said, forcefully tapping the desk with each word.

"Didn't you just ask me-"

"No," I said. "I don't ask. I never ask. Instead, I 'put a question to you.' There's a difference. One's more aggressive. For example, what's the difference between me saying, 'I want to put the wood to you' and 'I'd like to ask you to gently caress me?' The difference, Josh, is that one doesn't translate well into Welsh, while the other is downright delightful. That's the difference, Josh, and that's what makes LAC different. You have to think outside the box, think about the tone of questions. Always think outside the box, Josh, especially if you're burying it, because the dirt's what's outside the box. Just you and the dirt and the shovel. Also, you probably don't want to look inside the box, because more than likely you were told specifically not to, and it's probably all freaky and crazy anyway. And if you do, then what do you do when that big fat Hawaiian guy finds out and comes after you by the side of the road with a beretta?"

Josh stared at me so hard I thought his eyes were going to fall out. If that happened I was going to jump over the desk and punch him right in the face, because there's no better time to punch a guy than when he's got no eyes. He won't see it coming, unless his eyes are still capable of relaying thoughts to his head even when they're separated, like they're little wireless cameras or walkie talkies or something, and that's just plain nuts.

"I'll tell you what you do, Josh," I said, "You lead him into the woods with a series of deceptive bird calls and then you wait for dark, and then you kill him with a shovel. Then you've got two things to bury, Josh. All because you wanted to look inside the box. And what did looking inside the box get you, Josh? Did knowing that that Hawaiian guy wanted to bury a severed clown's head make you a better person? Huh, did it, Josh? I don't think so. Not at all. Now, I'm not saying I have a problem with clowns, Josh. I love clowns. Do you love clowns?"

"gently caress, yes," Josh said. I noticed he was breathing hard and quivering slightly. "I love clowns."

"Hmm," I said, and wrote, "M-O-O-N, THAT SPELLS EAT poo poo" in the line that read "applicant's signature"

"I love clowns," I went on when I was done. "I love them to death. Not physically, mind you. I don't care for the greasepaint. No, I love them for the entertainment. I just think they should get taxed more than regular folk, because they terrify children, and dammit, that's my area of expertise. I don't see why they should get paid to terrify children and I shouldn't. Why, if I had my way, I would lead them all out into the woods at night with a series of deceptive bird calls and them kill them one by one, BANG!" I said, hitting the table with my fist. "RIGHT IN THE BACK OF THE HEAD!". I'm fairly certain that at that moment Josh poo poo his pants. If he didn't then, he sure did later. I demonstrated the edge and angle of the shovel with a chop of my hand. "Not a lot of people can take a shovel in the back of the head, Josh. You think a clown might be able to, what with all the big curly red hair, but that's no cushion. Maybe it would be, if the hair was made out of steel wool, but who would want that? The hair would scatch up the other clown's crotches when they sat on each other's shoulders! And that's just awful, isn't it, Josh?"

"Yes," Josh said, but his voice was very hoarse.

"Do you think you can take a shovel to the back of the head, Josh? Because I can guarantee you can't. I've had people bet me they can take a shovel to the back of the head, but they never can. They never bet me with 'words,' so to speak, but they bet me with actions. By, say, cutting me off as they merge onto the highway, or being female and fairly attractive and not giving me any attention. It's the abstracts that matter, JoshShovel. It's the abstracts that matter in life, and it's the abstracts that matter here at LAC. At least I think they matter, but to be honest, I'm not sure what LAC does. When I joined I thought it was a lifeguard training organization, or maybe an elite Burying Things Organization, but instead all they do is get all red when I yell and then they ask me to leave. I think I was supposed to ask you some questions here, Josh, so I guess I better get down to that. First off, where do you live, and how many windows does it have that are accessible from the street?"

But when I looked up, Josh was long gone. All that was visible of him was his non-scaly backside fleeing into the neon corridors, running at a full sprint. That was a shame, because I wanted him to watch my puppet show. I would've even paid him in Flavor Dollars.

Within two weeks, Josh was safely concealed in a police safehouse, and I was dead.

gnarlyhotep
Sep 30, 2008

by Lowtax
Oven Wrangler


Pivotal Lever
Sep 9, 2003

Knyteguy
Jul 6, 2005

YES to love
NO to shirts


Toilet Rascal

quote:



remember when this was posted

gnarlyhotep
Sep 30, 2008

by Lowtax
Oven Wrangler

Knyteguy posted:

remember when this was posted

yeah, I goldmined it :agesilaus:

Dubious
Mar 7, 2006

The Heroes the Vikings Deserve
Lipstick Apathy
Frankie

naem
May 29, 2011

Nagato
Apr 26, 2011

Why yes my username is the same as an autistic alien who looks like a 9 year old from an anime, why do ask?
:nyoron:

Charles Bukowski posted:

A beautiful story
unlike a lot of gbs, this has aged well

gnarlyhotep
Sep 30, 2008

by Lowtax
Oven Wrangler
http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?threadid=3689314

Wintermutant
Oct 2, 2009




Dinosaur Gum
I was digging around in the archives recently and was looking at this thread:

http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?threadid=107606

A pretty unremarkable thread until I checked the link and saw that Amazon still has one of those things for sale 14 years later:

http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/B00005QEG7/qid=1009674106/br=1-2/ref=br_lf_vg_2/107-3650796-3579739

And that's my retro posting story. It would be a much cooler story if that company also made post enhancers.

Tubesock
Apr 20, 2002




http://www.somethingawful.com/hosted/firemancomics/otherart/eurocall.swf

Knyteguy
Jul 6, 2005

YES to love
NO to shirts


Toilet Rascal
https://web.archive.org/web/20010220191024/http://forums.somethingawful.com/

Hogge Wild
Aug 21, 2012

by FactsAreUseless
Pillbug
http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?threadid=3594071

the birth of cuck

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Pivotal Lever
Sep 9, 2003

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