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Get ready for possibly the weirdest thread you've ever seen.
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| # ? Oct 9, 2009 06:18 |
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| # ? Sep 6, 2017 20:07 |
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there will be cum. dumpsters packed to bursting with cum.
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| # ? Oct 9, 2009 06:25 |
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holy poo poo ground floor
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| # ? Oct 9, 2009 06:29 |
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a posting supernova
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| # ? Oct 9, 2009 06:30 |
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.
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| # ? Oct 9, 2009 06:30 |
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tektronic posted:holy poo poo ground floor
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| # ? Oct 9, 2009 06:32 |
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Oh man, my dogs are BARKING No, seriously - my gf just came home and they're going nuts.
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| # ? Oct 9, 2009 06:34 |
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Starshark posted:Oh man, my dogs are BARKING her pussy must smell
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| # ? Oct 9, 2009 06:43 |
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oh man oh man oh man
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| # ? Oct 9, 2009 06:45 |
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Almost 30 minutes and still nothing what the gently caress!
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| # ? Oct 9, 2009 07:02 |
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ground floor awaiting the Joycean masterpieces that lie in store for us all
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| # ? Oct 9, 2009 07:06 |
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lungfish post in this thread so i can burn you
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| # ? Oct 9, 2009 07:13 |
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chumming off the bow to stir the sight of some leviathan! pissing full into the bright warm wind, gently caress all off, the life for me is here, hear hear! there's no sense saving it! no sense severing it – either or – is there now? what of it if there is? let's assume we build a colony of ants, a large one, big as a house, watch them for years as they burrow and train their tiny tunnels into a working model of a brain, not just any brain, a vast and fine and formidable brain to formulate the answers to the greatest of the great imbalances in the world, that is (that are) all mathematical and never, never once easy peasy japanesey, except the bomb, and wouldn't you know we got that wrong? but instead these ants will burrow a ballsack and that's the way that progress goes: always eyes-down back to the crotch, always back to gently caress gently caress loving, even the ants know that because they are industrious, so are we, but they're good and honest and wouldn't-you-know, sad sack, sagging down below the hemline, hanging loose and light and swinging free, balls like a pendulum, killin' time and swingin' fine. no matter! no worry! no need to hurry into a bad situation. the deck is stacked against me full here and that memorable mass is tucked back tightly, posting at Dali with a box of crayons and a sheet of transitory tracing paper dotted with notes splashed down on some strange winding bar. tender trembling dignity, that's it! quaking through the shell with all the frankness of a hatchling chickadee my heart must fist and jut out through my ribs! some steely new warrior plunges out and sputterthumps its last against the flicker of a screen, stabs out at this: blank white space/vast white whale/small sick lump of speech, extends and distends and flails in the void between me and you and me and all of us and me and me and who will read its splattered exigencies or know or begin to know the throb that snatches my legs and hands and pulls me from my seat into animal ecstasy and rips my scars and forges letters from ancestors to their bewildered children who, expecting an inheritance, are left shredded when all the words stop coming and the fuckall dollar signs come flimsy and false again. mind your ps and qs! its postin time!
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| # ? Oct 9, 2009 07:30 |
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infrateal's style is legit not a single post ever screams “poo poo” but when he goes to pinch one out pops thomas pynchon i wonder how ever he fit?
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| # ? Oct 9, 2009 07:31 |
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an A.I. posted:Almost 30 minutes and still nothing what the gently caress! fyi i'm taking the day off tomorrow to throw a party but i think infrateal has to work so hold your horses you meddlesome tinman
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| # ? Oct 9, 2009 07:33 |
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these posts must be crafted delicately woven from the finest threads of abstract thought spun into a cohesive web of visceral thoughts
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| # ? Oct 9, 2009 07:36 |
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a haggard horse and rider canter gracelessly in a barren waste. the smoke and soot of distant fires raging sweeps low and fast along the frigid chaparral, choking rodents and searing the few desperate stalks of grass, guarding moist patches like forgotten shutins, waving and bowing and spitting up blood, bending to stab at the dust, the silent earth raped by broken reeds the rider passes, his cracked lips moving with bestial angularity... clipclopclipclopclip clipclopclopclopclip lipclopclipclopclipc opclipclopclopclopcl pclifuckclipclopclop clyoulopclipclopclip lopclipinfrateallopc ...from around those distant fires, the sound of drums, the unnatural heartbeat of this undead place...
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| # ? Oct 9, 2009 07:48 |
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Hermetian posted:there will be cum. dumpsters packed to bursting with cum. i'm not going to make the obvious cum dumpster burn here because i don't know enough about you and i'm going to give you the benefit of the doubt
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| # ? Oct 9, 2009 07:56 |
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this is gonna be one for the record books
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| # ? Oct 9, 2009 08:00 |
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gettin up in this heezy
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| # ? Oct 9, 2009 08:03 |
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fsad can you just close the rest of lf for the next three days? because any posters with more than 3/4 of their pre-frontal lobe intact are going to be in here anyway (sorry lobotobuddies, don't mean to exclude you)
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| # ? Oct 9, 2009 08:12 |
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LO'GOL LAKHAINU ARIOCH ARIOCH LAKHAINU still and draped with sackcloth sniffing sweet incense wafting from a cracked thracian thurible, the herald of arioch incants her chaotic evil lord into being, rolling D20s and postin bones, a curvy goonette done gone and got wet for this tenebrous totemic beast!! KAL NOKHA'DIN ARIOCH ARIOCH NO KAIDANU a thousand burnt stenches flood the basement as from behind the water heater emerges ARIOCH LORD OF CHAOS whose empty gaze and clouded countenance are ever-shifting! in the thick forgotten tongue of gods and monsters buried in the pits of deepest memory he screams in a chorus of voices with the agonal misery of millennia pressed into a deafening moment and collapsing on himself, crumpling to the floor and clawing the dewy cement, he finds his way to his herald's side and whispers to her, now tender as a lover: infrateal is a dick e; sleeeeepppppppsleep 
the heebie-gbs fucked around with this message at Oct 9, 2009 around 10:00 |
| # ? Oct 9, 2009 08:16 |
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the heebie-gbs posted:chumming off the bow to stir the sight of some leviathan! pissing full into the bright warm wind, gently caress all off, the life for me is here, hear hear! there's no sense saving it! no sense severing it – either or – is there now? what of it if there is? let's assume we build a colony of ants, a large one, big as a house, watch them for years as they burrow and train their tiny tunnels into a working model of a brain, not just any brain, a vast and fine and formidable brain to formulate the answers to the greatest of the great imbalances in the world, that is (that are) all mathematical and never, never once easy peasy japanesey, except the bomb, and wouldn't you know we got that wrong? but instead these ants will burrow a ballsack and that's the way that progress goes: always eyes-down back to the crotch, always back to gently caress gently caress loving, even the ants know that because they are industrious, so are we, but they're good and honest and wouldn't-you-know, sad sack, sagging down below the hemline, hanging loose and light and swinging free, balls like a pendulum, killin' time and swingin' fine. no matter! no worry! no need to hurry into a bad situation. the deck is stacked against me full here and that memorable mass is tucked back tightly, posting at Dali with a box of crayons and a sheet of transitory tracing paper dotted with notes splashed down on some strange winding bar. tender trembling dignity, that's it! quaking through the shell with all the frankness of a hatchling chickadee my heart must fist and jut out through my ribs! some steely new warrior plunges out and sputterthumps its last against the flicker of a screen, stabs out at this: blank white space/vast white whale/small sick lump of speech, extends and distends and flails in the void between me and you and me and all of us and me and me and who will read its splattered exigencies or know or begin to know the throb that snatches my legs and hands and pulls me from my seat into animal ecstasy and rips my scars and forges letters from ancestors to their bewildered children who, expecting an inheritance, are left shredded when all the words stop coming and the fuckall dollar signs come flimsy and false again. mind your ps and qs! its postin time! those words have hot wet life breathed into them. those words have anima. three times i've read this, each pass steeling me against... whatever might threaten to tear me down. those words show an author strong as dirt. godspeed and god drat, those are good words.
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| # ? Oct 9, 2009 08:20 |
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wait does this mean they posted pics in the other thread? i'm dying to know what these two lovable weirdos look like p.s. i would like to request insult immunity from the two principles. leave me alone guys and i'll totally post a short story about a crocodile exploding or something. thanks guys
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| # ? Oct 9, 2009 08:26 |
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Duckbag posted:wait does this mean they posted pics in the other thread? i'm dying to know what these two lovable weirdos look like 
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| # ? Oct 9, 2009 08:32 |
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EDIT: too late!
NotJesus fucked around with this message at Oct 12, 2009 around 03:17 |
| # ? Oct 9, 2009 08:34 |
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the heebie-gbs posted:ahaha look at infrateal's little tusks. they're tiny! why doesn't he just go back to gbs with the other small tusked little babbies? vvv me laughing at infrateal's goony rear end tusks vvv 
Duckbag fucked around with this message at Oct 9, 2009 around 08:42 |
| # ? Oct 9, 2009 08:35 |
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this is already an awesome showdown
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| # ? Oct 9, 2009 09:49 |
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that's because infrateal's not here yet
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| # ? Oct 9, 2009 09:51 |
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just kidding, i love you infrateal, had to get that out the way
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| # ? Oct 9, 2009 09:51 |
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just putting out there that josh owns and anyone who even in a fit of fancy fleetingly thinks of burning that wonderful walrus can pack a portmanteau and set sail for the balmy urea-rank shores of gbs immediately
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| # ? Oct 9, 2009 10:20 |
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duckbag you are now obligated to post a short story in this thread - no fewer than 500 words - about a crocodile exploding as penance for bringing the sensitive subject of tusk length into an otherwise civil exchange. it's not the length of the tusk but the strength of the musk, boyo. get on that poo poo, post up some scaly shock-croc splattercore
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| # ? Oct 9, 2009 10:25 |
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yes!
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| # ? Oct 9, 2009 10:39 |
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gently caress you boyo deadwiggerstorage fucked around with this message at Oct 9, 2009 around 11:13 |
| # ? Oct 9, 2009 11:09 |
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the heebie-gbs posted:duckbag you are now obligated to post a short story in this thread - no fewer than 500 words - about a crocodile exploding as penance for bringing the sensitive subject of tusk length into an otherwise civil exchange. it's not the length of the tusk but the strength of the musk, boyo. get on that poo poo, post up some scaly shock-croc splattercore
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| # ? Oct 9, 2009 11:15 |
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one day, Alligator sinensis alleged that the croc of the lake was no croc, but a mock croc, a ghastly gharial, subdued and subcontinental, loosed from the bestiary in the estuary. that was how it began. the croc was a jock croc. he’d flayed his skin and sold it off as handbags to buy tougher skin to contain his rippling musculature, swaying side to side under the rippling water, his tail oscillating, begging lady crocs for osculations. evidently the tougher skin wasn’t tough enough to resist the alligator’s allegations. his wit was too rough to respond with something off-the cuff. so he retreated and treated himself to his mother’s teat. (he still lived with his mother and ate her eggs for breakfast, for he was no nimrod.) and he, nestled up with formulae in the nest between tectonic plates, technologically enhanced the bodger of his bonce, the stoutness of his snout, the gentry of his dentistry, until his mouth could no longer handle the tooth. and when he was ready and armed with such a mouth, a serrated sheath and scabbard of sorts, he approached the alligator. his jaws widened. a low, repetitive motif sounded in the score; the board lit up as the bugle sounded and the knees of the receiver buckled. surely the alligator would get his comeuppance. but crocodile am playgods. the croc had set the strength of his snout on a scale, an analog dial-o’-croc, and it was turned to 11 for retributive purposes. and the technology he had used to help himself now destroyed him. “oh, if only I had been an anarcho-primitivist,” he moralised as the tech of the mechacroc turned the megacroc into a beggarcroc. his jaws widened past the point of comfort, out of the first world and into the third world of pain. no mere “ow” did he utter, but rather a mantra of “mao, mao, mao”. this croc of steel was being torn from the neck down, his spine splitting, his face fracturing, his rectum rupturing. his old faithful blood geysered into the sky; clear to crimson turned the water; yellow to stone turned his heavily-recycled urine. the alligator saw the reversal of fortunes. indeed the croc was no croc, but no gharial was he either. an American alligator was he, for in amongst the red blood cells clouding the water were several terrorist cells, funded by the Croc Isomorphic Agency. and so the Chinese alligator turned on his imperialist oppressor, whisking waterproof dynamite – 20 tons of TNT – down the hatch of the navel-gazing naval-going napoleon soon-to-be-blownapart. Americroc had no mouth with which to scream, had no mouth nor mind nor clothes to be starving hysterical naked, just the thrash of his metal enhancements, a fire in his belly that grew and grew, incinerating and infernating, summoning Dante and Virgil, who mistook the spectacle for the tenth circle of hell, conflagrating and feeding the ice from underneath by some bizarre laws of physics. and the firelight grew and grew and grew until everything is illuminated. every point in the universe resonates to the croc’s permanent cessation of respiration. his metamorphosis from vermin to nothingness. the alligator dances the slaughterhouse jive. the onlookers screamed, showered in crocodile tears and half-digested robeless antelope (the croc’s naked lunch), and as the scales fell from their eyes they realised the tether whose end they had witnessed, the author of this great project of mayhem, would go down in history as one who tried for greatness and failed. the zybourne croc.
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| # ? Oct 9, 2009 11:15 |
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rows of stiffs neatly piled into the leanto, the starchy shuffle of jncos pressed between these frail and pallid pallets. dead wigger storage, open for phizness, the brain says "sad" but we're always glad to stow your wasted white kids. i am going to undergo a sex change operation and run for public office, what do you think of that? the heebie-gbs fucked around with this message at Oct 9, 2009 around 11:29 |
| # ? Oct 9, 2009 11:16 |
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heebie you lost my vote for being a bitch
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| # ? Oct 9, 2009 11:18 |
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deadwiggerstorage posted:heebie you lost my vote you patriarchal counterrevolutionary insect
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| # ? Oct 9, 2009 11:30 |
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| # ? Sep 6, 2017 20:07 |
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in before page 2
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| # ? Oct 9, 2009 12:21 |
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