Rob "CmdrTaco" Malda stepped off the bus and was led into the yard of the Main State Correctional Institute. He had been given ten years for participating in a stock fraud. Five with good behavior. Years spent basking in the glow of a CRT had been hard on him. His body was frail, his skin pallid. He knew he could never make it through ten years in the general population with his virginity intact. He had to get into solitary.
As soon as the burly guard unshackled him he made his move. Exhaling a feminine "hmmph" he weakly slapped the guard. He was quickly taken to the ground, receiving a swift kick to the ribs before being restrained. As he was dragged to the solitary confinement cell he felt nothing but relief. "At least in solitary," he thought "I'll be safe." Unfortunately for Rob he had picked the wrong guard to mess with.
The next few days were uneventful. The time in his cell he spent evenly between sleeping, reading a "Perl for Dummies" book he had gotten from the book cart, and masturbating furiously. His self-flagellation was interrupted on the fourth day. The burly guard he had attacked earlier stepped into his cell. The gleam in the guards eye and the mean grin on his face made Rob's pecker quickly shrivel in his hand. "You fucked with the wrong man when you fucked with Michael Simms," said the guard. "The inmates here call me The Asshole for a reason. Now come with me, punk."
The guard led him down the hall to one of several empty shower stalls. He roughly threw Rob in the stall and locked the door. Rob was petrified. His mind raced as he imagined the myriad of different tortures that could be in store for him. His worst fears were confirmed when the guard returned. In his hands were a short black dress, black stilleto heels, and a curly blonde wig. "Strip down and put this on, bitch." Rob did as instructed and was pleased to notice that the dress fit well and the heels gave him a nice slimming effect. The burly guard admired the drag queen. "The GNAA is gonna love you!"
The guard left the shower stall, only to return minutes later. He opened the door and led 20 large black men into the stall. "Rob, meet the Gay Nigger Association of America. GNAA, meet Rob. I'm sure you all will get along fine." With that the guard slammed the shower door closed and walked away laughing.
The men approached Rob, backing him into a corner. The apparent leader stepped forward. "No matter what I'm gonna fuck that purdy lil' ass of yours. Now I can fuck it dry or you can lube it up for me." Rob knew he had no choice. He kneeled in front of the leader, who began to slap his face with his 10 black inches. Puss from syphilictic sores quickly covered Rob's cheeks. When the leader was sufficiently aroused he placed his throbbing cock up to Rob's lips. As soon as Rob opened his mouth the leader violently shoved his manhood to the back of Rob's throat and exclaimed "Swallow my shit you cracker bitch!" Rob gagged as he was violently face fucked.
Just when he was about to pass out the leader pulled out, turned him around and shoved his cock into Rob's ass. Rob began to scream in agony but his cries were quickly muffled by one of the other gang member's cocks. They rode him like that for the better part of an hour. When one man finished another quickly took his place. Just as Rob was getting used to the throbbing pain in his anus the men stopped. One man lay down on the floor and Rob was told to get on top of him and take his dick inside him. Exhausted and humiliated, Rob had no will left to fight. As soon as he inserted the penis another man came up behind him and began to force his cock into Rob's already filled anus. Again his screams of agony were muffled, this time by a smelly black anus.
For another hour he was violated in this way. When the men were finished with him he couldn't walk and his mouth was filled with dingleberries and ass hairs. Before they all left the leader had some parting words for Rob: "Thanks for that sweet piece of ass, punk. We'll see you again tomorrow. Oh by the way, we all have AIDS." It was going to be a long ten years for Rob.
It was simple enough. A small handwritten sign that had no doubt been quickly and effortlessly designed in a single moment in the locker room after the game. Rob Limo's sweaty jock-strap was hung with the utmost care slightly above and to the right of CmdTaco's heavily-disfigured face. The heavy ink scribbled on the front stated not a word, but a number - 400. 400 times Rob Limo had ejaculated sperm in Malda's waiting mouth.
400 times. The picture really was worth a thousand words. That and Kathleen Fent's face when she heard the horrifying news: her husband is a homo.
But, there are more than just facts to this story. There's the emotional side, the side not caught in the picture showing only the smiling, disfigured face of Malda, after Kathleen cut his face with a broken glass ashtray.
There's the overjoyed ESR, who once said that many wins only means he's getting old. Too old to keep his shit in from taking RMS's cock in too far...too many times. 400 times.
ESR is far from old by college head coaching/cock sucking standards, but he is extremely successful by any measuring dip-stick.
The photograph told the story, but the single teardrop that escaped and ran down the veteran coach's left cheek filled in the emotion. And - some would say - sperm from Limo's man-meat.
He didn't have to say a word. The teardrop said it all.
When ESR sat down for his usual postgame radio interview with Stallman, Athletics Radio Network play-by-play broadcaster Casey Hogan, he had no idea what was to come. Then Malda came and his life became and unending man-brothel of heathen delight. ESR would never be the same.
University presidents and system admins don't just go around giving out pats on the back and congratulations for minor accomplishments.
This was big. As big as Stallman's meat-sword.
As the congratulatory statements played out, Malda, who calls himself blessed to have the opportunity to coach the game, was overwhelmed. And he cried like a little girl.
And for a moment, just a moment, he allowed himself to enjoy some much deserved satisfaction.
On the road, it's just the old cuckolded coach and his most faithful supporters. The fans making the road trip three hours away over the break are the ones who bleed purple and white (mostly hot, yellowish white cum).
Determination to get the job done, whatever the cost. Determination to be successful by doing the right things, off the court as well as on it.
While the only thing remaining to have evaded the coach thus far in his illustrious career is a national title, he is determined to fix that, too.
Because when ESR is determined, and can finally get off the booze long enough to get it up, there is nothing that can stop him.
The picture spreads the news of 400 AIDs-virus spewing cums.
It was simple enough. A small handwritten sign that had no doubt been quickly and effortlessly designed in a single moment in the locker room after the game. Rob Limo's sweaty jock-strap was hung with the utmost care slightly above and to the right of CmdTaco's heavily-disfigured face. The heavy ink scribbled on the front stated not a word, but a number - 400. 400 times Rob Limo had ejaculated sperm in Malda's waiting mouth.
400 times. The picture really was worth a thousand words. That and Kathleen Fent's face when she heard the horrifying news: her husband is a homo.
But, there are more than just facts to this story. There's the emotional side, the side not caught in the picture showing only the smiling, disfigured face of Malda, after Kathleen cut his face with a broken glass ashtray.
There's the overjoyed ESR, who once said that many wins only means he's getting old. Too old to keep his shit in from taking RMS's cock in too far...too many times. 400 times.
ESR is far from old by college head coaching/cock sucking standards, but he is extremely successful by any measuring dip-stick.
The photograph told the story, but the single teardrop that escaped and ran down the veteran coach's left cheek filled in the emotion. And - some would say - sperm from Limo's man-meat.
He didn't have to say a word. The teardrop said it all.
When ESR sat down for his usual postgame radio interview with Stallman, Athletics Radio Network play-by-play broadcaster Casey Hogan, he had no idea what was to come. Then Malda came and his life became and unending man-brothel of heathen delight. ESR would never be the same.
University presidents and system admins don't just go around giving out pats on the back and congratulations for minor accomplishments.
This was big. As big as Stallman's meat-sword.
As the congratulatory statements played out, Malda, who calls himself blessed to have the opportunity to coach the game, was overwhelmed. And he cried like a little girl.
And for a moment, just a moment, he allowed himself to enjoy some much deserved satisfaction.
On the road, it's just the old cuckolded coach and his most faithful supporters. The fans making the road trip three hours away over the break are the ones who bleed purple and white (mostly hot, yellowish white cum).
Determination to get the job done, whatever the cost. Determination to be successful by doing the right things, off the court as well as on it.
While the only thing remaining to have evaded the coach thus far in his illustrious career is a national title, he is determined to fix that, too.
Because when ESR is determined, and can finally get off the booze long enough to get it up, there is nothing that can stop him.
The picture spreads the news of 400 AIDs-virus spewing cums.
My goodness...I sure hope not. I imagine he's a stinky hippie now; think how bad the stench will be coming off that smelly hippie after another century-and-a-half...!
Reminds me of the hideous section from Stephen King's 'The Dark Half' where he [King]recounts the sadistic sexual farmer who shoots his [the farmer's] horse while he [the farmer] masturbates to orgasm.
Slashdot Mirror
Since when did they let long winded douchebags with nothing to say have blogs?
You aren't familar with Roland Piquepaille are you?
=Smidge=
Rob "CmdrTaco" Malda stepped off the bus and was led into the yard of the Main
State Correctional Institute. He had been given ten years for participating in
a stock fraud. Five with good behavior. Years spent basking in the glow of a
CRT had been hard on him. His body was frail, his skin pallid. He knew he could
never make it through ten years in the general population with his virginity
intact. He had to get into solitary.
As soon as the burly guard unshackled him he made his move. Exhaling a feminine
"hmmph" he weakly slapped the guard. He was quickly taken to the ground,
receiving a swift kick to the ribs before being restrained. As he was dragged
to the solitary confinement cell he felt nothing but relief. "At least in
solitary," he thought "I'll be safe." Unfortunately for Rob he had picked the
wrong guard to mess with.
The next few days were uneventful. The time in his cell he spent evenly between
sleeping, reading a "Perl for Dummies" book he had gotten from the book cart,
and masturbating furiously. His self-flagellation was interrupted on the fourth
day. The burly guard he had attacked earlier stepped into his cell. The gleam
in the guards eye and the mean grin on his face made Rob's pecker quickly
shrivel in his hand. "You fucked with the wrong man when you fucked with
Michael Simms," said the guard. "The inmates here call me The Asshole for a
reason. Now come with me, punk."
The guard led him down the hall to one of several empty shower stalls. He
roughly threw Rob in the stall and locked the door. Rob was petrified. His mind
raced as he imagined the myriad of different tortures that could be in store
for him. His worst fears were confirmed when the guard returned. In his hands
were a short black dress, black stilleto heels, and a curly blonde wig. "Strip
down and put this on, bitch." Rob did as instructed and was pleased to notice
that the dress fit well and the heels gave him a nice slimming effect. The
burly guard admired the drag queen. "The GNAA is gonna love you!"
The guard left the shower stall, only to return minutes later. He opened the
door and led 20 large black men into the stall. "Rob, meet the Gay Nigger
Association of America. GNAA, meet Rob. I'm sure you all will get along fine."
With that the guard slammed the shower door closed and walked away laughing.
The men approached Rob, backing him into a corner. The apparent leader stepped
forward. "No matter what I'm gonna fuck that purdy lil' ass of yours. Now I can
fuck it dry or you can lube it up for me." Rob knew he had no choice. He
kneeled in front of the leader, who began to slap his face with his 10 black
inches. Puss from syphilictic sores quickly covered Rob's cheeks. When the
leader was sufficiently aroused he placed his throbbing cock up to Rob's lips.
As soon as Rob opened his mouth the leader violently shoved his manhood to the
back of Rob's throat and exclaimed "Swallow my shit you cracker bitch!" Rob
gagged as he was violently face fucked.
Just when he was about to pass out the leader pulled out, turned him around and
shoved his cock into Rob's ass. Rob began to scream in agony but his cries were
quickly muffled by one of the other gang member's cocks. They rode him like
that for the better part of an hour. When one man finished another quickly took
his place. Just as Rob was getting used to the throbbing pain in his anus the
men stopped. One man lay down on the floor and Rob was told to get on top of
him and take his dick inside him. Exhausted and humiliated, Rob had no will
left to fight. As soon as he inserted the penis another man came up behind him
and began to force his cock into Rob's already filled anus. Again his screams
of agony were muffled, this time by a smelly black anus.
For another hour he was violated in this way. When the men were finished with
him he couldn't walk and his mouth was filled with dingleberries and ass hairs.
Before they all left the leader had some parting words for Rob: "Thanks for
that sweet piece of ass, punk. We'll see you again tomorrow. Oh by the way, we
all have AIDS." It was going to be a long ten years for Rob.
=Smidge=
They're called faggots .
=Smidge=
No, more like Windows Genuine Advantage.
(I kid, I kid; I've enjoy my crash-free XP Pro box for the last 5 years. Srsly. O'reily.)
=Smidge=
Is this what I read?
=Smidge=
Coming from a failed physicist that's a real comfort. Faggot.
=Smidge=
Oh, my goodness, you mean he didn't DIAF?
=Smidge=
Bevets, is that you?
=Smidge=
Yeah, sorry. Forgot to post as AC.
"Brother, can you spare some karma?"
=Smidge=
The photograph told the story.
It was simple enough. A small handwritten sign that had no doubt been quickly and effortlessly designed in a single moment in the locker room after the game. Rob Limo's sweaty jock-strap was hung with the utmost care slightly above and to the right of CmdTaco's heavily-disfigured face. The heavy ink scribbled on the front stated not a word, but a number - 400. 400 times Rob Limo had ejaculated sperm in Malda's waiting mouth.
400 times. The picture really was worth a thousand words. That and Kathleen Fent's face when she heard the horrifying news: her husband is a homo.
But, there are more than just facts to this story. There's the emotional side, the side not caught in the picture showing only the smiling, disfigured face of Malda, after Kathleen cut his face with a broken glass ashtray.
There's the overjoyed ESR, who once said that many wins only means he's getting old. Too old to keep his shit in from taking RMS's cock in too far...too many times. 400 times.
ESR is far from old by college head coaching/cock sucking standards, but he is extremely successful by any measuring dip-stick.
The photograph told the story, but the single teardrop that escaped and ran down the veteran coach's left cheek filled in the emotion. And - some would say - sperm from Limo's man-meat.
He didn't have to say a word. The teardrop said it all.
When ESR sat down for his usual postgame radio interview with Stallman, Athletics Radio Network play-by-play broadcaster Casey Hogan, he had no idea what was to come. Then Malda came and his life became and unending man-brothel of heathen delight. ESR would never be the same.
University presidents and system admins don't just go around giving out pats on the back and congratulations for minor accomplishments.
This was big. As big as Stallman's meat-sword.
As the congratulatory statements played out, Malda, who calls himself blessed to have the opportunity to coach the game, was overwhelmed. And he cried like a little girl.
And for a moment, just a moment, he allowed himself to enjoy some much deserved satisfaction.
On the road, it's just the old cuckolded coach and his most faithful supporters. The fans making the road trip three hours away over the break are the ones who bleed purple and white (mostly hot, yellowish white cum).
Determination to get the job done, whatever the cost. Determination to be successful by doing the right things, off the court as well as on it.
While the only thing remaining to have evaded the coach thus far in his illustrious career is a national title, he is determined to fix that, too.
Because when ESR is determined, and can finally get off the booze long enough to get it up, there is nothing that can stop him.
The picture spreads the news of 400 AIDs-virus spewing cums.
But it was the teardrop that said it all.
The photograph told the story.
It was simple enough. A small handwritten sign that had no doubt been quickly and effortlessly designed in a single moment in the locker room after the game. Rob Limo's sweaty jock-strap was hung with the utmost care slightly above and to the right of CmdTaco's heavily-disfigured face. The heavy ink scribbled on the front stated not a word, but a number - 400. 400 times Rob Limo had ejaculated sperm in Malda's waiting mouth.
400 times. The picture really was worth a thousand words. That and Kathleen Fent's face when she heard the horrifying news: her husband is a homo.
But, there are more than just facts to this story. There's the emotional side, the side not caught in the picture showing only the smiling, disfigured face of Malda, after Kathleen cut his face with a broken glass ashtray.
There's the overjoyed ESR, who once said that many wins only means he's getting old. Too old to keep his shit in from taking RMS's cock in too far...too many times. 400 times.
ESR is far from old by college head coaching/cock sucking standards, but he is extremely successful by any measuring dip-stick.
The photograph told the story, but the single teardrop that escaped and ran down the veteran coach's left cheek filled in the emotion. And - some would say - sperm from Limo's man-meat.
He didn't have to say a word. The teardrop said it all.
When ESR sat down for his usual postgame radio interview with Stallman, Athletics Radio Network play-by-play broadcaster Casey Hogan, he had no idea what was to come. Then Malda came and his life became and unending man-brothel of heathen delight. ESR would never be the same.
University presidents and system admins don't just go around giving out pats on the back and congratulations for minor accomplishments.
This was big. As big as Stallman's meat-sword.
As the congratulatory statements played out, Malda, who calls himself blessed to have the opportunity to coach the game, was overwhelmed. And he cried like a little girl.
And for a moment, just a moment, he allowed himself to enjoy some much deserved satisfaction.
On the road, it's just the old cuckolded coach and his most faithful supporters. The fans making the road trip three hours away over the break are the ones who bleed purple and white (mostly hot, yellowish white cum).
Determination to get the job done, whatever the cost. Determination to be successful by doing the right things, off the court as well as on it.
While the only thing remaining to have evaded the coach thus far in his illustrious career is a national title, he is determined to fix that, too.
Because when ESR is determined, and can finally get off the booze long enough to get it up, there is nothing that can stop him.
The picture spreads the news of 400 AIDs-virus spewing cums.
But it was the teardrop that said it all.
CLITerminal.app Junkies.
So, Monsieur Trollaxor, you're saying they could become clit junkies?
=Smidge=
(and even MS eventually had to list Windows ME as "Do Not Use")
Oh god. The stupid. It burns. Need to calm myself...
Um, sorry, Monsieur Trollaxor, but could you cite a source for this outrareuous claim? Tks.
=Smidge=
A dog and a horse both have four legs but, they do have several other differences.
Agreed: the size of their respective cocks, for one
=Smidge=
"God is dead."
- Nietzsche
"Nietzsche is dead."
- God
"God is Nietzsche."
- The Grateful Dead
=Smidge=
"Lasting cooperation in space was achieved between Russia, the US, Europe, Canada and Japan..."
I'd say that's pretty remarkable.
=Smidge=
He proposed violently overthrowing the government if gays are given the right to marry.
Did you come to that conclusion before or after you selected your nick?
No. He probably became a fag after posting too many times to the Dot.
=Smidge=
I hope he lives to be 200 years old.
My goodness...I sure hope not. I imagine he's a stinky hippie now; think how bad the stench will be coming off that smelly hippie after another century-and-a-half...!
=Smidge=
You can't put more info into the thing than was there originally.
Think Doctor Who's police call box: goatse man's anus is actually built around a tesseract.
=Smidge=
*YOU* are not Smidge.
=Smidge=
Lionel Hutz, indeed!
=Smidge=
Can I mod this 'insightful'? If so, how? If not, why not?
=Smidge=
...like clubbing a staked-out bunny...
Reminds me of the hideous section from Stephen King's 'The Dark Half' where he [King]recounts the sadistic sexual farmer who shoots his [the farmer's] horse while he [the farmer] masturbates to orgasm.
(Posting as AC for obviuos reasons...)
=Smidge=
but that's not as easy as just figuring out which part is the stove.
Meh. This is the Dot; most folks here couldn't find their backsides with a flashlight, both hands and an instruction manual.
=Smidge=
Will they be reinforced to stop a 9mm round?
=Smidge=