Just be grateful SoE didn't have the license. That Red Bull huffing moron Smedley (who deserved to burn to death) would have forced the devs to shit out yet another sub-standard product to add to the plethora of dross on the Station Access pass. (Whose total subscriptions across all titles fail to even match Lord of the Rings Online, let alone World of Warcraft)
Purveyor of racist yet truthful anti-islamic Slashdot troll postings, Ringbarer, today announced the formation of Ringbarer Interactive Entertainment - providing games for Linux.
"With the recent announcement that Linux is still not ready for the desktop, we thought it was time that Linux users had more games to play than poorly coded Tetris clones, Tux Racer, and that hilarious applet where you stop Bill Gates from installing Windows over Operating Systems that don't exist anymore.
To that end we have created a new dynamic episodic series of franchised Interactive Entertainment Experiences, catered for the Linux demographic. So we'll be forcing the games to be registered and installed online because we know fine well that Linux users would just try to steal them."
But what about the games? The 2007 release catalog promises to have something for all Linux gamers:
SIM NIGGER
Ringbarer Interactive Entertainment's flagship title - SIM NIGGER is a freeform sandbox game containing a miniature representation of New Orleans. The floods may have been drained, but that gives your SIM NIGGER opportunity to indulge in the kind of behaviour that only Niggers know and love. Smoke crack; rob tourists at gunpoint; do drive by shootings; eat stolen watermelon; loot televisions; acquire 'bling'; anally rape children; spout incomprehensible gibberish into your (stolen) mobile phone; draw welfare checks; and all that other wholesome stuff. Only with SIM NIGGER can pasty white overprivledged middle-class suburban teenagers express their dislike for Mommy and Daddy by adopting a culture that was never theirs in the first place. Featuring a meticulously marketed 'Urban' soundtrack from Eminem, Fiddy Cent, and Vanilla Ice.
Contains inbuilt advertising from Massive Entertainment who shall plaster every available in game billboard with the same picture, whilst claiming it makes the game more 'realistic', because you're stupid enough to fall for that thing.
ESRB WARNING: Contains hidden scenes of consentual fucking available by manually patching the game to include a DivX viewer and several separately downloaded gigabytes of pornography.
BATTLEFIELD: NOW
The poorly-optimised lagfest that is the Battlefield franchise finally wheezes its way onto the Linux platform. The latest Cancerware(tm) technology ensures that not only will your games take even LONGER to start, thus building anticipation; but even the fastest machine will be ground to a halt - ensuring a fair playing field for all.
Cancerware(tm) is an exciting and revolutionary addition to the franchise, as it shall interface with our servers every game to deliver the very latest geopolitical situation to eager gamers. Whichever enemy the USA are at war with at the moment will be the enemy you are shooting on screen, taking realism to the max! You can be shooting ungrateful Iraqi Insurgents one minute, and nuke-wielding North Koreans the next. Remember, folks, we have ALWAYS been at war with North Korea!
Guaranteed to force you to manually rewrite your firewall's bytecode and install every possible graphics development kit on the planet just to be able to run the fucking thing! And then do it all again every time it's patched! Just be fucking grateful!
SPACE MARINE XENOMORPH BUGHUNT 4 - EPISODE 1
Exciting and revolutionary FPS from the makers of SPACE MARINE XENOMORPH BUGHUNT 3. Control a tough talking American Space Marine through several levels of tense, pulse-pounding point-and-click action. Listen to poorly written contrived banter which was considered embarassing when James Cameron first wrote it twenty years ago. Fight ever larger and fatter aliens which are so ludicrous that even Todd McFarlane would wipe his ass on the sketchpad if he ever drew one. Contains the terrifying "Industrial Factory" level, as well as "Sewers", "Crate Warehouse", and "Industrial Factory 2", leading to an exciting plotline cliffhanger
Once again, Athiests prove that they are no more than petulant children, whining against established facts like the existence of Intelligent Design.
Evolution is just a THEORY, and a shabby one at that. It goes against base thermodynamic principles, but we don't hear the Darwinites (Surely they deserve a Darwin award themselves!) whining about that.
Shutters click as cameras capture the publicity stills, the pictures that will be on the cover of every magazine this week. This is how the world will remember the Olsen twins: matching tight pink blouses highlighting firm, buoyant adolescent breasts, tight black jeans suggesting a level of sexual experience which the twins do not, in fact, possess.
When the pictures are complete, the twins are turned so that they stand facing one another. Their arms are held behind their backs. The bailiffs bring a pair of cuffs for each girl. The cuffs have no keyholes; they are not designed to be removed. This fact is not lost on the girls, who begin to sob helplessly as they feel sharp steel close around their slender wrists.
Twin winches hum to life, pulling the girls up onto the balls of their naked feet. They begin to strangle almost immediately. They emit tormented gurgling sounds as boiled hemp digs into their tender throats. Quivering lips strip a couple more years off their apparent age. Their increasingly desperate facial expressions confirm that the Olsen girls are in no way prepared for the sudden pain. They have led lives of comfort and pampered privilege. They have never known suffering, until now.
The winches fall quiet, their cruel work done. This is where the girls will remain: in that place where the pain is psychologically overwhelming but not physically dangerous, in that horrible place where they could, perhaps, remain forever.
Still, this is an execution. And so the girls must not remain on their toes forever. They listen carefully as the announcer explains the rules of the game. He makes it sound erotic and exciting, and that is surely how the audience sees it. But it does not sound erotic and exciting to Ashley or Mary-Kate. Indeed, it fills their hearts with an almost limitless dread.
If nothing else happens, then in one hour's time, twin trapdoors will open beneath the girls' feet. Because they are already on their toes, there's no chance that their necks will snap. They will have to dance themselves to death--a process which, the announcer explains, could take up to an hour, because the twins don't weigh very much, and because their nooses have been tied loose.
If, on the other hand, one of the girls chooses to take action, she can buy herself a quick, easy death. As the announcer speaks, bailiffs slip small cylindrical remote control units into Ashley's right hand and Mary-Kate's left. If either girl pushes her button, then her winch will lower her down onto the gallows platform, while the trapdoor drops out from under her sister's feet. She may watch in comfort, her breathing perfectly unrestricted, while her sister endures a terminal slow hang. The girl who pushed her button will then have earned a neck-snapping long drop.
The moment the announcer finishes his introduction, the twins begin to negotiate through their tears. At first they are selfless, altruistic:
"You have to drop me, Mary-Kate," Ashley whimpers. Her voice is thick and rough. The noose is tight, and it hurts to speak. "You're my baby sister. I have to take care of you. I can't bear to watch you hang!"
"Baby sister? You're two minutes older than me, Ashley! And how do you think I'd feel, if I had to watch you spend an hour strangling to death? No way! We'll die together!"
"Don't be stupid, Mary." A little anger surfaces now, through the pain, through the laborious breathing which is required to get even a few words out. "Do you know how much that'll hurt?
"Hurts now," Mary-Kate replies. She is being economical with her words, for each one costs her dearly.
"Yes. And we're still on our toes. Airdance...much worse."
"Scared," says Mary-Kate.
"Then push the button."
The girls perspire as they suffer. The thin pink cotton of their tight tops sticks to their skin; the wet fabric is slightly translucent. Naturally, they wear no bras. Their taut, pouting young breasts press up through their blouses, yearning towards the heaven they will surely
I love pretending to be a 16 year old emo lesbian on MySpace. With this fake identity I can obtain a near infinite supply of barely legal confused emo porn.
MySpace users are the scum of the earth, and deserve to be exploited in this manner.
Take in as much air as you can. This story should last about as long as you can hold your breath, and then just a little bit longer. So listen as fast as you can.
A friend of mine, when he was 13 years old he heard about "pegging." This is when a guy gets banged up the butt with a dildo. Stimulate the prostate gland hard enough, and the rumor is you can have explosive hands-free orgasms. At that age, this friend's a little sex maniac. He's always jonesing for a better way to get his rocks off. He goes out to buy a carrot and some petroleum jelly. To conduct a little private research. Then he pictures how it's going to look at the supermarket checkout counter, the lonely carrot and petroleum jelly rolling down the conveyer belt toward the grocery store cashier. All the shoppers waiting in line, watching. Everyone seeing the big evening he has planned.
So my friend, he buys milk and eggs and sugar and a carrot, all the ingredients for a carrot cake. And Vaseline.
Like he's going home to stick a carrot cake up his butt.
At home, he whittles the carrot into a blunt tool. He slathers it with grease and grinds his ass down on it. Then, nothing. No orgasm. Nothing happens except it hurts.
Then, this kid, his mom yells it's supper time. She says to come down, right now.
He works the carrot out and stashes the slippery, filthy thing in the dirty clothes under his bed.
After dinner, he goes to find the carrot, and it's gone. All his dirty clothes, while he ate dinner, his mom grabbed them all to do laundry. No way could she not find the carrot, carefully shaped with a paring knife from her kitchen, still shiny with lube and stinky.
This friend of mine, he waits months under a black cloud, waiting for his folks to confront him. And they never do. Ever. Even now that he's grown up, that invisible carrot hangs over every Christmas dinner, every birthday party. Every Easter egg hunt with his kids, his parents' grandkids, that ghost carrot is hovering over all of them. That something too awful to name.
People in France have a phrase: "staircase wit." In French: esprit de l'escalier. It means that moment when you find the answer, but it's too late. Say you're at a party and someone insults you. You have to say something. So under pressure, with everybody watching, you say something lame. But the moment you leave the party....
As you start down the stairway, then-magic. You come up with the perfect thing you should've said. The perfect crippling put-down.
That's the spirit of the stairway.
The trouble is, even the French don't have a phrase for the stupid things you actually do say under pressure. Those stupid, desperate things you actually think or do.
Some deeds are too low to even get a name. Too low to even get talked about.
Looking back, kid-psych experts, school counselors now say that most of the last peak in teen suicide was kids trying to choke while they beat off. Their folks would find them, a towel twisted around their kid's neck, the towel tied to the rod in their bedroom closet, the kid dead. Dead sperm everywhere. Of course the folks cleaned up. They put some pants on their kid. They made it look... better. Intentional at least. The regular kind of sad teen suicide.
Another friend of mine, a kid from school, his older brother in the Navy said how guys in the Middle East jack off different than we do here. This brother was stationed in some camel country where the public market sells what could be fancy letter openers. Each fancy tool is just a thin rod of polished brass or silver, maybe as long as your hand, with a big tip at one end, either a big metal ball or the kind of fancy carved handle you'd see on a sword. This Navy brother says how Arab guys get their dick hard and then insert this metal rod inside the whole length of their boner. They jack off with the rod inside, and it makes getting off so much better. More intense.
It's this big brother who travels around the world,
Take in as much air as you can. This story should last about as long as you can hold your breath, and then just a little bit longer. So listen as fast as you can.
A friend of mine, when he was 13 years old he heard about "pegging." This is when a guy gets banged up the butt with a dildo. Stimulate the prostate gland hard enough, and the rumor is you can have explosive hands-free orgasms. At that age, this friend's a little sex maniac. He's always jonesing for a better way to get his rocks off. He goes out to buy a carrot and some petroleum jelly. To conduct a little private research. Then he pictures how it's going to look at the supermarket checkout counter, the lonely carrot and petroleum jelly rolling down the conveyer belt toward the grocery store cashier. All the shoppers waiting in line, watching. Everyone seeing the big evening he has planned.
So my friend, he buys milk and eggs and sugar and a carrot, all the ingredients for a carrot cake. And Vaseline.
Like he's going home to stick a carrot cake up his butt.
At home, he whittles the carrot into a blunt tool. He slathers it with grease and grinds his ass down on it. Then, nothing. No orgasm. Nothing happens except it hurts.
Then, this kid, his mom yells it's supper time. She says to come down, right now.
He works the carrot out and stashes the slippery, filthy thing in the dirty clothes under his bed.
After dinner, he goes to find the carrot, and it's gone. All his dirty clothes, while he ate dinner, his mom grabbed them all to do laundry. No way could she not find the carrot, carefully shaped with a paring knife from her kitchen, still shiny with lube and stinky.
This friend of mine, he waits months under a black cloud, waiting for his folks to confront him. And they never do. Ever. Even now that he's grown up, that invisible carrot hangs over every Christmas dinner, every birthday party. Every Easter egg hunt with his kids, his parents' grandkids, that ghost carrot is hovering over all of them. That something too awful to name.
People in France have a phrase: "staircase wit." In French: esprit de l'escalier. It means that moment when you find the answer, but it's too late. Say you're at a party and someone insults you. You have to say something. So under pressure, with everybody watching, you say something lame. But the moment you leave the party....
As you start down the stairway, then-magic. You come up with the perfect thing you should've said. The perfect crippling put-down.
That's the spirit of the stairway.
The trouble is, even the French don't have a phrase for the stupid things you actually do say under pressure. Those stupid, desperate things you actually think or do.
Some deeds are too low to even get a name. Too low to even get talked about.
Looking back, kid-psych experts, school counselors now say that most of the last peak in teen suicide was kids trying to choke while they beat off. Their folks would find them, a towel twisted around their kid's neck, the towel tied to the rod in their bedroom closet, the kid dead. Dead sperm everywhere. Of course the folks cleaned up. They put some pants on their kid. They made it look... better. Intentional at least. The regular kind of sad teen suicide.
Another friend of mine, a kid from school, his older brother in the Navy said how guys in the Middle East jack off different than we do here. This brother was stationed in some camel country where the public market sells what could be fancy letter openers. Each fancy tool is just a thin rod of polished brass or silver, maybe as long as your hand, with a big tip at one end, either a big metal ball or the kind of fancy carved handle you'd see on a sword. This Navy brother says how Arab guys get their dick hard and then insert this metal rod inside the whole length of their boner. They jack off with the rod inside, and it makes getting off so much better. More intense.
It's this big brother who travels around the world,
Take in as much air as you can. This story should last about as long as you can hold your breath, and then just a little bit longer. So listen as fast as you can.
A friend of mine, when he was 13 years old he heard about "pegging." This is when a guy gets banged up the butt with a dildo. Stimulate the prostate gland hard enough, and the rumor is you can have explosive hands-free orgasms. At that age, this friend's a little sex maniac. He's always jonesing for a better way to get his rocks off. He goes out to buy a carrot and some petroleum jelly. To conduct a little private research. Then he pictures how it's going to look at the supermarket checkout counter, the lonely carrot and petroleum jelly rolling down the conveyer belt toward the grocery store cashier. All the shoppers waiting in line, watching. Everyone seeing the big evening he has planned.
So my friend, he buys milk and eggs and sugar and a carrot, all the ingredients for a carrot cake. And Vaseline.
Like he's going home to stick a carrot cake up his butt.
At home, he whittles the carrot into a blunt tool. He slathers it with grease and grinds his ass down on it. Then, nothing. No orgasm. Nothing happens except it hurts.
Then, this kid, his mom yells it's supper time. She says to come down, right now.
He works the carrot out and stashes the slippery, filthy thing in the dirty clothes under his bed.
After dinner, he goes to find the carrot, and it's gone. All his dirty clothes, while he ate dinner, his mom grabbed them all to do laundry. No way could she not find the carrot, carefully shaped with a paring knife from her kitchen, still shiny with lube and stinky.
This friend of mine, he waits months under a black cloud, waiting for his folks to confront him. And they never do. Ever. Even now that he's grown up, that invisible carrot hangs over every Christmas dinner, every birthday party. Every Easter egg hunt with his kids, his parents' grandkids, that ghost carrot is hovering over all of them. That something too awful to name.
People in France have a phrase: "staircase wit." In French: esprit de l'escalier. It means that moment when you find the answer, but it's too late. Say you're at a party and someone insults you. You have to say something. So under pressure, with everybody watching, you say something lame. But the moment you leave the party....
As you start down the stairway, then-magic. You come up with the perfect thing you should've said. The perfect crippling put-down.
That's the spirit of the stairway.
The trouble is, even the French don't have a phrase for the stupid things you actually do say under pressure. Those stupid, desperate things you actually think or do.
Some deeds are too low to even get a name. Too low to even get talked about.
Looking back, kid-psych experts, school counselors now say that most of the last peak in teen suicide was kids trying to choke while they beat off. Their folks would find them, a towel twisted around their kid's neck, the towel tied to the rod in their bedroom closet, the kid dead. Dead sperm everywhere. Of course the folks cleaned up. They put some pants on their kid. They made it look... better. Intentional at least. The regular kind of sad teen suicide.
Another friend of mine, a kid from school, his older brother in the Navy said how guys in the Middle East jack off different than we do here. This brother was stationed in some camel country where the public market sells what could be fancy letter openers. Each fancy tool is just a thin rod of polished brass or silver, maybe as long as your hand, with a big tip at one end, either a big metal ball or the kind of fancy carved handle you'd see on a sword. This Navy brother says how Arab guys get their dick hard and then insert this metal rod inside the whole length of their boner. They jack off with the rod inside, and it makes getting off so much better. More intense.
It's this big brother who travels around the world,
Take in as much air as you can. This story should last about as long as you can hold your breath, and then just a little bit longer. So listen as fast as you can.
A friend of mine, when he was 13 years old he heard about "pegging." This is when a guy gets banged up the butt with a dildo. Stimulate the prostate gland hard enough, and the rumor is you can have explosive hands-free orgasms. At that age, this friend's a little sex maniac. He's always jonesing for a better way to get his rocks off. He goes out to buy a carrot and some petroleum jelly. To conduct a little private research. Then he pictures how it's going to look at the supermarket checkout counter, the lonely carrot and petroleum jelly rolling down the conveyer belt toward the grocery store cashier. All the shoppers waiting in line, watching. Everyone seeing the big evening he has planned.
So my friend, he buys milk and eggs and sugar and a carrot, all the ingredients for a carrot cake. And Vaseline.
Like he's going home to stick a carrot cake up his butt.
At home, he whittles the carrot into a blunt tool. He slathers it with grease and grinds his ass down on it. Then, nothing. No orgasm. Nothing happens except it hurts.
Then, this kid, his mom yells it's supper time. She says to come down, right now.
He works the carrot out and stashes the slippery, filthy thing in the dirty clothes under his bed.
After dinner, he goes to find the carrot, and it's gone. All his dirty clothes, while he ate dinner, his mom grabbed them all to do laundry. No way could she not find the carrot, carefully shaped with a paring knife from her kitchen, still shiny with lube and stinky.
This friend of mine, he waits months under a black cloud, waiting for his folks to confront him. And they never do. Ever. Even now that he's grown up, that invisible carrot hangs over every Christmas dinner, every birthday party. Every Easter egg hunt with his kids, his parents' grandkids, that ghost carrot is hovering over all of them. That something too awful to name.
People in France have a phrase: "staircase wit." In French: esprit de l'escalier. It means that moment when you find the answer, but it's too late. Say you're at a party and someone insults you. You have to say something. So under pressure, with everybody watching, you say something lame. But the moment you leave the party....
As you start down the stairway, then-magic. You come up with the perfect thing you should've said. The perfect crippling put-down.
That's the spirit of the stairway.
The trouble is, even the French don't have a phrase for the stupid things you actually do say under pressure. Those stupid, desperate things you actually think or do.
Some deeds are too low to even get a name. Too low to even get talked about.
Looking back, kid-psych experts, school counselors now say that most of the last peak in teen suicide was kids trying to choke while they beat off. Their folks would find them, a towel twisted around their kid's neck, the towel tied to the rod in their bedroom closet, the kid dead. Dead sperm everywhere. Of course the folks cleaned up. They put some pants on their kid. They made it look... better. Intentional at least. The regular kind of sad teen suicide.
Another friend of mine, a kid from school, his older brother in the Navy said how guys in the Middle East jack off different than we do here. This brother was stationed in some camel country where the public market sells what could be fancy letter openers. Each fancy tool is just a thin rod of polished brass or silver, maybe as long as your hand, with a big tip at one end, either a big metal ball or the kind of fancy carved handle you'd see on a sword. This Navy brother says how Arab guys get their dick hard and then insert this metal rod inside the whole length of their boner. They jack off with the rod inside, and it makes getting off so much better. More intense.
It's this big brother who travels around the world,
Slashdot Mirror
The same place all MMORPG subscription numbers are obtained in the context of online advocacy:
OUT OF MY FUCKING ASS!
Hated it when it was called NGE
Just be grateful SoE didn't have the license. That Red Bull huffing moron Smedley (who deserved to burn to death) would have forced the devs to shit out yet another sub-standard product to add to the plethora of dross on the Station Access pass. (Whose total subscriptions across all titles fail to even match Lord of the Rings Online, let alone World of Warcraft)
Make sure it's Strip-Chess.
We've seen the tech sector boom
We've seen the tech sector bust
And Linux STILL isn't ready for the desktop.
It's no wonder they want to ensure a financial holocaust by gouging the middle classes out of their native countries.
Purveyor of racist yet truthful anti-islamic Slashdot troll postings, Ringbarer, today announced the formation of Ringbarer Interactive Entertainment - providing games for Linux.
But what about the games? The 2007 release catalog promises to have something for all Linux gamers:
SIM NIGGER
Ringbarer Interactive Entertainment's flagship title - SIM NIGGER is a freeform sandbox game containing a miniature representation of New Orleans. The floods may have been drained, but that gives your SIM NIGGER opportunity to indulge in the kind of behaviour that only Niggers know and love. Smoke crack; rob tourists at gunpoint; do drive by shootings; eat stolen watermelon; loot televisions; acquire 'bling'; anally rape children; spout incomprehensible gibberish into your (stolen) mobile phone; draw welfare checks; and all that other wholesome stuff. Only with SIM NIGGER can pasty white overprivledged middle-class suburban teenagers express their dislike for Mommy and Daddy by adopting a culture that was never theirs in the first place. Featuring a meticulously marketed 'Urban' soundtrack from Eminem, Fiddy Cent, and Vanilla Ice.
Contains inbuilt advertising from Massive Entertainment who shall plaster every available in game billboard with the same picture, whilst claiming it makes the game more 'realistic', because you're stupid enough to fall for that thing.
ESRB WARNING: Contains hidden scenes of consentual fucking available by manually patching the game to include a DivX viewer and several separately downloaded gigabytes of pornography.
BATTLEFIELD: NOW
The poorly-optimised lagfest that is the Battlefield franchise finally wheezes its way onto the Linux platform. The latest Cancerware(tm) technology ensures that not only will your games take even LONGER to start, thus building anticipation; but even the fastest machine will be ground to a halt - ensuring a fair playing field for all.
Cancerware(tm) is an exciting and revolutionary addition to the franchise, as it shall interface with our servers every game to deliver the very latest geopolitical situation to eager gamers. Whichever enemy the USA are at war with at the moment will be the enemy you are shooting on screen, taking realism to the max! You can be shooting ungrateful Iraqi Insurgents one minute, and nuke-wielding North Koreans the next. Remember, folks, we have ALWAYS been at war with North Korea!
Guaranteed to force you to manually rewrite your firewall's bytecode and install every possible graphics development kit on the planet just to be able to run the fucking thing! And then do it all again every time it's patched! Just be fucking grateful!
SPACE MARINE XENOMORPH BUGHUNT 4 - EPISODE 1
Exciting and revolutionary FPS from the makers of SPACE MARINE XENOMORPH BUGHUNT 3. Control a tough talking American Space Marine through several levels of tense, pulse-pounding point-and-click action. Listen to poorly written contrived banter which was considered embarassing when James Cameron first wrote it twenty years ago. Fight ever larger and fatter aliens which are so ludicrous that even Todd McFarlane would wipe his ass on the sketchpad if he ever drew one. Contains the terrifying "Industrial Factory" level, as well as "Sewers", "Crate Warehouse", and "Industrial Factory 2", leading to an exciting plotline cliffhanger
Link contains an inline PDF loaded in an IFRAME which attempts to exploit this vulnerability.
He's more disposed to doing crime, like all negroids.
Big explosion, the ship escapes, but plummets to Earth. Master Chief nearly falls out of cargo bay.
Funeral, lots of Marines. Arbiter turns up.
Once again, Athiests prove that they are no more than petulant children, whining against established facts like the existence of Intelligent Design.
Evolution is just a THEORY, and a shabby one at that. It goes against base thermodynamic principles, but we don't hear the Darwinites (Surely they deserve a Darwin award themselves!) whining about that.
Shutters click as cameras capture the publicity stills, the pictures that will be on the cover of every magazine this week. This is how the world will remember the Olsen twins: matching tight pink blouses highlighting firm, buoyant adolescent breasts, tight black jeans suggesting a level of sexual experience which the twins do not, in fact, possess.
When the pictures are complete, the twins are turned so that they stand facing one another. Their arms are held behind their backs. The bailiffs bring a pair of cuffs for each girl. The cuffs have no keyholes; they are not designed to be removed. This fact is not lost on the girls, who begin to sob helplessly as they feel sharp steel close around their slender wrists.
Twin winches hum to life, pulling the girls up onto the balls of their naked feet. They begin to strangle almost immediately. They emit tormented gurgling sounds as boiled hemp digs into their tender throats. Quivering lips strip a couple more years off their apparent age. Their increasingly desperate facial expressions confirm that the Olsen girls are in no way prepared for the sudden pain. They have led lives of comfort and pampered privilege. They have never known suffering, until now.
The winches fall quiet, their cruel work done. This is where the girls will remain: in that place where the pain is psychologically overwhelming but not physically dangerous, in that horrible place where they could, perhaps, remain forever.
Still, this is an execution. And so the girls must not remain on their toes forever. They listen carefully as the announcer explains the rules of the game. He makes it sound erotic and exciting, and that is surely how the audience sees it. But it does not sound erotic and exciting to Ashley or Mary-Kate. Indeed, it fills their hearts with an almost limitless dread.
If nothing else happens, then in one hour's time, twin trapdoors will open beneath the girls' feet. Because they are already on their toes, there's no chance that their necks will snap. They will have to dance themselves to death--a process which, the announcer explains, could take up to an hour, because the twins don't weigh very much, and because their nooses have been tied loose.
If, on the other hand, one of the girls chooses to take action, she can buy herself a quick, easy death. As the announcer speaks, bailiffs slip small cylindrical remote control units into Ashley's right hand and Mary-Kate's left. If either girl pushes her button, then her winch will lower her down onto the gallows platform, while the trapdoor drops out from under her sister's feet. She may watch in comfort, her breathing perfectly unrestricted, while her sister endures a terminal slow hang. The girl who pushed her button will then have earned a neck-snapping long drop.
The moment the announcer finishes his introduction, the twins begin to negotiate through their tears. At first they are selfless, altruistic:
"You have to drop me, Mary-Kate," Ashley whimpers. Her voice is thick and rough. The noose is tight, and it hurts to speak. "You're my baby sister. I have to take care of you. I can't bear to watch you hang!"
"Baby sister? You're two minutes older than me, Ashley! And how do you think I'd feel, if I had to watch you spend an hour strangling to death? No way! We'll die together!"
"Don't be stupid, Mary." A little anger surfaces now, through the pain, through the laborious breathing which is required to get even a few words out. "Do you know how much that'll hurt?
"Hurts now," Mary-Kate replies. She is being economical with her words, for each one costs her dearly.
"Yes. And we're still on our toes. Airdance...much worse."
"Scared," says Mary-Kate.
"Then push the button."
The girls perspire as they suffer. The thin pink cotton of their tight tops sticks to their skin; the wet fabric is slightly translucent. Naturally, they wear no bras. Their taut, pouting young breasts press up through their blouses, yearning towards the heaven they will surely
I wonder if the clients will have extra flaws in them for Band of Devbuddies to exploit?
Corridor. Corridor. Open Bit. Corridor. Corridor. Incomprehensible NPC. Corridor. Corridor.
Reverse Corridor. Reverse Corridor. Reverse Corridor. Reverse Corridor. Reverse Open Bit. Reverse Corridor. Reverse Corridor. Cliffhanger.
Real 'next gen' material here.
S. O. S.
Kill Me.
S. O. S.
Kill Me.
I love pretending to be a 16 year old emo lesbian on MySpace. With this fake identity I can obtain a near infinite supply of barely legal confused emo porn.
MySpace users are the scum of the earth, and deserve to be exploited in this manner.
Now THAT'S what I call 'Fair Use'.
If you're 20, then why do you write like a 10 year old?
Oh fuck! Does this mean I have to read [Citation Needed] every time I boot up?
Which self-respecting internet pedophile wants to groom ugly nigger kids?
Inhale.
... better. Intentional at least. The regular kind of sad teen suicide.
Take in as much air as you can. This story should last about as long as you can hold your breath, and then just a little bit longer. So listen as fast as you can.
A friend of mine, when he was 13 years old he heard about "pegging." This is when a guy gets banged up the butt with a dildo. Stimulate the prostate gland hard enough, and the rumor is you can have explosive hands-free orgasms. At that age, this friend's a little sex maniac. He's always jonesing for a better way to get his rocks off. He goes out to buy a carrot and some petroleum jelly. To conduct a little private research. Then he pictures how it's going to look at the supermarket checkout counter, the lonely carrot and petroleum jelly rolling down the conveyer belt toward the grocery store cashier. All the shoppers waiting in line, watching. Everyone seeing the big evening he has planned.
So my friend, he buys milk and eggs and sugar and a carrot, all the ingredients for a carrot cake. And Vaseline.
Like he's going home to stick a carrot cake up his butt.
At home, he whittles the carrot into a blunt tool. He slathers it with grease and grinds his ass down on it. Then, nothing. No orgasm. Nothing happens except it hurts.
Then, this kid, his mom yells it's supper time. She says to come down, right now.
He works the carrot out and stashes the slippery, filthy thing in the dirty clothes under his bed.
After dinner, he goes to find the carrot, and it's gone. All his dirty clothes, while he ate dinner, his mom grabbed them all to do laundry. No way could she not find the carrot, carefully shaped with a paring knife from her kitchen, still shiny with lube and stinky.
This friend of mine, he waits months under a black cloud, waiting for his folks to confront him. And they never do. Ever. Even now that he's grown up, that invisible carrot hangs over every Christmas dinner, every birthday party. Every Easter egg hunt with his kids, his parents' grandkids, that ghost carrot is hovering over all of them. That something too awful to name.
People in France have a phrase: "staircase wit." In French: esprit de l'escalier. It means that moment when you find the answer, but it's too late. Say you're at a party and someone insults you. You have to say something. So under pressure, with everybody watching, you say something lame. But the moment you leave the party....
As you start down the stairway, then-magic. You come up with the perfect thing you should've said. The perfect crippling put-down.
That's the spirit of the stairway.
The trouble is, even the French don't have a phrase for the stupid things you actually do say under pressure. Those stupid, desperate things you actually think or do.
Some deeds are too low to even get a name. Too low to even get talked about.
Looking back, kid-psych experts, school counselors now say that most of the last peak in teen suicide was kids trying to choke while they beat off. Their folks would find them, a towel twisted around their kid's neck, the towel tied to the rod in their bedroom closet, the kid dead. Dead sperm everywhere. Of course the folks cleaned up. They put some pants on their kid. They made it look
Another friend of mine, a kid from school, his older brother in the Navy said how guys in the Middle East jack off different than we do here. This brother was stationed in some camel country where the public market sells what could be fancy letter openers. Each fancy tool is just a thin rod of polished brass or silver, maybe as long as your hand, with a big tip at one end, either a big metal ball or the kind of fancy carved handle you'd see on a sword. This Navy brother says how Arab guys get their dick hard and then insert this metal rod inside the whole length of their boner. They jack off with the rod inside, and it makes getting off so much better. More intense.
It's this big brother who travels around the world,
Inhale.
... better. Intentional at least. The regular kind of sad teen suicide.
Take in as much air as you can. This story should last about as long as you can hold your breath, and then just a little bit longer. So listen as fast as you can.
A friend of mine, when he was 13 years old he heard about "pegging." This is when a guy gets banged up the butt with a dildo. Stimulate the prostate gland hard enough, and the rumor is you can have explosive hands-free orgasms. At that age, this friend's a little sex maniac. He's always jonesing for a better way to get his rocks off. He goes out to buy a carrot and some petroleum jelly. To conduct a little private research. Then he pictures how it's going to look at the supermarket checkout counter, the lonely carrot and petroleum jelly rolling down the conveyer belt toward the grocery store cashier. All the shoppers waiting in line, watching. Everyone seeing the big evening he has planned.
So my friend, he buys milk and eggs and sugar and a carrot, all the ingredients for a carrot cake. And Vaseline.
Like he's going home to stick a carrot cake up his butt.
At home, he whittles the carrot into a blunt tool. He slathers it with grease and grinds his ass down on it. Then, nothing. No orgasm. Nothing happens except it hurts.
Then, this kid, his mom yells it's supper time. She says to come down, right now.
He works the carrot out and stashes the slippery, filthy thing in the dirty clothes under his bed.
After dinner, he goes to find the carrot, and it's gone. All his dirty clothes, while he ate dinner, his mom grabbed them all to do laundry. No way could she not find the carrot, carefully shaped with a paring knife from her kitchen, still shiny with lube and stinky.
This friend of mine, he waits months under a black cloud, waiting for his folks to confront him. And they never do. Ever. Even now that he's grown up, that invisible carrot hangs over every Christmas dinner, every birthday party. Every Easter egg hunt with his kids, his parents' grandkids, that ghost carrot is hovering over all of them. That something too awful to name.
People in France have a phrase: "staircase wit." In French: esprit de l'escalier. It means that moment when you find the answer, but it's too late. Say you're at a party and someone insults you. You have to say something. So under pressure, with everybody watching, you say something lame. But the moment you leave the party....
As you start down the stairway, then-magic. You come up with the perfect thing you should've said. The perfect crippling put-down.
That's the spirit of the stairway.
The trouble is, even the French don't have a phrase for the stupid things you actually do say under pressure. Those stupid, desperate things you actually think or do.
Some deeds are too low to even get a name. Too low to even get talked about.
Looking back, kid-psych experts, school counselors now say that most of the last peak in teen suicide was kids trying to choke while they beat off. Their folks would find them, a towel twisted around their kid's neck, the towel tied to the rod in their bedroom closet, the kid dead. Dead sperm everywhere. Of course the folks cleaned up. They put some pants on their kid. They made it look
Another friend of mine, a kid from school, his older brother in the Navy said how guys in the Middle East jack off different than we do here. This brother was stationed in some camel country where the public market sells what could be fancy letter openers. Each fancy tool is just a thin rod of polished brass or silver, maybe as long as your hand, with a big tip at one end, either a big metal ball or the kind of fancy carved handle you'd see on a sword. This Navy brother says how Arab guys get their dick hard and then insert this metal rod inside the whole length of their boner. They jack off with the rod inside, and it makes getting off so much better. More intense.
It's this big brother who travels around the world,
Inhale.
... better. Intentional at least. The regular kind of sad teen suicide.
Take in as much air as you can. This story should last about as long as you can hold your breath, and then just a little bit longer. So listen as fast as you can.
A friend of mine, when he was 13 years old he heard about "pegging." This is when a guy gets banged up the butt with a dildo. Stimulate the prostate gland hard enough, and the rumor is you can have explosive hands-free orgasms. At that age, this friend's a little sex maniac. He's always jonesing for a better way to get his rocks off. He goes out to buy a carrot and some petroleum jelly. To conduct a little private research. Then he pictures how it's going to look at the supermarket checkout counter, the lonely carrot and petroleum jelly rolling down the conveyer belt toward the grocery store cashier. All the shoppers waiting in line, watching. Everyone seeing the big evening he has planned.
So my friend, he buys milk and eggs and sugar and a carrot, all the ingredients for a carrot cake. And Vaseline.
Like he's going home to stick a carrot cake up his butt.
At home, he whittles the carrot into a blunt tool. He slathers it with grease and grinds his ass down on it. Then, nothing. No orgasm. Nothing happens except it hurts.
Then, this kid, his mom yells it's supper time. She says to come down, right now.
He works the carrot out and stashes the slippery, filthy thing in the dirty clothes under his bed.
After dinner, he goes to find the carrot, and it's gone. All his dirty clothes, while he ate dinner, his mom grabbed them all to do laundry. No way could she not find the carrot, carefully shaped with a paring knife from her kitchen, still shiny with lube and stinky.
This friend of mine, he waits months under a black cloud, waiting for his folks to confront him. And they never do. Ever. Even now that he's grown up, that invisible carrot hangs over every Christmas dinner, every birthday party. Every Easter egg hunt with his kids, his parents' grandkids, that ghost carrot is hovering over all of them. That something too awful to name.
People in France have a phrase: "staircase wit." In French: esprit de l'escalier. It means that moment when you find the answer, but it's too late. Say you're at a party and someone insults you. You have to say something. So under pressure, with everybody watching, you say something lame. But the moment you leave the party....
As you start down the stairway, then-magic. You come up with the perfect thing you should've said. The perfect crippling put-down.
That's the spirit of the stairway.
The trouble is, even the French don't have a phrase for the stupid things you actually do say under pressure. Those stupid, desperate things you actually think or do.
Some deeds are too low to even get a name. Too low to even get talked about.
Looking back, kid-psych experts, school counselors now say that most of the last peak in teen suicide was kids trying to choke while they beat off. Their folks would find them, a towel twisted around their kid's neck, the towel tied to the rod in their bedroom closet, the kid dead. Dead sperm everywhere. Of course the folks cleaned up. They put some pants on their kid. They made it look
Another friend of mine, a kid from school, his older brother in the Navy said how guys in the Middle East jack off different than we do here. This brother was stationed in some camel country where the public market sells what could be fancy letter openers. Each fancy tool is just a thin rod of polished brass or silver, maybe as long as your hand, with a big tip at one end, either a big metal ball or the kind of fancy carved handle you'd see on a sword. This Navy brother says how Arab guys get their dick hard and then insert this metal rod inside the whole length of their boner. They jack off with the rod inside, and it makes getting off so much better. More intense.
It's this big brother who travels around the world,
Inhale.
... better. Intentional at least. The regular kind of sad teen suicide.
Take in as much air as you can. This story should last about as long as you can hold your breath, and then just a little bit longer. So listen as fast as you can.
A friend of mine, when he was 13 years old he heard about "pegging." This is when a guy gets banged up the butt with a dildo. Stimulate the prostate gland hard enough, and the rumor is you can have explosive hands-free orgasms. At that age, this friend's a little sex maniac. He's always jonesing for a better way to get his rocks off. He goes out to buy a carrot and some petroleum jelly. To conduct a little private research. Then he pictures how it's going to look at the supermarket checkout counter, the lonely carrot and petroleum jelly rolling down the conveyer belt toward the grocery store cashier. All the shoppers waiting in line, watching. Everyone seeing the big evening he has planned.
So my friend, he buys milk and eggs and sugar and a carrot, all the ingredients for a carrot cake. And Vaseline.
Like he's going home to stick a carrot cake up his butt.
At home, he whittles the carrot into a blunt tool. He slathers it with grease and grinds his ass down on it. Then, nothing. No orgasm. Nothing happens except it hurts.
Then, this kid, his mom yells it's supper time. She says to come down, right now.
He works the carrot out and stashes the slippery, filthy thing in the dirty clothes under his bed.
After dinner, he goes to find the carrot, and it's gone. All his dirty clothes, while he ate dinner, his mom grabbed them all to do laundry. No way could she not find the carrot, carefully shaped with a paring knife from her kitchen, still shiny with lube and stinky.
This friend of mine, he waits months under a black cloud, waiting for his folks to confront him. And they never do. Ever. Even now that he's grown up, that invisible carrot hangs over every Christmas dinner, every birthday party. Every Easter egg hunt with his kids, his parents' grandkids, that ghost carrot is hovering over all of them. That something too awful to name.
People in France have a phrase: "staircase wit." In French: esprit de l'escalier. It means that moment when you find the answer, but it's too late. Say you're at a party and someone insults you. You have to say something. So under pressure, with everybody watching, you say something lame. But the moment you leave the party....
As you start down the stairway, then-magic. You come up with the perfect thing you should've said. The perfect crippling put-down.
That's the spirit of the stairway.
The trouble is, even the French don't have a phrase for the stupid things you actually do say under pressure. Those stupid, desperate things you actually think or do.
Some deeds are too low to even get a name. Too low to even get talked about.
Looking back, kid-psych experts, school counselors now say that most of the last peak in teen suicide was kids trying to choke while they beat off. Their folks would find them, a towel twisted around their kid's neck, the towel tied to the rod in their bedroom closet, the kid dead. Dead sperm everywhere. Of course the folks cleaned up. They put some pants on their kid. They made it look
Another friend of mine, a kid from school, his older brother in the Navy said how guys in the Middle East jack off different than we do here. This brother was stationed in some camel country where the public market sells what could be fancy letter openers. Each fancy tool is just a thin rod of polished brass or silver, maybe as long as your hand, with a big tip at one end, either a big metal ball or the kind of fancy carved handle you'd see on a sword. This Navy brother says how Arab guys get their dick hard and then insert this metal rod inside the whole length of their boner. They jack off with the rod inside, and it makes getting off so much better. More intense.
It's this big brother who travels around the world,
... are those who know they're doing something wrong.
At last, a country with sense.
Pity it's riddled with islamic terrorists.