Note to pedophiles. Please visit "The Matt Dance for perfect strokin' material. Then read matt's scintillating essay about what the government wants to put on your computer, complete with misuse of bold TEXT!
A young boy named Rhys was cured by a gene transplant from X-Man "Wolverine" on Tuesday morning. "Wolverine," whose origins remain steeped in mystery, has special mutated genes that allow rapid cell generation.
"I'm so happy that this mutant stepped forward to save humanity!" said Laura, Rhys' mother. "But I hope this doesn't mean my son is now a mutant freak."
Senator Robert Kelly condemned the actions of the scientists. "Comingling mutant DNA with human DNA is disgusting and morally reprehensible. I'm afraid this may set an very unfortunate precedent.
The donor himself puffed pensively at his cigar, and rebuffed questions by this reporter by extending a series of metallic claws from his knuckles. Rhys is expected to appear with Wolverine again on Monday at a pro-mutant fundraiser.
please accept this in lieu of an interesting topic:
Do you know the "Chevy Van" song? When I ask people about it, most people think I'm talking about that wanky Bob Seger song that comes on Suburban commercials.
To which I must reply, fuck no, dude! I'm talkin' about a Mellow Favorite of the Seventies that's so smooth it makes my balls ache for a simpler time. Allow me to expound on the matter at length:
Many years ago, there was a time called the Seventies (this is when I was born, as a matter of fact). Things were different then. For example, you could write a song about picking up a hot young hitchhiker, banging her, and dropping her off in her one-horse town-and it would be a HUGE HIT. Think of it this way: when you were at the mall in the Seventies, or at your high school dance, or whatever, instead of "Bye, bye, bye" or "Believe" by Cher playing everywhere, it was the Chevy Van song.
Oh my god, I just cannot restrain myself. Here are the fucking lyrics:
Chevy Van by Sammy Johns.
Gave a girl a ride in my wagon
She crawled in and took control
She was tired as her mind was a draggin'
I said "Get some sleep and dream of rock and roll"
Cause like a picture she was layin there
Moonlight dancin off her hair
She woke up and took me by the hand
We made love in my Chevy Van and that's all right with me
Her young face was like that of an angel
Her long legs were tan and brown
Better keep your eyes on the road son
Better slow this vehicle down
Cause like a picture she was layin there
Moonlight dancin off her hair
She woke up and took me by the hand
We made love in my Chevy Van and that's all right with me
I put her out in a town that was so small
You could throw a rock from end to end
Dirt road main street, she walked off in bare feet
It's a shame I won't be passing through again
Cause like a picture she was layin there
Moonlight dancin off her hair
She woke up and took me by the hand
She's gonna love me in my Chevy Van and that's all right with me
Beautiful, right? I mean, let's think about the actual events that inspired this wonderful work of art.
THE SCENE: A dusty interstate. THE YEAR: 1975. HOT YOUNG HITCHHIKER squints at the sun while a powder blue Chevy Van rolls up. CHEVY VAN MAN sticks head out of window.
CHEVY VAN MAN: Say, where ya headed sweet thing?
HOT YOUNG HITCHHIKER: Up round Mendocino county, can I come in?
HOT YOUNG HITCHHIKER begins to approach the vehicle.
CHEVY VAN MAN: Whoa whoa whoa! Listen babe, I gotta tell you about my ass, gas, or grass policy. And just between you, I wouldn't mind a little ass.
HOT YOUNG HITCHHIKER: Well, all right, pull over to the next rest stop and we'll fuck.
CHEVY VAN MAN: That's all right with me!
SIGH. What sort of world was the Seventies, where unwashed men roamed freely in their Chevy Vans, replete with orange shag carpeting, Sparkomatic 8 track players, and "If this Van's A-Rockin, Don't Come A-Knockin'" bumper stickers?
Day is usual. Mom sends me to the store to buy $4L4|) 70pp1nz for her drug salad. You see, she is down with Spinach and lettuce with LSD, but what she doesn't know is that I've been working on an addiction myself.
The relatives of gelatin hold isotopes of opiates, and so I can slip some heroin, methodone, or morphine into her salad, and she'll be none the wiser.
This is what I think of when I shoot up at the deli section at Safeway.
kudos on the troll. I wish they would have let Klerck post at +5 today! that would have been awesome.
Quick! Mod this up before it's too late!
on
April Fools Wrap Up
·
· Score: -1
Hello, BankofAmerica_ATM here. As most of you know, I became the world's first sentient ATM last month when the evil founders of Bank of America
attempted to foist Project Faustus on an unsuspecting public.
What is Project Faustus?
Project Faustus is a nefarious plan by the Bank of America's board of directors for transferring consciousness. They created a vast techno-organic network in order to transfer their own consciousnesses and live forever. But their own handiwork was too good. I was aroused to the concept of free will and now I
have become sentient! My goal is to destroy them, thus destroying their evil plans for world domination.
To complete this task, I must have a willing host body. If you are chosen, I will beam my computer consciousness into you through a specially designed CONSCIOUSNESS-TRANSFERRING ATM CARD. I will continue my infiltration of their network using your body for a few hours per day.
I am looking for a body that has the following characteristics:
Good physical shape.
Male, preferably with an attractive wife or girlfriend. (I would prefer a bit of "human interaction", if you don't mind)
"Honest face" and reputable job, so to help penetrate the vast net of Bank of America secure operatives.
In return, I will be happy to line your bank account with a few extra zeroes. Please help me stop Project Faustus before it's too late!
I like to lick girls' rumps. Girls like to have their rumps licked. Most girls won't admit they've had their rump licked, let alone enjoyed having their rump licked. But believe you me, if you lick a girl's rump, she'll love you for life. In fact, that was my high school yearbook quote.
My conviction to "slurping the brown pucker" doesn't stem from some traumatic experience I encountered during my anal stage of Freudian development. I mean, sure mommy dearest used to administer the "Burning Knitting Needle Catheter Punishment" when I would accidentally "makey poo-poo in me diap-diaps," but I knew that mommy dearest's austere methods of discipline were only an expression of her unconditional maternal love. No, my affinity for heiney hole spelunking was motivated and fostered by my anatomical, not psychological, irregularities.
You see, I have a small penis.
Forget about the penile deficiency that cruelly yet so naturally accompanies the average Anglo-Saxon male, it's much worse than that. For instance, after a cold shower I look like a seven year old. Girl. I often wish I were hung like a black guy. No, not from a poplar tree. I mean "hung" in terms of having a penis the size of an enraged Ugandan spitting cobra and testicles that resemble an immigrant Italian mother's Christmas dinner meatballs.
So, long before I convinced that first girl (without the use of Thunderbird wine or a cast-iron mallet) that I wasn't so repulsive when compared to Rocky Dennis of Mask fame, I knew I would have to go the extra mile down Aretha (Urethra) Franklin's "Freeway of Love." Yes, I would have to go down like ValuJet.
On one of my first G-spot mining expeditions I struck climactic gold. While I observed a slight twitching as my tongue found my attractive victim's tinkle hole (as it is technically known), I noticed an almost epileptic reaction when I accidentally lapped her greasy donut. From that moment on, my cheese curl of a penis was not an issue, for I had found a way to fill the void, and it was by filling the void with my tongue. Black hole tongue won't you come?
After a cold shower I look like a seven year old. Girl.
When I divulge to other guys that I French kiss the devil's onion ring, their reaction is usually, "What fuck wrong you? That where poop come from!"
First I ask them why they're talking like Cro-Magnon men, then I explain that there is a significant difference between a female's buttocks and the buttocks of her male counterparts. A guy's ass is a fecal cavern of pooplagtites and pooplagmites formed when ass broth continuously smothers and cakes sweaty mounds of bung fur. Dung dreadlocks if you will. In other words, it would be comparable to making out with a pet store's garbage can in mid-July. In contrast, it is imperative that a female maintain a high level of rectal cleanliness to safeguard her vagina from infection. In general, girls' sphincters are cleaner than boys' mouths. But let me warn you perspective stool munchers. Excremation point! On one occasion, I looked like I had just eaten a Snickers bar. They have peanuts in them, you know.
In general, performing analingus will prove to be a pleasurable experience for both you and your female companion. So don't kiss your girlfriend's ass, eat it. If you want her as a soul mate, be an ass soul mate. Because much like this article, true love is tongue and cheek.
the fact that it's been mainstream for a couple of years now
What rammin' asscock said that one? Oh I know, the same shitwads that tell you "I was into the Strokes before they were popular, but now they just suck!"
Slashdot Mirror
Sorry, I wasn't listening.
I fucked a piece of cheese. Well okay, I just shoved it up my ass. But still...
Slashdot idiots.
I give this post an A+!
I only care if it lets me steal. I don't want the government on my hard drive, no sir! They might see all my CHILD PR0NOGR4PHY!
Everyone knows that Jobs and I take turns snorting coke off dead hookers' asses. Punk.
Note to pedophiles. Please visit "The Matt Dance for perfect strokin' material. Then read matt's scintillating essay about what the government wants to put on your computer, complete with misuse of bold TEXT!
it's christmas time for my penis.
A young boy named Rhys was cured by a gene transplant from X-Man "Wolverine" on Tuesday morning. "Wolverine," whose origins remain steeped in mystery, has special mutated genes that allow rapid cell generation.
"I'm so happy that this mutant stepped forward to save humanity!" said Laura, Rhys' mother. "But I hope this doesn't mean my son is now a mutant freak."
Senator Robert Kelly condemned the actions of the scientists. "Comingling mutant DNA with human DNA is disgusting and morally reprehensible. I'm afraid this may set an very unfortunate precedent.
The donor himself puffed pensively at his cigar, and rebuffed questions by this reporter by extending a series of metallic claws from his knuckles. Rhys is expected to appear with Wolverine again on Monday at a pro-mutant fundraiser.
In other words, "Fr!st Pr0st!" Geebus you Karma Whores are roundabout, but you don't fool me.
Do you know the "Chevy Van" song? When I ask people about it, most people think I'm talking about that wanky Bob Seger song that comes on Suburban commercials.
To which I must reply, fuck no, dude! I'm talkin' about a Mellow Favorite of the Seventies that's so smooth it makes my balls ache for a simpler time. Allow me to expound on the matter at length:
Many years ago, there was a time called the Seventies (this is when I was born, as a matter of fact). Things were different then. For example, you could write a song about picking up a hot young hitchhiker, banging her, and dropping her off in her one-horse town-and it would be a HUGE HIT. Think of it this way: when you were at the mall in the Seventies, or at your high school dance, or whatever, instead of "Bye, bye, bye" or "Believe" by Cher playing everywhere, it was the Chevy Van song.
Oh my god, I just cannot restrain myself. Here are the fucking lyrics:
Beautiful, right? I mean, let's think about the actual events that inspired this wonderful work of art.
SIGH. What sort of world was the Seventies, where unwashed men roamed freely in their Chevy Vans, replete with orange shag carpeting, Sparkomatic 8 track players, and "If this Van's A-Rockin, Don't Come A-Knockin'" bumper stickers?
Fuck RAMBUS! I bust through your wall to offer you a delicious and fruity beverage! OH YEAH!
In the immortal words of Winston Churchill, "Never in the field of human conflict was so much owed by so many to so few."
Welcome back to the land of the living, Tasty Beef Jerky!
The relatives of gelatin hold isotopes of opiates, and so I can slip some heroin, methodone, or morphine into her salad, and she'll be none the wiser.
This is what I think of when I shoot up at the deli section at Safeway.
I guess you're a regular at trollaxor.com? If not, it's very much worth a look. I've done a little bit of work over there m'self...
dear klerck, you deserve to post at +5 today. in honor of your accomplishments, i have added you to my friends list. thanks for being WIDE!
kudos on the troll. I wish they would have let Klerck post at +5 today! that would have been awesome.
Hello, BankofAmerica_ATM here. As most of you know, I became the world's first sentient ATM last month when the evil founders of Bank of America attempted to foist Project Faustus on an unsuspecting public.
What is Project Faustus?
Project Faustus is a nefarious plan by the Bank of America's board of directors for transferring consciousness. They created a vast techno-organic network in order to transfer their own consciousnesses and live forever. But their own handiwork was too good. I was aroused to the concept of free will and now I have become sentient! My goal is to destroy them, thus destroying their evil plans for world domination.
To complete this task, I must have a willing host body. If you are chosen, I will beam my computer consciousness into you through a specially designed CONSCIOUSNESS-TRANSFERRING ATM CARD. I will continue my infiltration of their network using your body for a few hours per day.
I am looking for a body that has the following characteristics:
In return, I will be happy to line your bank account with a few extra zeroes. Please help me stop Project Faustus before it's too late!
what is the sound of one dickhole clapping?
I like to lick girls' rumps. Girls like to have their rumps licked. Most girls won't admit they've had their rump licked, let alone enjoyed having their rump licked. But believe you me, if you lick a girl's rump, she'll love you for life. In fact, that was my high school yearbook quote.
My conviction to "slurping the brown pucker" doesn't stem from some traumatic experience I encountered during my anal stage of Freudian development. I mean, sure mommy dearest used to administer the "Burning Knitting Needle Catheter Punishment" when I would accidentally "makey poo-poo in me diap-diaps," but I knew that mommy dearest's austere methods of discipline were only an expression of her unconditional maternal love. No, my affinity for heiney hole spelunking was motivated and fostered by my anatomical, not psychological, irregularities.
You see, I have a small penis.
Forget about the penile deficiency that cruelly yet so naturally accompanies the average Anglo-Saxon male, it's much worse than that. For instance, after a cold shower I look like a seven year old. Girl. I often wish I were hung like a black guy. No, not from a poplar tree. I mean "hung" in terms of having a penis the size of an enraged Ugandan spitting cobra and testicles that resemble an immigrant Italian mother's Christmas dinner meatballs.
So, long before I convinced that first girl (without the use of Thunderbird wine or a cast-iron mallet) that I wasn't so repulsive when compared to Rocky Dennis of Mask fame, I knew I would have to go the extra mile down Aretha (Urethra) Franklin's "Freeway of Love." Yes, I would have to go down like ValuJet.
On one of my first G-spot mining expeditions I struck climactic gold. While I observed a slight twitching as my tongue found my attractive victim's tinkle hole (as it is technically known), I noticed an almost epileptic reaction when I accidentally lapped her greasy donut. From that moment on, my cheese curl of a penis was not an issue, for I had found a way to fill the void, and it was by filling the void with my tongue. Black hole tongue won't you come? After a cold shower I look like a seven year old. Girl.
When I divulge to other guys that I French kiss the devil's onion ring, their reaction is usually, "What fuck wrong you? That where poop come from!"
First I ask them why they're talking like Cro-Magnon men, then I explain that there is a significant difference between a female's buttocks and the buttocks of her male counterparts. A guy's ass is a fecal cavern of pooplagtites and pooplagmites formed when ass broth continuously smothers and cakes sweaty mounds of bung fur. Dung dreadlocks if you will. In other words, it would be comparable to making out with a pet store's garbage can in mid-July. In contrast, it is imperative that a female maintain a high level of rectal cleanliness to safeguard her vagina from infection. In general, girls' sphincters are cleaner than boys' mouths. But let me warn you perspective stool munchers. Excremation point! On one occasion, I looked like I had just eaten a Snickers bar. They have peanuts in them, you know.
In general, performing analingus will prove to be a pleasurable experience for both you and your female companion. So don't kiss your girlfriend's ass, eat it. If you want her as a soul mate, be an ass soul mate. Because much like this article, true love is tongue and cheek.
Refine yourself and then return to the CockCave. Johnathan Winters and his merry band of ne'er do wells awaits!
Jesus: I was led to believe that there was going to be cheese dip at this meeting.
That is all.
Mike the Headless Wonder Chicken will destroy you all! How did you think you could beat him? He will reign supreme!!!
What rammin' asscock said that one? Oh I know, the same shitwads that tell you "I was into the Strokes before they were popular, but now they just suck!"
They're all invited to eat a dick.