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Topic: CTRL+V and post it  (Read 430729 times)

STOG

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CTRL+V and post it #165
#SuperBowlAds (A MAN BRINGS THE GUILLOTINE DOWN ON A NEWBORN BABY) Doritos Locos Tacos, available all night after the game!

chai tea latte

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CTRL+V and post it #166
people mad about kanye west grammys "beck"

e: people mad about kanye west grammys "beck" morning phase

STOG

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CTRL+V and post it #167
Things I overhear: "Fifty Shades of Grey is going to be good, because it's finally legitimate porn!" Also someone's been throwing pizza

Frank West

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CTRL+V and post it #168

chai tea latte

  • TheftBot is, simply put, a fully sentient robot for stealing automatic teller machines
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CTRL+V and post it #169
Right now, your mom is masturbating to a dirty book about a guy who duct tapes a young girl to a chair, blindfolds her, gags her, beats the shit out of her, then pulls a tampon out of her cooch and fucks her period pussy before spraying hot, salty jizz all over her face. With his huge cock. His huge, huge cock. So huge that she is scared of it, your mom in character as this 21 year old girl. The girl whom she is pretending to be while she is flicking her middle-aged bean is younger than you. She is younger than your younger sister. She is a mere four years older than you were when your mom would have been horrified to find a pack of purloined Virginia Slims crumpled up in your Levis when she was doing your laundry.

Right now your mom is pretending to be a girl who literally just turned old enough to drink, who meets a notorious but reclusive billionaire “industrialist” who made huge sums of money in the way that women think “industrialists” make money, which is: they don’t know, so he just owns a bunch of factories where things are made by hand right here in the good old U S of A and a bunch of farms where man and beast alike are treated ethically and humanely. When asked about his massive hoard of non-inherited money bootstrapped from nothing with the sweat of his brow the man, who is under thirty, speaks of how he “knows people” and the key is his forty thousand employees, all of whom he has hand-selected and pays what they’re worth and listens to their ideas and etc., even though his army of hot young blonde secretaries are terrified of him. The girl had to interview him for the school paper when her cub journalist roommate got sick, and then he tracked her down and made the girl his fuckslave.

This is what your middle aged suburban mom likes to think about when she pulls her Rabbit™, which is a bright purple larger-than-average artificial penis with rotating pearl-like bearings along the shaft and a clitoral stimulator shaped like the eponymous animal—when your 55 year old presumably overweight mother who has not groomed her salt and pepper pubic area in several decades and has what appears to be the scalp of 1982 Jerry Garcia affixed to her crotch—when she pulls this machine out of the dishwasher after your father has passed out in front of Sportscenter, when she unbuttons the top few buttons of her generously cut Walmart® Faded Glory™ jeans and teases the top of her mons pubis slightly with the tip of her index finger, she is beginning to think about this steely-eyed, young, and virile master of the universe—of her hot, moist universe. She is thinking about being a lithe virginal 21 year old whose pussy tastes like butterscotch, having the back of her neck held in a Vulcan death grip and her face forced into a pillow near to the point of suffocation while her wrists are duct taped behind her back with duct tape that this man– who looks exactly like Robert Pattinson, since the story originated as TWILIGHT fan fiction— this man purchased right in front of her, personally, at the hardware store where she had part time employment in her college town. He made a special trip and carved time out of his billionaire’s day to travel to her small community and purchase the accoutrements of brutal sexual bondage at the quaint mom and pop Tru Value where she earns $7.50 an hour, so as to communicate in a menacing but alluring manner that this accidental substitute cub reporter for the college newspaper was his desired catamite.

So she is thinking about being quasi-forcibly penetrated with this man’s impossibly generous and perfectly complected cock, your mom. A cock which is stretching her 21 year old butterscotch tasting pussy that even though said pussy has drunk deeply of this same member on a few prior occasions, this bone-white and rigid member is so impossibly huge that it still manages to push her open and stretch and sting. And yet somehow it miraculously fits, inside your mom. Who had hoped to have a sort of luxurious drawn out teasing period with the tip of her index finger on her mons pubis and outer labia before going whole hog with the Rabbit™ but the thought of his hot breath on her neck as he leaned on her and pushed her gagged face into the mattress was just too hot and she just plunged the whirring churning rotating rabbit inside her right up to the hilt and came instantly like a volcano; she couldn’t help herself. Your mom.

So in conclusion: five stars.
crow cyclopeantrash xX_sp00ks_Xx

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CTRL+V and post it #170
no idea what you're talking about, i'm a bread man to the grave, haven't you seen my "bread til dead" tattoo

TheCrawlingChaos

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CTRL+V and post it #171
"OKAYSOGROUPSEX."
"What? That sounded like Newspeak."
"We have always been on top of East Asia!"

Mister Smalls

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TheCrawlingChaos

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CTRL+V and post it #173

chai tea latte

  • TheftBot is, simply put, a fully sentient robot for stealing automatic teller machines
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  • (ATMs) from nearby convenience stores.
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Mistress Eva

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CTRL+V and post it #175
Right now, your mom is masturbating to a dirty book about a guy who duct tapes a young girl to a chair, blindfolds her, gags her, beats the shit out of her, then pulls a tampon out of her cooch and fucks her period pussy before spraying hot, salty jizz all over her face. With his huge cock. His huge, huge cock. So huge that she is scared of it, your mom in character as this 21 year old girl. The girl whom she is pretending to be while she is flicking her middle-aged bean is younger than you. She is younger than your younger sister. She is a mere four years older than you were when your mom would have been horrified to find a pack of purloined Virginia Slims crumpled up in your Levis when she was doing your laundry.

Right now your mom is pretending to be a girl who literally just turned old enough to drink, who meets a notorious but reclusive billionaire “industrialist” who made huge sums of money in the way that women think “industrialists” make money, which is: they don’t know, so he just owns a bunch of factories where things are made by hand right here in the good old U S of A and a bunch of farms where man and beast alike are treated ethically and humanely. When asked about his massive hoard of non-inherited money bootstrapped from nothing with the sweat of his brow the man, who is under thirty, speaks of how he “knows people” and the key is his forty thousand employees, all of whom he has hand-selected and pays what they’re worth and listens to their ideas and etc., even though his army of hot young blonde secretaries are terrified of him. The girl had to interview him for the school paper when her cub journalist roommate got sick, and then he tracked her down and made the girl his fuckslave.

This is what your middle aged suburban mom likes to think about when she pulls her Rabbit™, which is a bright purple larger-than-average artificial penis with rotating pearl-like bearings along the shaft and a clitoral stimulator shaped like the eponymous animal—when your 55 year old presumably overweight mother who has not groomed her salt and pepper pubic area in several decades and has what appears to be the scalp of 1982 Jerry Garcia affixed to her crotch—when she pulls this machine out of the dishwasher after your father has passed out in front of Sportscenter, when she unbuttons the top few buttons of her generously cut Walmart® Faded Glory™ jeans and teases the top of her mons pubis slightly with the tip of her index finger, she is beginning to think about this steely-eyed, young, and virile master of the universe—of her hot, moist universe. She is thinking about being a lithe virginal 21 year old whose pussy tastes like butterscotch, having the back of her neck held in a Vulcan death grip and her face forced into a pillow near to the point of suffocation while her wrists are duct taped behind her back with duct tape that this man– who looks exactly like Robert Pattinson, since the story originated as TWILIGHT fan fiction— this man purchased right in front of her, personally, at the hardware store where she had part time employment in her college town. He made a special trip and carved time out of his billionaire’s day to travel to her small community and purchase the accoutrements of brutal sexual bondage at the quaint mom and pop Tru Value where she earns $7.50 an hour, so as to communicate in a menacing but alluring manner that this accidental substitute cub reporter for the college newspaper was his desired catamite.

So she is thinking about being quasi-forcibly penetrated with this man’s impossibly generous and perfectly complected cock, your mom. A cock which is stretching her 21 year old butterscotch tasting pussy that even though said pussy has drunk deeply of this same member on a few prior occasions, this bone-white and rigid member is so impossibly huge that it still manages to push her open and stretch and sting. And yet somehow it miraculously fits, inside your mom. Who had hoped to have a sort of luxurious drawn out teasing period with the tip of her index finger on her mons pubis and outer labia before going whole hog with the Rabbit™ but the thought of his hot breath on her neck as he leaned on her and pushed her gagged face into the mattress was just too hot and she just plunged the whirring churning rotating rabbit inside her right up to the hilt and came instantly like a volcano; she couldn’t help herself. Your mom.

So in conclusion: five stars.
chai tea latte, February 15, 2015, 11:45:58 am

Holy shit. That is so fucking disturbing and brilliant -- I don't know whether I should laugh hysterically or weep bitterly between convulsive vomitting.

Agent (gobble, gobble) Coop

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CTRL+V and post it #176
Everyone in the film, including President Theodore Roosevelt (Claude Akins), seems openly thrilled to encounter Brady Hawkes.

chai tea latte

  • TheftBot is, simply put, a fully sentient robot for stealing automatic teller machines
  • Paid
  • (ATMs) from nearby convenience stores.
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CTRL+V and post it #177
I can’t go to your holiday party because I’m an introvert who has better things to do.

You wouldn’t understand because you’re not an introvert. You’re probably an extrovert, or worse, a warm, emotionally-stable person who can relate to other people.

I’m an introvert. Ask my life coach. He says I’m an introvert, which is what he would expect from a gemini with a cancer rising.

I didn’t choose to be an introvert. Does the shark choose to be a shark? Does the panther choose to be a panther? One of the great things about being an introvert is you can ask questions out loud and not have to worry about ever hearing an answer.

I’m just a loner who lives the life of a solitary shark-panther. As an Introvert-American, I am used to all the jokes. They don’t bother me. All I need is a couch, the food ordering app Seamless, and a steady 9-to-5 job that doesn’t require I make eye contact with anyone.

That last one is big. Because I’m pretty socially awkward on account of I’m kind of a dick.

How do I know you’re not an introvert? Well. You invited me to a holiday party, for one.

You know you’re an introvert when, like me, the needs of friends and family are inconvenient to my need to eat beef chow fun and fuck around on YouTube.

You know you’re an introvert when you cancel plans because you’re lazy. You know you’re an introvert if you hate crowds, or couples, or anyone who isn’t delivering your beef chow fun.

You’d understand if you were an introvert, but you’re not. You know when I realized I was an introvert? One night I got really drunk on wine alone at home and when I woke up the next afternoon on the bathroom floor I thought “this is great.”

But back to the point: why would I respond to an RSVP when you knew I wasn’t going to go? Next time, send the invitation like always and then just immediately assume I declined the invitation you just sent.

Ugh, I hate conflict, because I’m a coward. And an introvert! But at least I’m honest, right? I tell it like it is. For instance, you’ve really let yourself go since Deborah left you for her life coach.

When I’m in a big group of people I just feel like no one is talking about me enough, and that makes the palms of my hands and the meat of my butt sweaty.

So there it is. I can’t go to your holiday party. Yes, I know your holiday party was last weekend.

I can’t go to your holiday party last weekend or next year because I’m an introvert who has better things to do. Like reading old gchats, or stalking exes on Instagram, or staring blankly at walls. I would prefer smelling my own farts to going to any holiday party at all.

I don’t know about you but learning is lifelong so that’s why I spend hours reading Wikipedia by myself.

Have you seen “Guardians of the Galaxy” on Blu-ray three times? That is what I thought. Here’s a warning: the unexamined life is not worth living.

It’s not that your holiday parties aren’t fun. I hear they are holiday parties. Who doesn’t love homemade eggnog? Also, who doesn’t love a small chance of salmonella?

You know why they call it small talk? I don’t care, can I go home now?

Whenever anyone asks me what my favorite holiday song is I tell them “All I Want For Christmas Is You, But You Died From Cancer 12 Years Ago.”

Let me also add that I don’t need to go to your holiday party to learn that you have a huge apartment filled with expensive furniture because I can learn about all the things you have that I don’t have by coming over to your place on, oh, any Tuesday night.

I really regret not coming over and coveting your cheese spread, but I was too busy screaming into my pillow because I am so goddamn lonely sometimes.

But not lonely enough to go to your holiday party. No offense. The last time I went, which was for five minutes a hundred years ago, I really enjoyed your toilet.

We really have lost the true meaning of Christmas, which is, as far as I’m concerned, eating glazed ham with your fingers while watching “Love, Actually.”

Anyway, I have a screenplay to write about an introvert who is a brilliant computer hacker who has sex with many beautiful women. It’s titled “Why I Didn’t Go To Your Holiday Party.”

If I don’t write angry tweets to celebrities and businesses, who will? Who? You? Ha! Don’t make me laugh. The only thing YOU care about are the people who trust your word and depend on you.

These Netflix shows aren’t going to watch themselves, you know? These saltine crackers aren’t going to slather themselves in peanut butter, okay? This penis isn’t going to masturbate itself, understand?

I am a busy man with a lot on his spinning plates. When was the last time you had to break in a pair of fat pants? I’ve got a list of things to do: organize my spoons. Nap. Drink wine and text my life coach. He lives in Sedona.

Oh, really? You got me a present? How thoughtful. Can you Fed-Ex it to me?

crow

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CTRL+V and post it #178
I can’t go to your holiday party because I’m an introvert who has better things to do.

You wouldn’t understand because you’re not an introvert. You’re probably an extrovert, or worse, a warm, emotionally-stable person who can relate to other people.

I’m an introvert. Ask my life coach. He says I’m an introvert, which is what he would expect from a gemini with a cancer rising.

I didn’t choose to be an introvert. Does the shark choose to be a shark? Does the panther choose to be a panther? One of the great things about being an introvert is you can ask questions out loud and not have to worry about ever hearing an answer.

I’m just a loner who lives the life of a solitary shark-panther. As an Introvert-American, I am used to all the jokes. They don’t bother me. All I need is a couch, the food ordering app Seamless, and a steady 9-to-5 job that doesn’t require I make eye contact with anyone.

That last one is big. Because I’m pretty socially awkward on account of I’m kind of a dick.

How do I know you’re not an introvert? Well. You invited me to a holiday party, for one.

You know you’re an introvert when, like me, the needs of friends and family are inconvenient to my need to eat beef chow fun and fuck around on YouTube.

You know you’re an introvert when you cancel plans because you’re lazy. You know you’re an introvert if you hate crowds, or couples, or anyone who isn’t delivering your beef chow fun.

You’d understand if you were an introvert, but you’re not. You know when I realized I was an introvert? One night I got really drunk on wine alone at home and when I woke up the next afternoon on the bathroom floor I thought “this is great.”

But back to the point: why would I respond to an RSVP when you knew I wasn’t going to go? Next time, send the invitation like always and then just immediately assume I declined the invitation you just sent.

Ugh, I hate conflict, because I’m a coward. And an introvert! But at least I’m honest, right? I tell it like it is. For instance, you’ve really let yourself go since Deborah left you for her life coach.

When I’m in a big group of people I just feel like no one is talking about me enough, and that makes the palms of my hands and the meat of my butt sweaty.

So there it is. I can’t go to your holiday party. Yes, I know your holiday party was last weekend.

I can’t go to your holiday party last weekend or next year because I’m an introvert who has better things to do. Like reading old gchats, or stalking exes on Instagram, or staring blankly at walls. I would prefer smelling my own farts to going to any holiday party at all.

I don’t know about you but learning is lifelong so that’s why I spend hours reading Wikipedia by myself.

Have you seen “Guardians of the Galaxy” on Blu-ray three times? That is what I thought. Here’s a warning: the unexamined life is not worth living.

It’s not that your holiday parties aren’t fun. I hear they are holiday parties. Who doesn’t love homemade eggnog? Also, who doesn’t love a small chance of salmonella?

You know why they call it small talk? I don’t care, can I go home now?

Whenever anyone asks me what my favorite holiday song is I tell them “All I Want For Christmas Is You, But You Died From Cancer 12 Years Ago.”

Let me also add that I don’t need to go to your holiday party to learn that you have a huge apartment filled with expensive furniture because I can learn about all the things you have that I don’t have by coming over to your place on, oh, any Tuesday night.

I really regret not coming over and coveting your cheese spread, but I was too busy screaming into my pillow because I am so goddamn lonely sometimes.

But not lonely enough to go to your holiday party. No offense. The last time I went, which was for five minutes a hundred years ago, I really enjoyed your toilet.

We really have lost the true meaning of Christmas, which is, as far as I’m concerned, eating glazed ham with your fingers while watching “Love, Actually.”

Anyway, I have a screenplay to write about an introvert who is a brilliant computer hacker who has sex with many beautiful women. It’s titled “Why I Didn’t Go To Your Holiday Party.”

If I don’t write angry tweets to celebrities and businesses, who will? Who? You? Ha! Don’t make me laugh. The only thing YOU care about are the people who trust your word and depend on you.

These Netflix shows aren’t going to watch themselves, you know? These saltine crackers aren’t going to slather themselves in peanut butter, okay? This penis isn’t going to masturbate itself, understand?

I am a busy man with a lot on his spinning plates. When was the last time you had to break in a pair of fat pants? I’ve got a list of things to do: organize my spoons. Nap. Drink wine and text my life coach. He lives in Sedona.

Oh, really? You got me a present? How thoughtful. Can you Fed-Ex it to me?
chai tea latte, March 08, 2015, 11:07:34 pm

It's my third night of college and my roommate already has a girlfriend, who he's having sex with in the bunk above me right now. Our double room has become an informal triple, consisting of me, my roommate and the specter of self-doubt telling me I'll never be close to another human being. I'm considering suicide, but I've heard it's illegal and can't imagine the penalty for a multiple suicide - I'd be killing myself and all the people in my head I could've been before I went to college to learn how to program chairlift interfaces.

My roommate is a DJ at frat parties and looks Greek - all DJs are descended from galley drummers. His girlfriend is pretty but has too many tribal tattoos. Once he mentioned this flaw, but later said he hadn't been drinking and had his reality goggles on.

My room overlooks a square courtyard called the "quad." I've seen similar areas at other colleges, but think ours is the only one called the "quad" - or hope so, and that my college, its students and their hopes and dreams are unique and not just modular parts for a giant malfunctioning chairlift. The walls of the room are covered with supermodel posters. Today I tore one down looking for an electrical outlet and saw the words "HELP ME" written repeatedly on the wall in a mix of blood and hair gel, but then the poster re-affixed itself to the wall like a rapidly healing wound.

I'm trying to do homework, but my thoughts have the same rhythm as the sex above me, so that every epiphany is drowned out by a coital moan. I wonder if doing homework and getting fornicated are somehow the same. I'd take some Adderall to improve my concentration, but it gives me stimulant psychosis. Last night, after taking several capsules, I heard all the rap songs in the dorm across the quad combine into one massive rap, spit by a giant hundred-eyed MC in whose head the residents were trapped like people in a Hieronymus Bosch painting.

I put down my homework and read an article in the student newsletter.

How to Get along with Your New Roommate

It's your worst nightmare: you come back to your room after a hard night of studying and it's full of people. The new Dave Matthews Band CD is blasting on the stereo and a couple are making out on your bed. The couple peel off their faces, revealing that they're actually monsters made out of television static. You run for the door but get lost in a maze of sewer tunnels where your worst fears mock you in your own voice....

Below the article is a list of recent alumni and their degrees. I can't help but notice how "AA" looks like a terrified scream suddenly cut short.

My roommate and his girlfriend have stopped having sex, but the room is still shaking. It must be the portal underneath my college that students are sent through to their futures. Lately, objects have been coming out of it: student loan bills, bottles of antidepressants and retail counters.

I leave the room and walk across the quad, passing the windows of a night class. The students are seated at desks that slope downward toward the podium, like skiers on a chairlift that only goes downhill.

chai tea latte

  • TheftBot is, simply put, a fully sentient robot for stealing automatic teller machines
  • Paid
  • (ATMs) from nearby convenience stores.
  • 5,773
  • -420
CTRL+V and post it #179
"We were trying to make an un-burnable American flag, and through the R and D process we had to burn like 50 American flags," explained Adam DeVine.