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Just putting this out there;

For all you newfags who frequent 4chan, I'll let you in on a couple secrets.

1. Everyone is a furry there, especially the 'haters'.

2. People don't care if you post fappable furry porn, unless it's Friday, then sage is more common than hair on French girls.

3. /b/ was never good. If you say "I remember when /b/ good" you sound retarded.

4. If you raid, do it with style. Don't go shouting "4chan this" or "/b/ that". The rules of the internet are a joke, unless you refer to raiding. Do you shoot a mafia boss and then give him your address to call in later? No. Don't be stupid.

5. The Game has lived and died so many times it's no longer funny. Here's what needs be done. Read XKCD. There, problem solved.

6. There is no such thing as too much lurking, but newfags don't know this.

7. Yes, you can troll a troll. It doesn't count as feeding the troll if you laugh while writing your hate.

8. Newfags can't triforce.

Do not stop to think or edit:
You must be the first who said it.

You heard a brand-new band? What luck!
You’ll be the first to say they suck.

In order to increase renown,
add “bacon” to most any noun.

It’s not your job to right a wrong,
just mark it FAIL and move along.

Rather than felicitations,
send your friend an application.

To be an expert’s no great tax:
Write common sense and call it “hacks.”

Your friends won’t like it, on the real,
but you must Flickr every meal.

In disagreements, all your readers
must be branded Nazi leaders.

It doesn’t matter what you say,
just publish it twelve times per day.

For those of you who bother reading my diary, allow me this moment to boast.

BEST. NIGHT. EVER!

My and Brittany had sex for nearly an hour. During the course of this hour, we cycled through fifteen different positions. The positions we used came from this little sheet below. There are forty-eight positions, and the one's we used were checked off. Holy sweet gods it was beyond amazing. I didn't even know my body could ACCOMMODATE for some of these, like the one were both me and her were laying on our back >_>

So, I came across this whilst using that little add-on called 'Stumble'. This has to be one of the funniest things I read today. Enjoy.

Explosive Diahhrea
The Ryan's Steakhouse Story
by Anonymous

Funniest darn thing that has ever happened to me. A couple of weeks ago we decided to cruise out to Ryan's Steakhouse for dinner. It was a Wednesday night, which means that macaroni and beef was on the hot bar, indeed the only night of the week that it is served. Wednesday night is also kid's night at Ryan's, complete with Dizzy the Clown wandering from table to table entertaining the little bastards. It may seem that the events about to be told have little connection to those two circumstances, but all will be clear in a moment.

We went through the line and placed our orders for the all-you-can-eat hot bar then sat down as far away from the front of the restaurant as possible in order to keep the density of kids down a bit. Then I started my move to the hot bar. Plate after plate of macaroni and beef were consumed that evening, I tell you - in all, four heaping plates of the pseudo-Italian ambrosia were shoved into my belly. I was sated… perhaps a bit too much, however.

I had not really been feeling well all day, what with a bit of gas and such. By the time I had eaten four overwhelmed plates of food, I was in real trouble. There was so much pressure on my diaphragm that I was having trouble breathing. At the same time, the downward pressure was building. At first I thought it was only gas, which could have been passed in batches right at the table without too much concern.

Unfortunately, that was not to be. After a minute or so it was clear that I was dealing with explosive diarrhea. It's amazing how grease can make its way through your intestines far faster than the food which spawned the grease to begin with, but I digress... I got up from the table and made my way to the bathroom. Upon entering, I saw two sinks immediately inside the door, two urinals just to the right of the sinks, and two toilet stalls against the back wall. One of them was a handicapped bathroom. Now, normally I would have gone to the handicapped stall since I like to stretch out a bit when I take a good shit. But in this case, the door lock was broken and the only thing I hate worse than my wife telling me to stop cutting my toenails with a pair of diagonal wire-cutters is having someone walk in on me while I am taking a shit.



I went to the normal stall. In retrospect, I probably should have gone to the large, handicapped stall even though the door would not lock because that bit of time lost in making the stall switch proved to be a bit too long under the circumstances. By the time I had walked into the regular stall, the pressure on my ass was reaching Biblical portions. I began "The Move."

For those women who may be reading this, let me take a moment to explain "The Move." Men know exactly what their bowels are up to at any given second. And when the time comes to empty the cache, a sequence of physiological events occur that cannot be stopped under any circumstances. There is a move men make that involves simultaneously approaching the toilet, beginning the body turn to position ones ass toward said toilet, hooking ones fingers into ones waistline, and pulling down the pants while beginning the squat at the same time. It is a very fluid motion that, when performed properly, results in the flawless expulsion of shit at the exact same second that one’s ass is properly placed on the toilet seat. Done properly, it even assures that the choad is properly inserted into the front rim of the toilet in the event that the piss stream lets loose at the same time; it is truly a picture of coordination rivaling that of a skilled ballet dancer.

I was about halfway into "The Move" when I looked down at the floor and saw a pile of vomit that had been previously expelled by one of those little bastards attending kids night. It was mounded up in the corner so I did not notice it when I had first walked into the stall. Normally, such a thing would not have bothered me, but I had eaten so much and the pressure upward was so intense, that I hit a rarely experienced gag reflex. And once that reflex started, combined with the intense pressure upward caused by the bloated stomach, four plates of macaroni and beef started coming up for a rematch.

What happened next was so quick that the exact sequence of events is a bit fuzzy, but I will try to reconstruct them as best I can. In that moment of impending projectile vomiting, my attention was diverted from the goings-on at the other end. To put a freeze frame on the situation, I was half crouched down to the toilet, pants pulled down to my knees, with a load of vomit coming up my esophagus.



Now, most of you know that vomiting takes precedence over shit no matter what is about to come slamming out of your ass. It is apparently an evolutionary thing since shitting will not kill you, but vomiting takes a presence of mind to accomplish so that you do not aspirate any food into the bronchial tubes and perhaps choke to death. My attention was thus diverted. At that very split second, my ass exploded in what can only be described as a wake...you know, as in a newspaper headline along the lines of "30,000 Killed In Wake of Typhoon Fifi" or something similar. In what seemed to be most suitably measured in cubic feet, an enormous plug of shit the consistency of thick mud with embedded pockets of greasy liquid came flying out of my ass.

But remember, I was only halfway down on the toilet at that moment. The shit wave was of such force, and of just such an angle in relation to the back curve of the toilet seat, that it ricocheted off the back of the seat and slammed into the wall - at an angle of incidence equal to the angle at which it initially hit the toilet seat. Then I sat down. Recall that when that event occurred, I was already halfway to sitting anyway and had actually reached the point of no return. I have always considered myself as relatively stable gravitationally, but when you get beyond a certain point, you're going down no matter how limber you may be. Needless to say, the shit wave, though of considerable force, was not so sufficient so as to completely glance off the toilet seat and deposit itself on the walls - unlike what you would see when hitting a puddle with a high-pressure water hose; even though you throw water at the puddle, the puddle gets moved and no water is left to re-form a puddle. There was a significant amount of shit remaining on about one-third of the seat rim, which I had now just collapsed upon.

Now, back to the vomit...

While all the shitting was going on, the vomit was still on its way up. By the time I had actually collapsed on the toilet, my mouth had filled up with a goodly portion of the macaroni and beef I had just consumed. OK, so what does the human body instinctively do when vomiting? One bends over. So I bent over. I was still sitting on the toilet, though. Therefore, bending over resulted in me placing my head above my now slightly opened legs, positioned in between my knees and waist… and directly above my pants which were now pulled down to a point just midway between my knees and my ankles. Oh, did I mention that I was wearing not just pants, but sweatpants with elastic on the ankles. In one mighty push, some three pounds of macaroni and beef, two or three Cokes, and a couple of Big, Fat Yeast Rolls were deposited in my pants...on the inside...with no ready exit at the bottom down by my feet. In the next several seconds, there were a handful of farts, a couple of turds, and the event ended. Yet I was now sitting there with my pants full of vomit, my back covered in shit that had bounced off the toilet, spattered on three ceramic-tiled walls to a height of about five feet, and still had enough force to come back at me, covering the back of my shirt with droplets of liquid shit. All while thick shit was spread all over my ass in a ring curiously in the shape of a toilet seat.

And there was no friggin toilet paper. What could I do but laugh. I must have sounded like a complete maniac to the guy who then wandered into the bathroom. He actually asked if I was OK since I was laughing so hard I must have sounded like I was crying hysterically. I calmed down just enough to ask him if he would get the manager. And told him to have the manager bring some toilet paper. When the manager walked in, he brought the toilet paper with him, but in no way was prepared for what happened next. I simply told him that there was no way I was going to explain what was happening in the stall, but that I needed several wet towels and I needed him to go ask my wife to come help me. I told him where we were sitting and he left. At that point, I think he was probably assuming that I had pissed just a bit in my pants or something similarly benign.



About two minutes later, my wife came into the bathroom not knowing what was wrong and with a certain amount of worry in her voice. I explained to her (still laughing and having trouble getting out words) that I had a slight accident and needed her help. Knowing that I had experienced some close calls in the past, she probably assumed that I had laid down a small turd or something and just needed to bring the car around so we could bolt immediately. Until I asked her, I'm sure she had no idea that she was about to go across the street and purchase me new underwear, new socks, new pants, a new shirt, and (by that time due to considerable leakage around the elastic ankles thingies) new sneakers. And she then started to laugh herself since I was still laughing. She began to ask for an explanation as to what had happened when I promised her that I would tell her later, but that I just needed to handle damage control for the time being. She left.

The manager then came back in with a half-dozen wet towels and a few dry ones. I asked him to also bring a mop and bucket upon which he assured me that they would clean up anything that needed to be cleaned. Without giving him specific details, I explained that what was going on in that stall that night was far in excess of what I would expect anyone to deal with, what with most of the folks working at Ryan's making minimum wage or just slightly above. At that moment, I think it dawned on him exactly the gravity of the situation. Then that manager went so far above the call of duty that I will be eternally grateful for his actions. He hooked up a hose. Fortunately, commercial bathrooms are constructed with tile walls and tile floors and have a drain in the middle of the room in order to make clean up easy. Fortunately, I was in a commercial bathroom. He hooked up the hose to the spigot located under the sink as I began cleaning myself up with the wet towels.

Just as I was finishing, my wife got back with the new clothes and passed them into the stall, whereupon I stuffed the previously worn clothing into the plastic bag that came from the store, handing the bag to my wife. I finished cleaning myself off and carefully put on my new clothes, still stuck in the stall since I figured that it would be in bad taste to go out of the stall to get redressed, in the event I happened to be standing there naked and some little bastard kid walked in. At that point, I had only made a mess; I had not yet committed a felony and intended to keep it that way.

When I finished getting dressed, I picked up the hose and cleaned up the entire stall, washing down the remains toward the drain in the center of the room. I put down the hose and walked out of the bathroom. I had intended to go to the manager and thank him for all he had done, but when I walked out, three of the management staff were there to greet me with a standing ovation. I started laughing so hard that I thought I was going to throw up again, but managed to scurry out to the car where my wife was now waiting to pick me up by the front door.

The upshot of all this is that I strongly recommend eating dinner at Ryan's Steak House. They have, by far, the nicest management staff of any restaurant in which I have eaten.

The latest in Jay Naylor Smut! YAY! "Good Morning, Tommy" is ready!



















HOPE YOU ENJOYED IT! ^_~

Okay, so, according to Encyclopedia Dramatica:

"According to the philosopher House, you can't say no if it isn't a question. And according to Nickelback, sex is never a question. Therefore rape is impossible."


Huh....

At first I was like

O.o

But then I was like...

^_^

Then I listen to music
...................................~
.........................____ /
[(]-_-[)] ____ [O:::::O]

HEY EVERYONE! SEND [Dornhal dragon] MESSAGES OF LOVE! NOW! AND HE'S COMING BACK IN MARCH! FUCK YEAH! WOOOOOOOOO!

I'm not crazy. Not crazy. No. No. Not crazy. I'm not crazy. Not I. Not me. Notme. noT me! Mommy said I'm not CRAzy. Not CrAZY! MomMY SAid! MomMY! I will be QUIet. I wilL bE GoOD. NOt crAzy. No. voICEs. I LOve You. I love YOu. MOMmy LovEs ME too. ShE LovES me. LoVEs me! ShE does! Love! LoVEs me! ME! Not YOU! mE! I loVE mY MoMmY !ThE VOicEs ARe WrONg! So mUCH bloOD. SO muCH PAIN. neED QUiET! NeED pEaCE. MOmmY? MomMY? I wilL bE GoOd I promise. ShE wiLL Not LEt TheM TaKE Me aWAy FroM YoU MomMY. nO ShE WilL NoT. ShE Is WaTChINg Me RiGHt nOw. HeR Black eYEs. BlaCKeyES driPPiNg bLOOd she WatCHeS mE SleEp She WilL NoT Let ThEm TAKe ME awAY fRoM YoU MOmmY. mY MoMmy No not cRazY NoT CRAzY nOT CrAzY NonoNOnONot CRaZy nO I wIll bE GoOd MomMy. So MUCh bloOD MomMy Their SCReamS Hurt My EArs MomMy. MomMY I MaDE ThEM StoP MoMmy Made THEm stOP SCReAMing momMY. i MaDE theM Leave Made TheM Cry MOmmY I MaDE THeM DiE MoMMY I maDE ThEM All DeAD MoMmY AlL Dead aLL GOne deAD gone AWay ForeVER and Ever ForEVEr and EvER and EvER gone so MUch Blood MOmmy i WIll BE goOD MomMy so goOD SO QuiET mommY AnD I wilLS how Them! ShOW tHEM! shoW ThEM! PLeAsE Do NoT Go mOMmy Do nOT Leave mE PleAsE! PLEaSe! I wIlL Make YoU STay! STaY! ShE WIlL MaKE YoU StAY! ShE DoEs Not Like iT WheN YOu MaKE mE Sad. SHe WIlL MAkE YoU STay MoMmY ShE WilL MakE YoU STay FOreVEr. And ShE wiLL Hit YOu anD HIt yoU and HiT you...


A̫̠̟̫̻̻̥͓̻̖̭̙͔͕͕̠n͔͉̗̼͔̲͖̭̤̪̼̤̱d͓̩̳͓ͅ ̜̫͖̺̹̺̩̙͚ͅW͙̞̭̯̬̯͈̯̼̲̙͓̩̝e̙̤͖̟̣͓̱̥̼ ͎͉̘̙͍͖͕̹͎͉̠̞̺̣̤̻̯͙A͙͍̬̼̭̭̮̘͇̟̠l͕͓̜̻̬̮͓͇̗̣̰̠̩͖̺͔̼l̖̼̣̱̼̻͇̤͙̘̱͖̠̬͔̦̟ ͎̩͕̭͙̼̼̥͔̦͙F̠̥͙͉̤̳̜̫̝̖a̠͍̣͙̖̲̫̟ͅl͓̪̗̳͙̱̩̳ͅl͎̣͚̜̲ ̫̥̤̻̤̖͖̞̟D̙͇͍̫͇̜̠͖͚̪͚͔͉ͅo̱̲̟̬͓͕̻̖̠̦̫̥w̳͔͚̖̩̹̩̙͓ͅn̺̝͍̬̩̟̼͈̥͓

To all the juggalo/lets who took umbrage to my diary entry and responded with the utmost ferocity, let me pass this quaint piece of knowledge onto you;

It was a troll. If you got angry with me then it means I have achieved my ends, and all through you.

Thank you all for being wonderful, hateful sports for propagating the image you cultivated for yourselves about being violent and crude.

For those who didn't yell and swear, congratulations! I have a higher opinion of you as a person. The group, however, has a long way to go before the majority of people have a positive opinion of you as a sub-culture. And now, for my own amusement, this picture.

All of you kids out there who claim to be 'Juggalos/juggalettes'? There is so much wrong with this sub-culture belief that you put so much stock into that it makes me want to strangle the lot of you. I could go on at length about how your delusions, self-depricating nature, obnoxious and ignorant boasts, and constant posturing are nothing more than hot air. Fetishes are adult. Music is adult. Camaraderie is adult. Being an adult is an adult. Your music (like saying that the bleating of a mule is 'music') is offensive, crude, and boorish, completely lacking any amount of quality or taste, and has made you into driveling idiots. Your 'beliefs', this crap that you regurgitate about Shangri-La and the like, is complete and utter nonsense. You prattle on about how you are one big family, with clown love et cetera et cetera, and don't give a damn about what others think, and if you meet up with someone you dislike you wouldn't think twice about punching them in the face, and any who show you disrespect will have the whole 'posse' (def: N. A gang involved in crimes such as running guns and illegal narcotics trafficking) brought down upon their heads. You sound like a bunch of whining children! It brings to mind a picture of some boy who called another kid a poop-head, and so the kid who was insulted got his friends together to kick sand in the other kids face and make him cry. Way to grow up and set an example for your generation. As well, this huge fixation you lot have with clowns. Now, I understand dressing up is fun. I know clowns are an amusing and fun form of entertainment (except clown dolls. Those are creepy). But you kids who put on the make up and go to your rallies and whatnot...You sound like a bunch of kids screaming for attention from your parents. Now, I understand the importance of camaraderie and brotherhood, but isn't this a bit much for a cry for attention? What, was switching to Wicca too little? Skipped past goth, past emo, and right into... Clowns? Are you serious? All of you need a solid dose of reality via lead pipe to the face. This meeting should of course take place at high velocity. Maybe knock some sense into that obviously vacant cavity that you call your skull.

Or perhaps it will kill you. Either way, one less retard to pollute the pool we call our genes. The world, outside of your own, has a rather low opinion of you juggalos (and I pronounce Juggalo the same way I pronounce the word 'Tapeworm'). Believe me, your reputation is well earned.

Remember what Dr. Phineas Waldolf Steel says;

"Tyranny with a smile!"

"Toy Soldiers Unite!"

"Be a Toy Evangelist!"

"Insane guys are hot!"

And most importantly,

"Dr. Steel Loves You."

Also, per my joining the ranks of the Toy Soldier army, I must insist you all visit this site. Watch his video. Maybe, if you feel the compulsion, join the ranks of Toy Soldiers.

http://www.toysoldiersunite.com/

TOY SOLDIER SALUTE! ~ Nekko

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-HTqbxYsYwc&feature=related

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pgQEzR9WN5A&feature=related

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1wZ5qGQ78io&feature=related


Watch The Dr. Steel Show TODAY!

And then John was a zombie.

MERRY CRIMBO AND A HAPPY WINTER SOLSTICE!

I hope you all have a very good giggle.

I'm not. I'm not even actively chatting on Fake right now.

Just finished showering. Let me tell you what, listen to Schnuffel while showering, and it's pretty damn nice. I was particularly relaxed whilst shaving (and I mean not my face) and the song Ich hab Dich lieb came on. Very nice.

http://toofar.tv/sketches

Never understood what was meant behind that phrase "The South will rise again"...Can anyone explain this to me without me disparaging anything about it?

^------ RE: Found good response to this.

A rallying cry used by Confederacy enthusiasts who believe the southern United States is superior. Often, those who use this phrase believe the American Civil War was "about States' rights, not slavery". In fact, the Constitution of the Confederacy was nearly word-for-word identical to the US Constitution, but actually *restricted* States' rights by requiring every State to be a slave State.

Furthermore, there was no "Southern identity" in the United States until abolition became a major political issue, and rebel states saw slavery as more a matter of property rights, not State's rights. The States' rights issue was invented by modern Southern apologists; no real historian takes it seriously.

In short, this is a slogan for southerners who believe they should "take pride in their heritage" even though their heritage includes a legacy of horrifying behavior.