This is just sad.
Boy Flypsy,you are Good!What flames!I’m getting a tan over here!<g>
Stop gushing, OC.
This in the Pit.
When the pin is pulled, Mr.Grenade is no longer our friend.
Omni, you mullett-headed, dimwitted, buttsniff! What the hell would you know about freakin’ love anyway?? Your sorry, sodden, pitiful ass is in chat every time I log on. You want to talk about immature? Who the hell is always chasing pre-pubescent, innocent children, like Lanna, or hittin’ on anyone who enters the room! For fuck’s sake Omni, step the hell off before I pull out a can of whoopass on ya!
Chef, get your sorry, South Park wannabe ass off my turf. For the special occasion of throwing your name in the dirt, I had to visit Stan’s Insult Generator So piss off, you pus-sucking, smelly-crotched,turd-like, butt-licking jerk-off!
Coldfire, I know you jack off to snuff films to get your jollies, but this is not your playground! So back the chack up!
Excuse me ~ If I may ~ Turn your attention ~ my way
WTF???
“…being normal is not necessarily a virtue. It rather denotes a lack of courage.”
All right, Demo, you slack-jawed bicycle-seat sniffer. That peroxide you used to draw attention away from your receding hairline must have soaked through the bong resin permeating your skull and eaten away at your sixteen remaining brain cells if you think you can take ME on in a flame war. I hope you got your asbestos underwear on, you I-wish-I-was-in-the-backstreet-boys flattop-to-hide-the-forceps-dents syphilitic pigfucker.
And Flyp is right. Your mama is so fat I had to roll her in flour to find the wet spot.
Live a Lush Life
Da Chef
“Hey, you kids shouldn’t play so rough. Somebody’s gonna start cryin’.” — Mr. Blonde
Alright, all you greasy, pukebrained, knuckle-dragging half-wits, lay off of Dem!
So what if he can’t spell for monkey cock? He’s still a sweetheart. Keep your moldy cold-sore infected lips shut, damn it.
And Flyp, Dem’s momma may be fat, but at least she can diet. They’re ain’t no cure for butt-ass ugliness. And Coldfire, I heard your momma was so damn dim, she worked at an M&M’s factory and threw out all the W’s.
Asswads.
Always be ready to speak your mind and a base man will avoid you.
-William Blake
Is there a cure for not knowing to use “there” instead of “they’re”, you flunked-English-as-a-second-language litter-box lounger? Besides, there’s a cure for butt-ass ugliness. It’s called a paper bag. Of course, with flyp’s momma you might want to wear one on your own head just in case hers falls off.
Live a Lush Life
Da Chef
You people are so fucking PATHETIC! Don’t you even have the lives necessary to insult real people? I mean come ON. You come in here and type with one hand, I’m sure. Oh, Demo and Flyp are going at it, tee hee tee hee. Losers. I oughta stalk you down and smack the lot a ya.
Being even more virile than PitBullDawg, I’m gonna go have sex with the 20 women begging me, and more secretive than the AGENT no one will ever know.
I sold my soul to Satan for a dollar. I got it in the mail.
Hey ReservoirDog, if you keep talkin’ like a bitch, I’m gonna slap you like one!
Hey Chef, when the hell elected you Professor Emeritus of English Studies in The Pit?? You don’t want to step on my toes. You know where that path leads don’t you? I know about those midnight runs you take to Safeway for the Betty Crocker pudding cups, telling your trailer-park-trash buddies that you made creme brulee the next day. I know about you sleeping your way through culinary school with the chief fry chef. I know about your obsession with seeing me naked wearning nothing but a collander on my head. I know Chef, I know. Fess up or don’t step up Chef.
shit
Yawn
No kidding! I’m with you, Chris.
You, sir, are an ambisexual walnut.
Guess you’re shit outta luck, huh?
And with that subatomic dick of yours, chances are good those 20 won’t know either.
Yeah, and the name we’re giving them is Chef Troy, you rutting chimp-fuck.
[/quote]
A couple of cum gargling flame queens throwing a hissy fit?
[/quote]
Well, you’re here, but I don’t see any others.
Well, that flour went to better use than any that’s made it into your cooking.
Do you maybe mean “who the hell elected me Professor Emeritus…”? Too bad you ruined your one shot to come after me about the English language, you microcephalic borborygmous mephitic miasma. And there’s no need to get your greasy hair all over my colander…the helmet with the bicycle handlebars that you wear down to blow sailors at the docks will do just fine.
Live a Lush Life
Da Chef
Time to cut through all the fucking verbal diarhea.
Pulling out my dick and stretching it across the table.
Lets see what you chupacabre got.
THWACK!
A machete.