Feeble. But just enough to light this joint, so I got some use out of it. But enough with the chit chat.
You know that stabbing pain right around ground level? It’ll go away if you stop dropping that rock on your foot. You see, when they call you ‘Sport’, it’s not because you’re a player. They’re talking about the fact that you appear to inhabit a different phylum than the rest of us. You normally would be much farther down the food chain except for the fact that no self respecting predator would touch you with a 10 foot toilet plunger. You’re so rank, they could plop you down in the middle of a swamp and you wouldn’t even get a mosquito bite. Except that would be a violation of the Clean Water Act. Tapeworms are personally offended to be seen with you. But that’s not your fault, it’s probably just because your family tree doesn’t branch. No, I don’t want to hear the one about your kid sister and Uncle Daddy.
Now run along and play. And next time rinse off before you jump in the sulpher pool, you left a ring!
Shit, at least I went. You’re so stupid you weren’t even able to find the school! And those kids weren’t just staring up your skirt, they were trying to see if it’s true that there’s a small furry piece of roadkill stuck up there (the answer is: yes).
{takes a lot of painkilling drugs and asks Myrr21}
Why a spoon?
(closes her eyes and braces herself, knowing that the fact that the fact that she direly needs surgery that her HMO won’t authorize will soon be solved)
Well, it had to wait a hell of a lot longer than that.
And it’s not arrogance. It’s opinion.
Here’s how it works:
I say: Your flames suck; like your sister, only free.
You say: I am verbally jousting. I am subtle, and couth, whereas you, sir, are callow and un-couth.
I say: No, you’re not jousting. You sound like the chemistry teacher trying to talk shit to the biker. She’s still gonna make you her bitch.
You say: You are arrogant, and your trapsing about is repugnant. I can only manage to bear it for so long.
I say: WTF??? I’m speaking English right? I’ll try to bottom-line it for you:
Your flames are fuckin’ lame.
They aren’t flames, they are weak fuckin’ ass-queefs.
I may be no better, but we’re not talkin’ about me, we’re talkin’ about you.
You obviously haven’t seen my cousin yet. Not that it would matter to you, it takes a pulse before you can appreciate the opposite sex. You seem to have taken offense to the fact that I have used words with more syllables than your IQ, which is rather optimistically indicated by the ‘2’ in your name. I’d love to stick around and pop your brain inside out but unlike you I’ve got a life to deal with. Maybe if you stop by later with a bucket of vaseline I’ll let my pet boar Porcuswine play with you. But you’ll have to clean up a little first.
speakeasy- How can you flame a man with a ‘2’ in his name when you can’t even count that high? You look at binary code and get carpel tunnel syndrome from counting on your hands. Your existence is a speed bump for the rest of the world. You don’t even know about pom-poms, you just think cheerleaders have hairy hands. You’re the first successful test tube baby raised in a bottle of beer. Your stupidity is gratuitous. You may speakeasy, but you’re awful damn hard to listen to.
Freakly - Yer so ugly, they use your snapshot down at the poison control center to induce vomiting. Yer so fat, when you sit around the couch, you sit all the way around the couch. Let me guess, you copped your rotten attitude when you disgorged your sick twisted kitten rape fantasies at confessional and the priest laughed? And then didn’t give you any penance because your life was already such a knee slapper?
Did somebody sue your trained felching iguana when you were a young child pimping for the preschooler’s prostitute ring? Spent too much time in handcuffs talking to a district attorney, did we? Threw youself in front of a Mercedes while working that insurance scam and got your head ran over? Here’s a novel concept for you: GET OVER IT! Fa chrissakes, you got scar tissue on the brain? Oh, I see from a quick review of your threads that you have no brain. Well that explains a lot, but not everything.
Last sound before speakeasy’s conception: “Pull out, pull out! Shit! Alright, that’ll be five dollars extra for not withdrawing early… yeah I’ll take food stamps.”
SPEAKEASY and FREAKFREELY will soon get married. On their wedding as well as for the rest of their bliss-filled nights, FreakFreely will “always get to be on top”.
What’s that? Dueling banjos playing in the background??
Yeah, yeah… you know the drill. Gimme your fucking lunch money or your head’s going in the toilet. And that $200 calculator’s getting shoved up your ass.
I turn my back for a day, and all of a sudden it has turned into a lovefest again. Please folks, leave your sex lives and your soap operas out of it. Take it to 12th Avenue where it belongs.
