NOW WE PLAY THE GAME OF COPYING PASTA

[GIGGLES]

The breasts were juicy, and the buns were soft and warm.

Afterwards, the division manager of Popeyes came up to my table and asked me how the meal was. I said I was satisfied, but the meal lacked a certain je ne sais quoi. He apoligized profusely, and said he had something to show me that would make up for it.

He lead me to the back of the popeyes, to a room soaked from floor to ceiling in blood. In the center of it was a live horse, chained by all four legs to the structural supports of the warehouse like room. As I watched, employees of the popeyes cut large sections from the horse, which was whinneying and screaming in horror. The popeyes employees took the chunks of horseflesh and sliced them into pieces, then they rooted around through the bags of trash strewn around the room to find discarded chicken bones. They quickly tenderized the meat with sledgehammers and fed it into a machine which formed the horsemeat around the bones, then they breaded and deepfried it.

I asked the division manager why he had led me back to this place, and he pointed at the steed's rump, the asshole puckering rythmically with terror. "We're just about to use that section, would you like a crack at it first?"

I quickly unzipped my pants and wasted no time jamming my erect Image:penisfilter.png into the stallion's defenseless asshole. I came just as the horse died. I was delighted. Popeyes definitely went the extra mile to make me a satisfied customer

[Kimmy Gibbler]

No matter how many times I read this I always laugh at the horse dying part.

[Jasper]

This is a travesty!

[Cain]

Now, I'm sure many of you have encountered little shits in supermarkets. Little kids running about and knocking things over, being rude, walking all over their parents, you know the kind. But the worst are the biters. Yes, those little cunts that feel it is okay to bite you whenever they feel like it. Okay, here's the best part. A biter got me today when I was grocery stopping. He broke the fucking skin, too. This was when the gears started turning, the moment I saw a tiny sprickle of blood on the little shit's teeth as he was grinning at me like the little cunt he is. I made my eyes get wide, and started screaming "SHIT! SHIT!." Now, my good friend, Tom we'll call him, was there too, and he instantly picked up on it. He started shouting "FUCK! MAYBE HE DIDN'T GET IT! FUCK!". By now, the kid is scared shitless and starts crying, and instantly, Mizz Mom appears out of nowhere and starts getting pissy at us for yelling at her kid. Here's the kicker, I look her straight in the eye and say, "Ma'am, get your son tested as soon as possible, he just bit me and I'm... I'm FUCKING HIV POSITIVE." And now there is silence. Not a peep in the entire store. The brat knows he just fucked up big time because his mom isn't defending his ass. She just stares at me wide eyed. I walk away from them, buy my shit from the wide eyed cashier, all the while blood is dripping from my calf, making a nice little trail on the floor. And, just as we leave, we start to hear the mother sobbing. Sobbing like the cunt she is. I have never felt any more satisfaction than the moment I heard that sob. I'm not really HIV Positive, but that little shit must've gotten in a fuckheap of trouble.

[Diseris]

Hate little disobedient fuckers and their worthless parents!

Mine are being raised with a healthy dose of whack! err, respect...

[Cain]

FACT: NEWGROUNDS WAS FUNNY WHEN WE WERE ALL 12 LIVING IN THE SUBURBS LISTENING TO LINKIN PARK WATCHING DRAGONBALL Z DRINKING PEPSI WHILE PLAYING HALO CO-OP ON THE EASIEST SETTING DURING WHICH WE CONSUMED DORITOS AND LOOKED AT PAINTBALL GUNS ON EBAY IN INTERNET EXPLORER CONNECTED THROUGH AOL ON A 56K MODEM BEFORE HOPPING INTO OUR BALDING FATHERS' LATEST MIDLIFE-CRISIS-IMPULSE-SPONSORED JAPANESE-BUILT SUV TO HEAD TO THE MALL AND GET MORE SKATEBOARDING SHOES AND THIRD-RATE IRREGULAR LEVIS AND MOUNTAIN BIKE PARTS BEFORE HEADING HOME, VOTING DEMOCRAT AND MASTURBATING TO THE LATEST SEARS CATALOG WHILE HUFFING PAINT IN YOUR GARAGE BEFORE TALKING TO PEDOPHILES ON AIM PRETENDING TO BE WHATEVER CAMWHORE THEY'RE RANTING ABOUT ON MYSPACE WITH A MATRIX QUOTE/ANIME CHARACTER NAME/TRIPLE SIX-ASTERISK-PARENTHESES-SURROUNDED SCREENNAME BEFORE HEADING TO YOUR SUPPOSED "GOOD SCHOOL" IN THE MORNING TO BUY MORE POT TO SMOKE DURING YOUR COUNTER-STRIKE LAN PARTY WITH JIMMY AND THE REST OF HIS FRIENDS TAKING RITALIN AND ADDERALL AND PROZAC EIGHT TIMES A DAY BEFORE TAKING A CASUAL PASS AT LOCAL, STATE OR NATIONAL GOVERNMENTIAL FIGURES, LEGISLATURE, OR STRUCTURE TO APPEAR EDGY AND INTELLIGENT IN FRONT OF YOUR BUDWEISER-SNEAKING, LIMP-WRISTED, NEAR-TO-COLUMBINE SOCIOPATHIC "DEEP" FRIENDS WHO PLAY THE VICTIM WHEN THEY START LOSING ARGUEMENTS SIX DAYS BEFORE THEIR BOTCHED SUICIDE ATTEMPT SIMPLY BECAUSE SCHOOL TRAMP NUMBER TWELVE WOULDN'T GO UNDER THE BLEACHERS WITH THEM TO LET THEM GET TO SECOND BASE BEFORE THEIR THIRTEENTH BIRTHDAY.

[Dysfunctional Cunt]

I am just blown away. Now I have seen mother's letting their kids run wild, scream, wreak general havoc, but I have NEVER seen a child biting strangers.  I would have slapped the mother.  Just slapped the living shit out of her.

[Cramulus]

I would have slapped the mother.  Just slapped the living shit out of her.

She'd totally bite you. Bad.

[Suu]

I am just blown away. Now I have seen mother's letting their kids run wild, scream, wreak general havoc, but I have NEVER seen a child biting strangers.  I would have slapped the mother.  Just slapped the living shit out of her.

Lol, you don't get copypasta.

[Cain]

Damn you, /b/. I fucking hate you. I've been noticing how you've been fucking with my head, making me see memes everywhere, and now it cost me my job.

I used to work at a pizza joint called Papa Gino's, which is a chain here in New England. Today, two guys came in, and they were very obviously a couple. Never in my life have I seen people this blatantly gay. Now, I'll be the first to admit that I'm a bleeding heart liberal hippie treehugger commie bastard, and I'm even bisexual myself, but DAMN these two were gay. Everything was going fine, right up until I served them their food. Instead of the usual "enjoy your meal" bit that I usually say, /b/ seized control of my brain.

"There you are, guys. Enjoy your AIDS." As soon as that A passed my lips, alarm bells went nuts in my head. But it was too late. I didn't realize what I had just done until I had finished speaking. The two guys just stared at me in shock for a momment, and I went pale. I knew that my days of free pizza and all the Mountain Dew I could drink were over in that one instant.

The two dudes go APESHIT. My manager comes over, and there's screaming about hate crimes, bigotry, lawsuits, and one of them even stood up and threatened to beat the shit out of me. We got into a fight, and my manager got scared, and said youre moving with your aunte and uncle in bel-air.

I whistled for a cab, and when it came near, the license plate said "fresh" and there were dice in the mirror. If anything I could say that this cab was rare, but I thought "naw forget it, yo home to bel-air!"

I pulled up to the house about seven or eight and I yelled to the cabbie "yo homes smell ya later!" Looked at my kingdom, I was finally there. To settle my throne as the prince of bel-air.

[AFK]

Papa Gino's makes awful, awful pizza, in case anyone was wondering. 

[Triple Zero]

(i dunno if all copypasta must come from /b/-related sources? it's also not particularly funny, just the only thing i could think of worth pasting)

One beautiful April morning, on a narrow side street in Tokyo's fashionable Harujuku neighborhood, I walked past the 100% perfect girl.

Tell you the truth, she's not that good-looking. She doesn't stand out in any way. Her clothes are nothing special. The back of her hair is still bent out of shape from sleep. She isn't young, either - must be near thirty, not even close to a "girl," properly speaking. But still, I know from fifty yards away: She's the 100% perfect girl for me. The moment I see her, there's a rumbling in my chest, and my mouth is as dry as a desert.

Maybe you have your own particular favorite type of girl - one with slim ankles, say, or big eyes, or graceful fingers, or you're drawn for no good reason to girls who take their time with every meal. I have my own preferences, of course. Sometimes in a restaurant I'll catch myself staring at the girl at the next table to mine because I like the shape of her nose.

But no one can insist that his 100% perfect girl correspond to some preconceived type. Much as I like noses, I can't recall the shape of hers - or even if she had one. All I can remember for sure is that she was no great beauty. It's weird.

"Yesterday on the street I passed the 100% girl," I tell someone.

"Yeah?" he says. "Good-looking?"

"Not really."

"Your favorite type, then?"

"I don't know. I can't seem to remember anything about her - the shape of her eyes or the size of her breasts."

"Strange."

"Yeah. Strange."

"So anyhow," he says, already bored, "what did you do? Talk to her? Follow her?"

"Nah. Just passed her on the street."

She's walking east to west, and I west to east. It's a really nice April morning.

Wish I could talk to her. Half an hour would be plenty: just ask her about herself, tell her about myself, and - what I'd really like to do - explain to her the complexities of fate that have led to our passing each other on a side street in Harajuku on a beautiful April morning in 1981. This was something sure to be crammed full of warm secrets, like an antique clock build when peace filled the world.

After talking, we'd have lunch somewhere, maybe see a Woody Allen movie, stop by a hotel bar for cocktails. With any kind of luck, we might end up in bed.

Potentiality knocks on the door of my heart.

Now the distance between us has narrowed to fifteen yards.

How can I approach her? What should I say?

"Good morning, miss. Do you think you could spare half an hour for a little conversation?"

Ridiculous. I'd sound like an insurance salesman.

"Pardon me, but would you happen to know if there is an all-night cleaners in the neighborhood?"

No, this is just as ridiculous. I'm not carrying any laundry, for one thing. Who's going to buy a line like that?

Maybe the simple truth would do. "Good morning. You are the 100% perfect girl for me."

No, she wouldn't believe it. Or even if she did, she might not want to talk to me. Sorry, she could say, I might be the 100% perfect girl for you, but you're not the 100% boy for me. It could happen. And if I found myself in that situation, I'd probably go to pieces. I'd never recover from the shock. I'm thirty-two, and that's what growing older is all about.

We pass in front of a flower shop. A small, warm air mass touches my skin. The asphalt is damp, and I catch the scent of roses. I can't bring myself to speak to her. She wears a white sweater, and in her right hand she holds a crisp white envelope lacking only a stamp. So: She's written somebody a letter, maybe spent the whole night writing, to judge from the sleepy look in her eyes. The envelope could contain every secret she's ever had.

I take a few more strides and turn: She's lost in the crowd.


Now, of course, I know exactly what I should have said to her. It would have been a long speech, though, far too long for me to have delivered it properly. The ideas I come up with are never very practical.

Oh, well. It would have started "Once upon a time" and ended "A sad story, don't you think?"


Once upon a time, there lived a boy and a girl. The boy was eighteen and the girl sixteen. He was not unusually handsome, and she was not especially beautiful. They were just an ordinary lonely boy and an ordinary lonely girl, like all the others. But they believed with their whole hearts that somewhere in the world there lived the 100% perfect boy and the 100% perfect girl for them. Yes, they believed in a miracle. And that miracle actually happened.

One day the two came upon each other on the corner of a street.

"This is amazing," he said. "I've been looking for you all my life. You may not believe this, but you're the 100% perfect girl for me."

"And you," she said to him, "are the 100% perfect boy for me, exactly as I'd pictured you in every detail. It's like a dream."

They sat on a park bench, held hands, and told each other their stories hour after hour. They were not lonely anymore. They had found and been found by their 100% perfect other. What a wonderful thing it is to find and be found by your 100% perfect other. It's a miracle, a cosmic miracle.

As they sat and talked, however, a tiny, tiny sliver of doubt took root in their hearts: Was it really all right for one's dreams to come true so easily?

And so, when there came a momentary lull in their conversation, the boy said to the girl, "Let's test ourselves - just once. If we really are each other's 100% perfect lovers, then sometime, somewhere, we will meet again without fail. And when that happens, and we know that we are the 100% perfect ones, we'll marry then and there. What do you think?"

"Yes," she said, "that is exactly what we should do."

And so they parted, she to the east, and he to the west.

The test they had agreed upon, however, was utterly unnecessary. They should never have undertaken it, because they really and truly were each other's 100% perfect lovers, and it was a miracle that they had ever met. But it was impossible for them to know this, young as they were. The cold, indifferent waves of fate proceeded to toss them unmercifully.

One winter, both the boy and the girl came down with the season's terrible inluenza, and after drifting for weeks between life and death they lost all memory of their earlier years. When they awoke, their heads were as empty as the young D. H. Lawrence's piggy bank.

They were two bright, determined young people, however, and through their unremitting efforts they were able to acquire once again the knowledge and feeling that qualified them to return as full-fledged members of society. Heaven be praised, they became truly upstanding citizens who knew how to transfer from one subway line to another, who were fully capable of sending a special-delivery letter at the post office. Indeed, they even experienced love again, sometimes as much as 75% or even 85% love.

Time passed with shocking swiftness, and soon the boy was thirty-two, the girl thirty.

One beautiful April morning, in search of a cup of coffee to start the day, the boy was walking from west to east, while the girl, intending to send a special-delivery letter, was walking from east to west, but along the same narrow street in the Harajuku neighborhood of Tokyo. They passed each other in the very center of the street. The faintest gleam of their lost memories glimmered for the briefest moment in their hearts. Each felt a rumbling in their chest. And they knew:

She is the 100% perfect girl for me.

He is the 100% perfect boy for me.

But the glow of their memories was far too weak, and their thoughts no longer had the clarity of fouteen years earlier. Without a word, they passed each other, disappearing into the crowd. Forever.

A sad story, don't you think?


Yes, that's it, that is what I should have said to her.

[Suu]

Papa Gino's makes awful, awful pizza, in case anyone was wondering. 

At least Adam Vinateri doesn't do the commercials anymore. Lol. Who is it now? Bruschi?

[Richter]

This is Spartan Will – 1337 reporting on how my mission objectives were vertically realigned.  Stand at ease and I will report how I became the incumbent monarch of a region known as Bel –Air.

I was constructed and trained at the New Philadelphia base, where I was stationed on non-active duty, engaging in recreation and dexterity training simulations.  Hostile units entered the area, stating their intent to occupy by broadcasting "We're up to no good.", on all common radio frequencies.

After a small initial engagement my commanding officer was afraid my capture could compromise the program, and reassigned me to a related unit in the greater Los Angeles area.  I requested to permission to remain on – station and finish the fight, but I was summarily given transfer papers and dismissed. 

Upon arrival outside of Bel – Air, I conscripted transport from a local vehicle under registration "FR35H", having determined it was a superior vehicle by its display of fake gambling supplies.  I arrived at the designated LZ around 2000 hours, and advised the owner of the conscripted vehicle to evacuate the area and cleanse the vehicle of offensive odor.  I surveyed the surrounding as I was finally there, to overthrow the command structure of the area known as Bel-Air.

[Suu]

It was a typical morning in the Gadget household. Brain was outside doing his business, and Penny was sitting at the table pouring herself a glass of orange juice, and Gadget was making pancakes.

"Did you sleep well Penny?" He asked.

"Yes I did, Uncle Gadget." She replied, her uncle's T-shirt fluttering as she sat back down. She didn't need pajamas yet, her uncle's shirt covered her body well enough.

"Go go gadget hand!" Said Gadget, holding a plate in one hand and the newspaper in the other. He needed to grab a spatula and thought his Gadget hand would be useful. Like always, the gadget he tried to use does not come out. Out popped the hand, but it was the Gadget Mallet. Like always, he had no control over it, so he stepped back so he wouldn't hit something, then WHAM! Smacked Penny on the back of the head, knocking her out cold.

Gadget gasped in fright, the mallet pulling itself back inside his hat. He went over to her and lifted her from the chair.

"Penny! Penny! Wake up!" But she was barely breathing. That's when Gadget noticed, through the loose shirt, her tiny bosom, just starting to bud. He stared at them for a full minute, wondering why he hadn't noticed before.

(insert typical /b/-style kiddie porn story)

As he stuck the beaters in and turned it on, the Chief appeared from the trashcan.

"GOOD LORD! WHAT THE HELL DID YOU DO GADGET!?" Chief yelled. "GO AWAY CHIEF! I NEED TO FINISH THIS WITH THE APPLIANCE!" "No Gadget, you are the appliance" And then Gadget was a toaster.

(modded by ECH: sory Suu, no kiddie porn even if it's copypasta.)