Having a head that is too fucking small.

[hooplala]

[NWC]

uhhh






?

[The Good Reverend Roger]

Whats wrong with having a head that is too fuckign small.  It isn't my fault, and what is up with the small head comment.  Is this just a way of calling me stupid.

-for your entertainment only.

No.

It's a way of saying your head is too fucking small.

[The Good Reverend Roger]

Oh, 104. I'm sorry, there's just no easy way to tell you this:

You, sir, are fail.

You are a lumpish, milk-livered whey-face whose seed is so venomously feeble that you sire a race of microscopic leper-idiots every time you jerk off into your crusted jizz rag to pictures of your own mother. They in turn breed like crack-fueled rabbits, and shit the pure fail in which you marinate.

On those rare occasions when you manage to haul your bloated, gorbellied and toad-spotted frame up the stairs from your mother's basement (leaving a slick orange smear along the hand rail due to subsisting entirely upon nacho cheese chips and the pus from your own suppurating zits) and into the sunlight in a futile attempt to actually speak to a girl who doesn't charge $5.99 for the first minute and $2.99 for each additional minute, the local city and county governments put the emergency response system into effect, warning all the local females of every age that the bewormed night gaunt shambles forth. You thought those sirens indicated thunderstorm activity. You were wrong. Because you are fail.

You are an eater of broken meats. You exude the stink of banality and attempt to conceal it 'wit' as sharp as your average tennis ball. You are the reason otherwise devout Catholics arm themselves with wire clothes hangers. You fill a much needed gap -- with fail.

If PD were the canned fruit shelf at the grocery store, you, sir, would be the lychee nuts in heavy syrup. Your rhetorical skills cannot be seen with a scanning electron microscope, and in fact subjecting your intellect to that scrutiny causes the tungsten filament cathode to commit suicide by explosion when it attempts to perceive your fail.

Age cannot wither you, nor custom stale your infinite fail.

You bore God. Your canker flowers have canker flowers. Your father shot the fucking stork. The day of your funeral shall be declared a national holiday to be celebrated with brass bands, the burning of effigies, and the ceremonial beating of a dead horse to remind us of the cause of our rejoicing. You are so boring, sir, that people fall asleep halfway through your name.

Which, lest you forget, is Fail.

Yours in fellowship,
Me

Marry me.

[The Good Reverend Roger]

Don't laugh, bitch.  You're next.

[Dysnomia]

104:   

[Mesozoic Mister Nigel]

You are an eater of broken meats.

[Mesozoic Mister Nigel]

[The Good Reverend Roger]

That's just one of the emotes.

Daruko isn't even original.

[Mesozoic Mister Nigel]

That's just one of the emotes.

Daruko isn't even original.

[Adios]

I love spring time. My dog caught a bird. It's time to mow the lawn. I need more coffee.

[Suu]

OMFG KIWIS!

<3<3<3!

[Contessa_Ugolino]

Oh, 104. I'm sorry, there's just no easy way to tell you this:

[bitchery and snark redacted]

Marry me.

[Mangrove]

Oh, 104. I'm sorry, there's just no easy way to tell you this:

You, sir, are fail.

You are a lumpish, milk-livered whey-face whose seed is so venomously feeble that you sire a race of microscopic leper-idiots every time you jerk off into your crusted jizz rag to pictures of your own mother. They in turn breed like crack-fueled rabbits, and shit the pure fail in which you marinate.

On those rare occasions when you manage to haul your bloated, gorbellied and toad-spotted frame up the stairs from your mother's basement (leaving a slick orange smear along the hand rail due to subsisting entirely upon nacho cheese chips and the pus from your own suppurating zits) and into the sunlight in a futile attempt to actually speak to a girl who doesn't charge $5.99 for the first minute and $2.99 for each additional minute, the local city and county governments put the emergency response system into effect, warning all the local females of every age that the bewormed night gaunt shambles forth. You thought those sirens indicated thunderstorm activity. You were wrong. Because you are fail.

You are an eater of broken meats. You exude the stink of banality and attempt to conceal it 'wit' as sharp as your average tennis ball. You are the reason otherwise devout Catholics arm themselves with wire clothes hangers. You fill a much needed gap -- with fail.

If PD were the canned fruit shelf at the grocery store, you, sir, would be the lychee nuts in heavy syrup. Your rhetorical skills cannot be seen with a scanning electron microscope, and in fact subjecting your intellect to that scrutiny causes the tungsten filament cathode to commit suicide by explosion when it attempts to perceive your fail.

Age cannot wither you, nor custom stale your infinite fail.

You bore God. Your canker flowers have canker flowers. Your father shot the fucking stork. The day of your funeral shall be declared a national holiday to be celebrated with brass bands, the burning of effigies, and the ceremonial beating of a dead horse to remind us of the cause of our rejoicing. You are so boring, sir, that people fall asleep halfway through your name.

Which, lest you forget, is Fail.

Yours in fellowship,
Me

And under 50 posts too. Sign of the n00b blight lifting? [cautiously optimistic]

[Darth Cupcake]

Kiwis are the most delicious fruit.

Well, maybe not THE most delicious, but certainly one of them.