Author Topic: The Art of the Brag.  (Read 13855 times)

Cramulus

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Re: The Art of the Brag.
« Reply #45 on: April 30, 2008, 06:41:38 pm »
My hat is made from the prolapsed vaginas of my enemies. Those who were not born naturally with vaginas had vaginas manually installed with my bare hands prior to prolapse. I never buy meat because everything I eat turns into bacon in my mouth, except when it turns into raw, tender buffalo steak. I shit candy and blackbirds, and the blackbirds pluck out the eyes of those who look at me in a displeasing manner, and lay them at my feet on a bed of onions. It is this which I use to make soup to feed my children, who are the lords of evil thoughts, the Underworld, and The Top of The Bottom, the tiny crevice through which all horrors creep bound to the legs of centipedes, to be shaken loose like the eggs of lice into the minds of the susceptible, the unwary, virgins, and the pathetic.

:potd:

hoopla

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Re: The Art of the Brag.
« Reply #46 on: April 30, 2008, 07:14:42 pm »
Nigel is my new hero, replacing Nigel who was also my old hero.
“Soon all of us will have special names” — Professor Brian O’Blivion

"Now's not the time to get silly, so wear your big boots and jump on the garbage clowns." — Bob Dylan?

"Do I contradict myself? Very well, then I contradict myself, I am large, I contain multitudes" — Walt Whitman

Darth Cupcake

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Re: The Art of the Brag.
« Reply #47 on: April 30, 2008, 07:34:05 pm »
Nigel is my new hero, replacing Nigel who was also my old hero.

I agree with this statement.
Be the trouble you want to see in the world.

Jasper

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Re: The Art of the Brag.
« Reply #48 on: April 30, 2008, 08:17:03 pm »
You don't Get It, but how could you?  I'm not so much a black box as a black soup.  When you eat me, the meat and organs falls off your bones and becomes gritty black ichor to make more soup.  You're glue, but not because I'm rubber, but because I then boil your bones and MAKE GLUE.  You dig?!  Your only hope is to commit suicide in my honor, because Cabbage Hell is a real place that I will send you at the first sign of impudence.   Golden eagles do my bidding, because if they disobey I hurl deer at them, killing them in midair.  I am the illegitimate son of  my grandchildren, and the resulting strange loop causes me to never stop, ever.  I once ate a black hole and shat it out on the other side of itself.  The Gods pray to me, in vain, for they have sinned against me.

Mesozoic Mister Nigel

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Re: The Art of the Brag.
« Reply #49 on: April 30, 2008, 10:00:18 pm »
 :thanks:
“I’m guessing it was January 2007, a meeting in Bethesda, we got a bag of bees and just started smashing them on the desk,” Charles Wick said. “It was very complicated.”


Jasper

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Re: The Art of the Brag.
« Reply #50 on: April 30, 2008, 10:13:56 pm »
It was better than mine, but I've been playing it humble too long.

Mesozoic Mister Nigel

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Re: The Art of the Brag.
« Reply #51 on: April 30, 2008, 11:09:05 pm »
Golden eagles do my bidding, because if they disobey I hurl deer at them, killing them in midair.
This is brilliant!
“I’m guessing it was January 2007, a meeting in Bethesda, we got a bag of bees and just started smashing them on the desk,” Charles Wick said. “It was very complicated.”


hoopla

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Re: The Art of the Brag.
« Reply #52 on: April 30, 2008, 11:40:22 pm »
KNEEL BEFORE HOOPLA, PLANET HOUSTON!!

Get this straight: I wasn't born, I KICKED my way out of my mother!  At six months old I called Kerry Thornley to inform him that Robert Anton Wilson was his CIA babysitter, he cried like Eliot Spitzer, while I guffawed loudly, smoking a cigar.  The Moon used to have a fancy name, probably some Roman shit, but I said CUT THE CRAP!  IT'S JUST A FUCKING MOON, AND THAT IS WHAT IT SHALL BE NAMED HENCEFORTH!  And, so it was.  I got Rael into clits.  Canada and the USA used to be one country, but I demanded that a physical line be drawn between me and Sanjaya Malakar, hence Canada was born.  As a side note, I fathered every child currently born in Canada.  I made Barbara Walters cry.  Don't believe that piece-of-shit Hollywood movie: Forrest Gump was running away from ME.  The reason Captain Beefheart doesn't perform anymore is because I locked in my bathroom, so I can listen to him sing while in the bathtub, bathing in the tears of children.  I demanded Cat Stevens become a radical Muslim, as a LARF, he wanted to be a Scientologist.  The face on Mars is actually a portrait of me.  Bea Arthur was a beautiful model, until I sucked the life out of her, to put into my Sea Monkeys... they later became the group The Monkees: blame Bea not me. I raped Mike Tyson. I piss Dr. Pepper.  

So there.
“Soon all of us will have special names” — Professor Brian O’Blivion

"Now's not the time to get silly, so wear your big boots and jump on the garbage clowns." — Bob Dylan?

"Do I contradict myself? Very well, then I contradict myself, I am large, I contain multitudes" — Walt Whitman

Manta Obscura

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Re: The Art of the Brag.
« Reply #53 on: December 16, 2008, 02:39:15 pm »
Bump, for good thread-ness and the chance to brag. Also . . .

I bump because I deserve to do so. Not because I have done something to be rewarded the right to do so, but because I have the balls to bump a years' old thread without reserve. For I am a reward to this world unto myself.

You think you know eloquence? Ha! You have not seen its face until you have looked headlong into my tangled web of words. I spin stories and create realities with an effort less than the breath of fleas, and with a superiority higher than the greatest psalm sung by Anansi.

Walt Whitman sung a song of himself, resounding his mighty yawp above the rooftops of the world. I, however, do not give in to that crass bullshit, for I know that my tiniest whisper shall be carried upon chaotic winds throughout the earth. Like the wings of the butterfly, my subtlest words fell the invisible dominos of creation and destruction, one word raising winds and sinking ships, and another breath heralding the first newborn cry of all the infants born beneath the break and fall of the shimmering sun.

I make no claims of power or glory, for one who already owns something no longer proclaims it his. It just is.

I mark the hours by my dreams, the minutes by my quickened heartbeat in the throes of impassioned fervor, the seconds by the steady bolero of my breath sustaining life to the once-and-ever Beautiful One, he whose thoughts are too grand for the cosmos, whose passion too warm for the cold heat of a thousand suns, and whose gentle knowledge and timeless grace too great a gift to the world, which watches on in wonder as these things come to pass, as glorious things awaken within me and because of me, stretching open wider than the maw of God.
Everything I wish for myself, I wish for you also.

Chairman Risus

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Re: The Art of the Brag.
« Reply #54 on: August 21, 2010, 09:50:39 pm »
It's high time this got dredged back up.