puddles pls

U nailed it.

 

What trolls? This is gamez sir and there are no trolls here. Just serious people who respect each other and obey all the rules.

You also need proper use of commas and such. For example. He helped his uncle Jack, off a horse.

 

​King of the Trolls Beastie <3

 

^^



Is there any hidden text here or long stories?



I don't know you'll just have to keep looking.





Find it yet? I'm sure there's something here somehwhere.






Just keep at it, you'll find something soon.






You're getting closer there's something awesome coming up soon.




Just keep going.



A little more.




Damn it keep going.





Ok I lied there's nothing here.



huehuehue

 

80% of people tend to think they are better than the majority of people. Assuming the majority of people means 60%, this means we are trying to cram 80% into 40% which makes this one really obese woman. You can almost see her waddling around trying to steer her rotund 450 pound lard butt swathed in the California King sized bed sheet turned large maternity dress through the crowds of people at the mall to try and reach Hot Dog On A Stick to refill her extra large lemonade and order up another round of corn dogs.
And there's you, standing in line behind the guy who smells a little like cheese fumbling through his wallet for the nickel he got as change from 7-11 to pay the 17 year old cashier behind the counter getting paid $8.50 an hour.

You see Mrs. Lard-On-A-Stick rolling your way like the stone ball in Indiana Jones: Raiders of the Lost Ark, with a twinkle in her eye and you realize to yourself "Dang, if I don't move out of the way, I may just end up flattened like the black wads of aged gum at my feet." Deftly, you leap like a ninja onto the back of the middle aged man still fumbling through the lint in his pocket for his lost nickel, pull on the lobes of his ears as you let out an ear piercing screech, "WE RIDE!!!". Sparked by a sudden surge of adrenaline, stinky cheese man springs into an all out sprint towards the McDonald's stand opposite the food court with you perched mightily upon his shoulders, steering the runaway beast as best you can with the small sliver of ear cartilage pinched between your thumbs and inner edge of your index fingers. As the looming shadow cast by Senorita Super-Size-Me disappears into the distance behind you, you crane your head skyward and defiantly let out a bellowing howl of victory.

Although you may have missed out on the corn dog which you so craved, you give thanks to the spirits for preserving your mortal body from being crushed underfoot by Mademoiselle Maternal Muumuus and swear to yourself that it's only a matter of time before you sing the song of battle once again.

 

Think about the word Disney and the way it's written on the logo. You know what I'm talking about. That swirly D, curly-cue i, swishy s, something n, and that y that looks like that fork you destroyed when you got mad at your mom for using American cheese instead of mozzarella on your spaghetti cause you had run out. When I was a kid, I could not for the life of me decipher how that jumbled mess spelled Disneyland. But what did I care, I couldn't even read. As I got older however, it began to frustrate me. Gisnepland? W T F is Gisnepland!? Gisnepland, where Mickep Mouse and Gonald Guck invite you to share in their wonderful world of adventures?

Then, it happened. One day as I was spread eagle on the couch, drinking my boba milk tea, trying to cool off my crotch by aiming my groin at the ceiling fan while simultaneously wondering aloud whether or not I should sneakily squeak out this fart I had been holding or just be a man and let her rip and if the fan would then backfire the fumes back down towards my face when I saw it. The G in Gisnep was a FANCY D. All those years wondering what that forsaken swirly mess was. All those agonizing hours attempting to make sense of the world before me. I SEE IT NOW. I SEE IT NOW AND I CAN'T UNSEE IT.

Good job Walt Disney. You've successfully trolled billions of children with your fancy last name and I'd be willing to bet you didn't even sign your name that way. And you know what else? Ceiling fans do a great job at moving air, particularly noxious fart air.

Until next time, Sadi pls.

 

I apologize for that Sadi pls, Sadi. To make up for it I will tell you a funny and true story. This one time I was walking with my friend Randy to go to the gym on campus at the University of Southern California and while we were walking I suddenly felt the incredible urge to fart. You know, that undeniable call of the wild, that most primal of human urges. Feeling like it was going to be an epic release of flatulence, one of untold proportions that would go down in the annals of time as a crowning achievement, a turning point in human history, I told my friend Randy to wait in front of me as I prepared for its arrival with anxious expectation of its imminent release. As the gaseous concoction approached the point of no return, I got into my power squat position, knees outwards and slightly bent, chest up, hips back, clenching both fists in a fantastic display of defiance. Then, I utilized the technique which I had perfected for just this moment. Clenching my cheeks as tightly as I could I prepared to take advantage of the oncoming rush of flatus to create as much noise as possible. 3, 2, 1... the initial wave was thunderous. Enough to silence the chirps of the sparrows that sat in the hedges near the walkway we were on. That first wave alone would have been enough to warrant my entry into the all time Farting Hall of Fame of Famous Farters, but I wasn't finished. A second wave was prepped and ready and I let her rip without mercy. The auditory cacophony was like music no one has ever heard, as if you took every song ever composed and played them all at once on full blast. And what a blast it was. A tear was coming to my eye, but still I wasn't finished. A third wave, then a fourth, then a fifth, sixth, seventh. It was as if I had never passed gas before in my life and all at once my 19 year old body had just said ENOUGH and was making up for all those years of repression. Finally, the eighth wave eeked itself out with a soft child-like whimper but no matter, the previous seven had solidly secured my place in this world.

It was then that I looked up only to notice Randy's uncontrollable laughter.

Little did I know that during my concentrated effort to conduct my orchestrated masterpiece, a girl had ridden up on her bicycle and had stopped right behind me because I was blocking the entire walkway. To this day, I won't forget the look on her face. I have also never ran away from something or someone that fast in my entire life.

 

So these days I don't quite understand the fad with wearing glasses when you don't really need them. I mean, back when I was a kid and I first got glasses, people made fun of me all the time. Maybe it didn't have to do so much with the glasses but more with the fact that I wore Minnie Mouse t-shirts, corduroy shorts, and socks with sandals, but either way, I was quite the laughing stock. But now looking around, I realize that I was just ahead of the curve. I mean, look at these so-called hipsters and their large frame glasses with no lenses. At least pretend to need a prescription. These days, wearing glasses somehow has magically become cool. Imagine what else I could possibly do now that will one day become cool and I could claim, "Hey, so I used to do that BEFORE it was in, in fact, I invented that ish." Maybe I'll try it tomorrow. I'll go to the mall wearing tighty-whities outside my jeans and tuck the bottom of my pants into my shoes. Then I'll call it something, 'tripster', maybe because the aerodynamic qualities of tucking my pants in keeps me from tripping and the Superman underwear breaks girls necks and makes them trip everywhere craning for a look. To make it really catch on, I'll make a song with a killer beat and an easy, catchy dance move to go with it. I'll call it 'the trippy' and it'll be a combination of grabbing your crotch while you swing one leg side to side in front of you while you tilt your head back and convulse. Yeah, that'll be a hit. That will be a hit for sure. I mean, Soulja Boy did it, why can't I?

 

After this message is posted, I will be going to Dennys. Sometimes it makes me wonder, going to Dennys at such a late hour is probably not good for my health. And I'm not talking about the calorie heavy, sodium laden meals they offer. What I'm actually referring to are the very interesting characters there, the ones that seem to flock as moths to a lamp in the darkness. For example, the last time I was there, amongst the three or four groups of partygoers looking like they had just finished downing one too many shots at the club, there was a man wearing, and I kid you not, a pink tutu with yellow spandex leggings and a denim jacket that looked like it belonged to Bane. He had a beard like Santa and held a pair of Minnie Mouse ears-on-a-headband straight from Disneyland. And, I swear I'm not making this up, he had some of the nicest most impeccably manicured feet and toenails I've ever seen, man or woman. He sat there sipping on a decaf coffee and every three or four minutes he would cough or grunt or grunt-cough and mutter what sounded like 'Pinocchio, don't smoke that cigarette'. I sure hope he's there when I go back there tonight because if he is, I will take a picture and Instagram that crap immediately. And if he's not there, I'll probably just Instagram my pancakes cause who doesn't love pancakes? Oh right, I hate pancakes.

 

Sometimes I have these crazy visions, visions of a brave new world filled with spaghetti strap shirts made of XL men's crew neck shirts and thongs of Fruit of the Loom boxer briefs (which are on sale at Target by the way, 2 pack for $5.99). In these visions, I see myself king of the clothing universe. I would stand there atop my faded dark gray 1986 Toyota Cressida with my mother manning the wheel (it's her birthday today by the way, happy birthday mom) and we would cruise at a jogger's pace through busy mall parking lots at the peak of weekend shopping hours. I would be dressed in a white linen gown, with purple elastic suspenders with Mickey Mouse on the straps holding up a pair of my favorite worn jean shorts. I would have long white Hane's crew socks with no shoes and I would be holding a megaphone through which I would proclaim the message that men and women should never again be relegated to what these so called "fashionistas" say is "in-style". As I learned from a recent television commercial, these "fashionistas" turned "Maxxinistas" are actually just paid actresses and are pretty awful to watch. Instead, everyone should be free to wear as much plaid and decorate with as many rhinestones as they want and we should be free to not hate on each other based solely on the clothes we wear.

So join me, brethren. Don your white linen sheets of peace and wrap dat sash of peace around your waist of peace. Raise your fists of peace and swear to never again be told by anyone what proper clubbing attire is, just be prepared to pay extra when the bouncer says you're dressed to casually.

 

I know that skinny jeans aren't as popular anymore but I suppose this could be relevant to whatever the latest pant fads are. The reason I say that with such disdain is because I honestly don't know what the latest pant fads are. Because in all honesty I don't wear pants. Never have, never will. Who needs pants anyway? To me, pants are like a dark, dank prison full of sweat juice. Those oppressive headmasters you call inseams. The cruel guard you call the zipper. They exist only to keep your bulging tree trunk legs imprisoned in an oppressive regime of tyranny.

So to pants, I say eff that. Be free. Strip off the chains of oppression and dance without your pants. Let the sweet air of freedom caress your underparts and liberate your undercarriage. Revel in the joy of raising your wheel wells to join the underside of your chassis in a lifted 4x4 configuration known only to white brosephs with their Fox racing t-shirts and Spy sunglasses, high socks and Dickie's shorts. Then, and only then will you experience true freedom.

 

^ ^ ^ A sextuple post by a SAM, what blasphemy is this?

 

It pains me deep into my bowels, which actually might be due to the week old enchilada that I ate a few hours ago, but I have to say that there are many things in this world that are better than girls. Just off the top of my head, fluoride toothpaste, cracks in the sidewalk, the tiny scissors your dad uses to trim his nose hairs... these are all just a few of the things in this world that I would personally classify as 'better' than girls. However, one thing tops them all in the scale-of-how-much-betterness-than-girls-it-is-ness and that is video games.

Just think about it. I mean, what else can you find that yields such immediate enjoyment and satisfaction (except for when you lose, and for you that's probably pretty often since you aren't very good at games)? Nothing you hear. Nothing yields such immediate enjoyment and satisfaction. Except for watermelons. Watermelons picked at the height of their ripe-ness are so green and juicy and hollow sounding when you pat them with a firm open palm. I think watermelons might be better than video games... what was I talking about again?

Oh yes. There is one thing that girls are better than though. And that's boys. Wait wut... That's enough for today.

 

Smiling sexily is an art form, one which I've had the opportunity to master. Only after years of blood, sweat, and tears have I been able to wield the awesome power of the alluring smile.

Alas, it was not until recently that I found an even greater power, one which holds untold mysteries. The creeper look, and this is how you use it:

Step 1: Conjure up a deep, dark secret hidden in the depths of your heart. Focus and channel your emotions from that place of great shame, from memories which you promised yourself you would never again revisit.

Step 2: Surface the negative emotions into grotesque folds on your face by feeding in the lies your mother once told you, that you are worthless, ugly, and smell like a rotten sack of lightly poached eggs covered in cheese-wiz and peppered abalone.

Step 3: Direct your attention to the object of your affections, that individual with whom you wish to share the fruits of your loins, that one perfect embodiment of everything you aren't and wish you were in a person. Point that disgusting mug of yours that hardly passes for a face towards them and ever so slightly turn up the edges of your cheeks and lips.

Step 4: Contort your eyes as if you wanted to speak to that person through your dilated pupils as if to say, "I desire to share the remainder of my existence with you cooking week old bean curd."

Step 5: ???

Step 6: Profit.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how you shatter hearts and cameras all at once.

 

My god my thread has been singlehandedly hijacked by Sileria. Someone help!


Puddles pls


puddles pls


puddles pls

 

He did it quite well, don´t worry, not all battles are, or can be won in a single day. But wars can be turned into attrition and forever be extended until achieving the desired result, it will cost thousands upon thousands of lives and maybe more than some generals to do so. But the sweet victory will be bestowed upon those that never quit the fight. So don´t despair, your time will come to revert this blasphemy of sixtuple post that will most likely go unpunished and even maybe be praised by the so called higher powers of this realm.

I am sleepy now, I ll return to the fry some time later.

She is not Bettlejuice man, she wont come when you call her 3 times.

 

Beastie please *o*




enjoy (°¬°)






=w=


[video=youtube;IeyrjmihGGo]http/www.youtube.com/watch?v=IeyrjmihGGo[/video]






















































teheeeeeeeeee =w=

 

Sileria pls

 

Wow so many walls of text @-@ save me pls

 

u may start by introduce urself.