SpacePig posted:

IIRC, horses Red Dead Redemption counted as witnesses also, even your own horse if you let it get far enough away.

The Croc posted:

The horse was just cutting a plea deal and rolled on you

CzarChasm posted:

Poor Freckles, thought about turning state's evidence and died.

CannonFodder posted:

I remember Hakan would write long posts that would derail wildly and go to some crazy places, not sure if they all ended in shittown.


But those posts are almost old enough to drive.

Hakan posted:

When I was a child of four or five I can quite clearly remember one lazy evening sitting on the floor in the living room, father half asleep splayed out in front of the TV on the floor next to me, playing with my toys, and then suddenly some distant and echoed thought became of sudden and profound interest. The thought was this: how was I to be sure these were my real parents? I could not remember anything of the previous years of my life, and I took it all completely for granted everything I was told. When I questioned my drowsy dad, he laughed and tried to assuage the startled fear in my eyes, and said it was ridiculous that they weren’t my real parents. He seemed content at this simple explanation and rolled back to his sleeping position, but that night in bed I found myself staring out the window, the moon glowing through the venetian blinds, throwing down its enchanted ladder across the floor of my room, attempting to piece together what little recognition I could still recall of some periphery and blurry image, to no avail.

Many years passed and I eventually wound up as a college freshman in a furnished apartment paid for by my loving parents. I hardly need to explain how I had a difficult time throughout school thanks to my dreamy and sensitive nature. Anxiety was a constant companion. I had no roommates, and there were many weekends that went by that I would not see a human being for an entire four or five days (I had my schedule set up to not have any classes on Fridays and Mondays), and the only thing close to contact were the visages of people flashing across my computer screen. I am of a belief that in those lonely moments something deep can be reached immediately in the human soul, and I would feel at once an instant connection to some friendly and beautiful looking girl in a picture on one of those social network sites, sometimes almost half falling in love with them. The effect would be heightened still in some of the sensual movies I would watch on some seedy sites, particularly if the girl in focus was of an exuberant and effusive nature.

That was what led me to my distaste of the current wave of production of those movies. There is a large gap in the mindset and general feeling between the movies made in current times and those made in the 70s. These days you see awful things like forceful fingerings, spitting on genitals, choking, and artificially set up situations in which a girl is humiliated or abandoned, which even the most simple minded viewer I hope would not be fooled into believing. Every male is ludicrously buff, and there are artificial implants in most of the women (I am of the preference of the more buxom bosoms, but I still appreciate the smaller shapes so long as things are proportional). I cannot for the life of me attempt to see what people appreciate in those movies, or why there would be a market for those things.

When I stumbled on the 70’s film, The Turkish Tickler, I was instantly aware of all the differences of the film making styles of those times. The main actress of the movie was a completely natural, brilliant beauty. The story, which bears almost no relevance to my immense enjoyment of the film, tells the American tale of a Turkish immigrant who, hired as a helping hand to a rich recluse, worked his way up through various responsibilities in the millionaires mansion, eventually earning the favor of his fair daughter, who was visiting for a summer before returning to her studies in the north-eastern states. The paramount scene, upon which all the threads of cinematography, supportive instrumental music, and the simple truth of the beauty of the human form came together in sensual harmony, was when the daughter entered the study, the sun-dusted study, only to find the Turk laying supine upon an embroidered chair, legs stretched out to the floor, the only thing stopping his inert body from collapsing to the ground. She began to ostensibly chastise his poor worth ethic, all the while he merely smiled at her, knowing her secret true reason for the intrusion, and after letting sufficient time pass to when she even no longer believed her own threats of disciplinary action, he grabbed her wrist and brought her bottom down to his laboring lap, grinning politely through the feigned, necessary protests of a blameless woman who would like to consider herself decent. And, oh- her parted lips, the soft warmness of her hair (I imagine, of course, it being warm), and the genuine flushing of her cheeks… all of this painted a picture in the mirage of my mind of two human beings connecting in an emotional way that provoked all the emotions of lust and envy in my poor boy’s soul.

She seemed not to portray the beauty of a single woman, but of all women, of all the women I had passed quietly in the linoleum corridors on campus that stirred my being, all of whom towards which I felt an immense, impassable chasm of contact. She was the inevitable, the destiny, the final advent of the journey of the spirit, the completion. She represented security and serenity, and I would return to her the same way a hummingbird returns to his nectar producing flower. Yes, having discovered that film, and buying an original copy over the internet, I had gained, at least temporarily, a sufficient substitute, until I could one day find the real thing in my life (a young boy can still dream), of romantic companionship.

All was fine and well for a period of time, a time of short lived bliss, for bliss is always threatened to be overthrown. My mother came over to the apartment to visit and to clean, as was her usual custom every three months or so. Forgetting her confirmation earlier in the week, I panicked before rushing to the door, quickly trying to find and hide any unpleasant stains- but there was nothing, at least nothing I could discern through the fog of my alarm. And so she entered, doing her usual visual inventory of the apartment, comparing it with the mental impression she took her last visit, while walking from room to room making typical small talk and promises for an abbreviated visit (“I won’t be long, I know how you want me out of your hair as soon as possible!”) Then, as I sensed she was making her way into my bedroom, I jumped ahead of her while she took a detour to glance at the hallway bathroom, to quickly inspect the most private and vulnerable of all the rooms and to hopefully avert any crisis I could quickly correct in the mere seconds before invasion – but again there was nothing. Everything was arranged and orderly, and she was about to non-verbally agree to this fact when, just as she was turning to leave my bedroom, something inconspicuous caught her eye, something that lay hidden out in the open among various ordinary objects which curiously drew her attention and sudden silence. She picked up, to my growing horror, the tasteful cover to The Turkish Tickler, making sure her memory matched who was on the cover, and out escaped her lips a tragic and somber, “Oh…”
“W-what is it, mom?” I asked.

At this point, all was lost, and, I decided, there was no use hiding it any more. I was a red blooded young man who did exactly what the far majority of other young men did (or did in their dreams), and there was nothing wrong with it, and I was ready to stand my ground, but in the end such a position was unnecessary, and instead something much more sinister was addressed.

“Have I ever told you… have you ever heard of the Porno Clause?” she asked.

“No, I have not,” I said.

“Well, when people are making these… films, there is a legal contract, of course, that everyone signs before they begin. It’s for the case that, even if all precautions are taken, that a man is not legally responsible for any… accidents, or blessings, that may happen.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Because of that, it can really be a burden for a woman to keep that baby, because there is no recourse, and usually girls that are doing these films aren’t really ready to handle that sort of commitment. And, I’m so sorry, we wanted to tell you, but it was never the right time, and you seemed so content that we didn’t want to upset you (she began to cry right here). It’s our fault, really.”

It slowly spread through the far corners of my mind that I had been masturbating feverishly and consistently for the last month to a visual recording of my own conception.

“Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” I asked.

“Yes. The Turkish Tickler is your father. We wanted to tell you, we talked about it so much. You are our only child, and you really are our child, and we thought it wouldn’t make any difference except to upset you!”

Before any other facts or explanations could emerge, she ran hurriedly out the apartment to her car where she cried for an hour before coming back in and asking me if everything was ok. Besides the immense feeling of dirtiness and shame that covered me and seemed to ooze out my eyes, there was nothing, no comfort this alleged mother could provide me with now. I calmed down on my own and, as we spoke, I did understand how it was a thoughtful (though not necessarily correct) decision to withhold this information, and that I was not angry at them, and that things would be ok, and I came to accept them again as my real parents (“because, after all, a parent is not just biological, but the emotional connection is the most important.”) For a while, I imagined, I would have difficulty and awkwardness in any sort of sensual attachment, having clouded all these deep, intimate emotions with each other. My only hope was that I would not become some sort of criminal as a result of this trauma, which, to this day, more than ten years after the discovery, has proven to be the case.

I realize now that any of you reading this that are psychology majors, especially those in the early years of undergrad, are bursting with theories and explanations for me, but I ask you not to bother. And please, do not ask me to use me as a source for any sort of paper or thesis you are working on. I share all of this not looking for some sort of explanation or justification, but to convey that the over-arching human experience trumps any sort of clinical, plastic, clean theory of the pattern of human behavior. There was nothing going on deeply in my subconscious, don’t be ridiculous. The woman in the film does not represent some sort of underlying need of all men. I am not a symbol. I do not stand for innocence nor for corruption. There is no parable or lesson in the discovery or aftermath. I accidentally discovered the film, and due to intricate and rare circumstances, the infatuation I felt was rendered useless. It is over and I am done.







Although, I will say that even now, from time to time, I do pop that movie in my old VHS player, and enjoy it again as a hummingbird does receiving his nectar.

Chichevache posted:

Yestermoment posted:

Has this forum forgotten the beloved phrase "You're no Hakan."?!

Yestermoment posted:

Has this forum forgotten the beloved phrase "You're no Hakan."?!

World War Mammories posted:

was granos the one who hosed out a piece of his own rear end in a top hat or was that ge cafe

best loving snipe of my posting career

Kitfox88 posted:

gonna need more on this thank you

SmokaDustbowl posted:

https://twitter.com/Bootleg_Stuff/status/996901532443512832

ol qwerty bastard posted:

hey baby did you overclock your jeans?

cuz that rear end is lookin hot

Big Grunty Secret posted:

I'm hot blooded, check it and see/if you see Granos, call the police

BOOTY-ADE posted:

Young woman, the subject
Of Granos fantasy
He wants her, so badly
But she calls the police

Kitfox88 posted:

gonna need more on this thank you

Kitfox88 posted:

gonna need more on this thank you

Choco1980 posted:

Didn't the story about the guy trying to film his stepsister wind up with an internet detective calling his family?

I'm not confusing it with "hello I'm from the internet", that was a different doxx phone call.

Dameius posted:

Oh look, it's Granos
You know what you must do now
Just call the police.

Fleta Mcgurn posted:

Didn't GE Cafe also have a weirdly hot girlfriend, despite looking like a pile of pudding with hair?

Stupid_Sexy_Flander posted:

In time, you will know what it's like to lose. To feel so desperately that you're right. Yet to fail all the same. Dread it. Run from it. The police still arrive. - Granos, Avengers, Infinity War

Fleta Mcgurn posted:

Didn't GE Cafe also have a weirdly hot girlfriend, despite looking like a pile of pudding with hair?

I'd be surprised if one didn't seek medical care immediately following an analysis degloving.

Jedit posted:

iPhones were originally meant to run on granOS, but Apple had to go back to the drawing board when they found the phones would only call the police.

Stupid_Sexy_Flander posted:

I think my favorite I had ever seen was one that got to be a title for a thread.

Something like "NWA had a song about Granos named Call The Police" or something to that effect.

I still chuckle randomly when I'm driving and it pops in my mind.

ChocNitty posted:

Persian kings employed sub saharan african men to watch over their harems, so that if they got busy with one of the ladies and impregnated her, the half black baby would get them caught.

Trabant posted:

That, and it's also a pretty lousy alarm system if it has a built-in nine-month delay.

CharlestheHammer posted:

Plus the babies don’t always come out visibly black so it’s just a terrible system all around

Ghost Leviathan posted:

Also there's oral and anal sex.

8th-snype posted:

Yes. We've all met your mother.

Fleta Mcgurn posted:

Didn't GE Cafe also have a weirdly hot girlfriend, despite looking like a pile of pudding with hair?

I'd be surprised if one didn't seek medical care immediately following an analysis degloving.

BIG FLUFFY DOG posted:

A girl goon once took a picture with GE Cafe because she was in his neighborhood and he was so forum-infamous she wanted to meet him in person. There was no dating or hanky-panky going on.

Jedit posted:

That was one of mine. It was "Ice-T wrote a rap song about Granos called Call Tha Police". I was very proud of getting the Quote Thread title and it's made my day to know that you still appreciate it. Thanks.

A Moose posted:

"the game over screen for being a woman".

Ruflux posted:

I know in GTAV all the animals counted as witnesses, so even if you killed a guy way out in the middle of nowhere, if a bird or a deer or a rabbit happened to see you they'd call the cops on you. It's simultaneously infuriating since the cops in GTAV are terrible cheats with aimbots and wallhacks and stuff, but also hilarious because how and why would anyone set up the witness system like that I just don't know

Marcade posted:

So you play as Granos?

A Moose posted:

If that's the picture I'm thinking of, I think someone said it should be "the game over screen for being a woman".

tactlessbastard posted:

Ok, now we just have to see it.

tactlessbastard posted:

Ok, now we just have to see it.

china bot posted:

https://i.imgur.com/p1k6wXL.jpg

A Moose posted:

If that's the picture I'm thinking of, I think someone said it should be "the game over screen for being a woman".