punchymcpunch posted:

every cumshitter story is true

Joementum posted:

lock her up (in a planter)

https://twitter.com/StormIsUponUs/status/1068804260953911296

DAD LOST MY IPOD posted:

I saw it, when they put George H. W. Bush to rest. I was there. My press badge still smelled like the plastic it had been cut from, and when I thought no-one was looking I would raise it to my nose and take a whiff; the lanyard dangling between my fingers, my hand sliding clumsily through my hair so any witnesses might think I was just fidgeting. I couldn’t disguise my youth and inexperience, so instead I armored myself in them, and any awkwardness or lack of poise on my part was written off as amateur nerviness.

The truth is, I didn’t give a poo poo about Bush or Trump or the majesty of the day. I was absorbed in my own importance— a reporter! A real reporter! At a state funeral! That the air was crisp and sharp, the temperature a few degrees warmer than you might expect for early December in the nation’s capital, all of that seemed a fait accompli. Of course nature would arrange for my first big event to go off with choreographed smoothness. Of course. This was my debut.

The Picayune couldn’t afford to send a photographer with me, but when I told them (with all the misplaced confidence of youth) that I had taken a couple of photography classes in undergrad, they pressed a DSLR into my hands. “Take some shots,” they said. “See if you can get his kids crying. Or Melania, or someone.” This was Bill Todd, the wheezing, balding editor, and even a week into the job I could tell he didn’t give a poo poo if I shot Jesus descending to earth. He was just going to use the AP photos anyways. I was touched; he cared enough about me to pretend like what I was about to do mattered.

Right then, though, I didn’t care that I was being given the brush-off. I’d take some pictures, and if they turned out half-decent I’d print them myself and hang them in my apartment. My walls were bare now, but I had a vision: articles, photos, exposes, all with my byline, framed and signed by the newsroom staff and hung from my wall. Something to show girls.

Maybe it was the lack of pressure that gave me the shot. I wasn’t hurrying, wasn’t sweating. Maybe it was just luck. The interminable speeches bored me, the sundowning geezer in the ill-fitting suit rambling about service and freedom and his magnificent electoral-college win. I had been toying with my lens-cap, flicking it this way and that, when the trumpets sounded and the funeral procession began.

The President grabbed a lever— I’m sure it was for show, the real mechanism was operated somewhere backstage by the Secret Service or whoever plans these things— and gave it a tug. For a moment, it looked like it wouldn’t move, then it clicked into position. There was a brief pause, a whirr, and the gates began to open. They were set into the wall behind the stage, on either side of the sluiceway that cut through it. The President stood to one side as the gates parted and the sluiceway began to fill. Behind the stage, artfully hidden by festive bunting and a massive American flag, was a vat the size of a grain silo. Behind that, idling on the National Mall, were the trucks: dozens of them, engines grumbling, exhaust fuming the air above them, linked to the vat by rubber umbilicals like piglets suckling from a bloated sow. Every septic tank removal truck in the state of Virginia and a number from Maryland, Delaware, as far as New York.

The river of molten sewage began to flow down the sluiceway. It came slowly at first, sluggish in the late-fall chill, but picked up faster and faster as the pressure mounted. Roiling, bubbling, the churning mass of waste frothed and bubbled along the plastic-lined channel. Occasional islands of semi-solid filth bobbed to the surface before sinking back into the toxic stew. Around me, noses wrinkled; the acrid chemical stink was bad enough, but below it, the pure reek of rotting poo poo hit us like a tsunami. Strong men gagged. I saw one woman, the wife of one of the RNC donor types who had paid for a folding chair by the stage, faint dead away. Her trailing arm landed in the river and floated on its surface for a moment before her disgusted husband pulled her out.

The rest of us stood, swaying slightly, hands on our hearts. The Marine Corps band was playing Taps, and here came the pallbearers: his sons, Bill Clinton (helped along by a sturdy Secret Service man, he looked like he was next in line), and Barack Obama. They manhandled the coffin along the stage and exchanged salutes with the President. They stepped back and two of the color guard stepped forward. I idly wondered how often they had rehearsed this.

Between them, the pallbearers stood the coffin upright, saluted it again, then Obama and Clinton reached out and opened the front panel. We all saw him for a second: the former President, his hair combed, his face made up, looking for just a moment like the strong and vital man he’d been before age had sapped and reduced him. Then he fell forward face-first and splashed into the river.

It made a sound like “glunk.”

Some people were weeping openly now, and a bagpipe struck up “Amazing Grace.” With surprising speed, the channel carried Bush’s corpse onward. It was really flowing now; it had filled the plastic-lined trench in the funeral area and was heading south, past the Tidal Basin. The Potomac was high today, and with any luck, the stream of sewage would carry Bush all the way to the ocean. That was the plan, anyways. I realized he was about to pass out of sight, and I fumbled for my camera. I only had time for three shots, and the one you all recognize, that was the second one.

He’s almost gone, by then; some pressure in the bubbling gumbo of human waste has flipped him over, and he stares sightlessly at the sky. He looks like he’s wearing a mud mask. As he passes over some uneven bump, his body lurches up for a moment, and that’s where I capture him: staring back at us, his arms at his sides, his shoulders slightly shrugging as if to say “what can you do?” The fading sunlight winks off the corner of his American flag pin. I felt a strong urge to salute him: the old soldier, Vice President and president and father of presidents. I didn’t, though. I snapped the shot, and then I watched him disappear, carried to the netherworld on a river of poo poo.

Preston Waters posted:

i like how cumshitter gets away with saying poo poo no one else can here just because he's part of the bear subculture or whatever

threatening rape, etc

punchymcpunch posted:

jonathan taylor thomas is gonna get invited and the president is not lmaooooo

gently caress You And Diebold posted:

I was at a make your own calzone party list night when HW died. It just felt right

A Gnarlacious Bro posted:

lol

A Handed Missus posted:

DAD LOST MY IPOD posted:

I saw it, when they put George H. W. Bush to rest. I was there. My press badge still smelled like the plastic it had been cut from, and when I thought no-one was looking I would raise it to my nose and take a whiff; the lanyard dangling between my fingers, my hand sliding clumsily through my hair so any witnesses might think I was just fidgeting. I couldn’t disguise my youth and inexperience, so instead I armored myself in them, and any awkwardness or lack of poise on my part was written off as amateur nerviness.

The truth is, I didn’t give a poo poo about Bush or Trump or the majesty of the day. I was absorbed in my own importance— a reporter! A real reporter! At a state funeral! That the air was crisp and sharp, the temperature a few degrees warmer than you might expect for early December in the nation’s capital, all of that seemed a fait accompli. Of course nature would arrange for my first big event to go off with choreographed smoothness. Of course. This was my debut.

The Picayune couldn’t afford to send a photographer with me, but when I told them (with all the misplaced confidence of youth) that I had taken a couple of photography classes in undergrad, they pressed a DSLR into my hands. “Take some shots,” they said. “See if you can get his kids crying. Or Melania, or someone.” This was Bill Todd, the wheezing, balding editor, and even a week into the job I could tell he didn’t give a poo poo if I shot Jesus descending to earth. He was just going to use the AP photos anyways. I was touched; he cared enough about me to pretend like what I was about to do mattered.

Right then, though, I didn’t care that I was being given the brush-off. I’d take some pictures, and if they turned out half-decent I’d print them myself and hang them in my apartment. My walls were bare now, but I had a vision: articles, photos, exposes, all with my byline, framed and signed by the newsroom staff and hung from my wall. Something to show girls.

Maybe it was the lack of pressure that gave me the shot. I wasn’t hurrying, wasn’t sweating. Maybe it was just luck. The interminable speeches bored me, the sundowning geezer in the ill-fitting suit rambling about service and freedom and his magnificent electoral-college win. I had been toying with my lens-cap, flicking it this way and that, when the trumpets sounded and the funeral procession began.

The President grabbed a lever— I’m sure it was for show, the real mechanism was operated somewhere backstage by the Secret Service or whoever plans these things— and gave it a tug. For a moment, it looked like it wouldn’t move, then it clicked into position. There was a brief pause, a whirr, and the gates began to open. They were set into the wall behind the stage, on either side of the sluiceway that cut through it. The President stood to one side as the gates parted and the sluiceway began to fill. Behind the stage, artfully hidden by festive bunting and a massive American flag, was a vat the size of a grain silo. Behind that, idling on the National Mall, were the trucks: dozens of them, engines grumbling, exhaust fuming the air above them, linked to the vat by rubber umbilicals like piglets suckling from a bloated sow. Every septic tank removal truck in the state of Virginia and a number from Maryland, Delaware, as far as New York.

The river of molten sewage began to flow down the sluiceway. It came slowly at first, sluggish in the late-fall chill, but picked up faster and faster as the pressure mounted. Roiling, bubbling, the churning mass of waste frothed and bubbled along the plastic-lined channel. Occasional islands of semi-solid filth bobbed to the surface before sinking back into the toxic stew. Around me, noses wrinkled; the acrid chemical stink was bad enough, but below it, the pure reek of rotting poo poo hit us like a tsunami. Strong men gagged. I saw one woman, the wife of one of the RNC donor types who had paid for a folding chair by the stage, faint dead away. Her trailing arm landed in the river and floated on its surface for a moment before her disgusted husband pulled her out.

The rest of us stood, swaying slightly, hands on our hearts. The Marine Corps band was playing Taps, and here came the pallbearers: his sons, Bill Clinton (helped along by a sturdy Secret Service man, he looked like he was next in line), and Barack Obama. They manhandled the coffin along the stage and exchanged salutes with the President. They stepped back and two of the color guard stepped forward. I idly wondered how often they had rehearsed this.

Between them, the pallbearers stood the coffin upright, saluted it again, then Obama and Clinton reached out and opened the front panel. We all saw him for a second: the former President, his hair combed, his face made up, looking for just a moment like the strong and vital man he’d been before age had sapped and reduced him. Then he fell forward face-first and splashed into the river.

It made a sound like “glunk.”

Some people were weeping openly now, and a bagpipe struck up “Amazing Grace.” With surprising speed, the channel carried Bush’s corpse onward. It was really flowing now; it had filled the plastic-lined trench in the funeral area and was heading south, past the Tidal Basin. The Potomac was high today, and with any luck, the stream of sewage would carry Bush all the way to the ocean. That was the plan, anyways. I realized he was about to pass out of sight, and I fumbled for my camera. I only had time for three shots, and the one you all recognize, that was the second one.

He’s almost gone, by then; some pressure in the bubbling gumbo of human waste has flipped him over, and he stares sightlessly at the sky. He looks like he’s wearing a mud mask. As he passes over some uneven bump, his body lurches up for a moment, and that’s where I capture him: staring back at us, his arms at his sides, his shoulders slightly shrugging as if to say “what can you do?” The fading sunlight winks off the corner of his American flag pin. I felt a strong urge to salute him: the old soldier, Vice President and president and father of presidents. I didn’t, though. I snapped the shot, and then I watched him disappear, carried to the netherworld on a river of poo poo.

Warm und Fuzzy posted:

I want a house that's 200 ft from the beach but also 30 minutes from the beach.

gently caress You And Diebold posted:

I was at a make your own calzone party list night when HW died. It just felt right

Gripweed posted:

https://twitter.com/Goku/status/1068736047318618113

Preston Waters posted:

is that dude evven still alive

deffo a heroin overdose victim if i had to guess

fosborb posted:

just say you work in a pizza shop dude no judgement here

Joementum posted:

https://twitter.com/Wekhevixwaz/status/1068863495528202240

Preston Waters posted:

i like how cumshitter gets away with saying poo poo no one else can here just because he's part of the bear subculture or whatever

threatening rape, etc

Mariana Horchata posted:

Admiral Ray posted:

when the collapse comes putin will actually do pretty good tbh

Preston Waters posted:

i like how cumshitter gets away with saying poo poo no one else can here just because he's part of the bear subculture or whatever

threatening rape, etc

Preston Waters posted:

he's part of the bear subculture or whatever

Preston Waters posted:

is that dude evven still alive

deffo a heroin overdose victim if i had to guess

Joementum posted:

https://twitter.com/Wekhevixwaz/status/1068863495528202240

a helpful bear posted:

wat

Preston Waters posted:

were it not for a literal crazy person, Ross Perot, HW would have had a second term

Clinton never would have been elected, Hillary would have been a nobody and Trump would still be loving underage girls in his lovely tower

A Gnarlacious Bro posted:

We don't make the rules dude

Bert Roberge posted:

https://twitter.com/elivalley/status/1068935553784209408