The Bloop posted:

Elohssa Gib posted:

What game is this?

minato posted:

A Game of Throwns

Minus Green posted:

Stupid_Sexy_Flander posted:

at you guys never seeing a squirter before.

Rust Martialis posted:

We can't all have met your mom.

null_pointer posted:

Squirting is an urban legend. That's clearly just P (etroleum).

Renegret posted:

I have tried many sleep aids myself and I've found that the most effective is good, old fashioned masturbation.

Outrail posted:

Is that otc or do I need a prescription?

Veskit posted:

It's under the counter

Ainsley McTree posted:

It’s otc but the letters mean something else

Pastry of the Year posted:

just turbo scrolling through this thread since I've been away for a bit, looking for yellow boxes

Pastry of the Year posted:

pete davidson looks like if richard garriott wanted to teach us a lesson about public restrooms by having one come to life and cry

then we'd all be like "ohhhh, now I don't want to hit your gangly filthy rear end with a glass sword"

Pastry of the Year posted:

I spent twenty minutes referring back to the manual to decode his shitbird tattoos and gummy smile just to be directed to a treasure I already dug up? son of a bitch

Pastry of the Year posted:

just turbo scrolling through this thread since I've been away for a bit, looking for yellow boxes

Outrail posted:

That reminds me, tell your mother she should get checked out.

Tiny Lowtax posted:

What the gently caress is free jazz

Cable Guy posted:

Artificial Hip

Honky Dong Country posted:

I planted a banana tree in my rear end in a top hat for precisely this reason. The only downside is with the tree in there I can't print replacement phds for feelix anymore.

dee eight posted:

*goes to mass*
*grinds and snorts host*

HOLY poo poo, I'M SO loving SAVED RIGHT NOW!

WOOOO!

TontoCorazon posted:

hyperhazard posted:

Ague Proof posted:

Dude, take the loss.

LITERALLY A BIRD posted:

Dr Christmas posted:

WWG1WGA is pronounced "wuh-wiggy-waggah."

LITERALLY A BIRD posted:

ultrafilter posted:

Yeah. I really want to know what Indiana's candle smells like.

A Pack of Kobolds posted:

Horse poo poo, car exhaust, and two dudes loving who are totally not gay

Solice Kirsk posted:

BRB, gonna go explain mutual funds to this kid so he can think I'm an emperor.

mind the walrus posted:

jit bull transpile posted:

I wasnt gonna say anything but I actually work at Apple and I could buy his dad and make him my new ottoman lol

goferchan posted:

I'm sorry



(USER WAS PUT ON PROBATION FOR THIS POST)

quote:

Gore pic. User loses posting privileges for 6 hours.

Grapplejack posted:

dr disrespect recorded in a public bathroom multiple times at e3 and got banned

hopefully banned permanently because what the gently caress

Tired Moritz posted:

Who livestreams in a public restroom? That's just dumb.

Neddy Seagoon posted:

Well everyone, technically.

Cheeseman posted:

That sounds awful

LawfulWaffle posted:

Yeah, it’s much better to use a thin metal rod with a ball on the end

LadyPictureShow posted:

I'd like to imagine renaissance painters were trolling the populace hard. Like, think about it: nowadays if we want some entertainment we got movies, video games, YouTube etc.

What did they have? Musicians I guess? Did they stockade people? Whorehouses?

But then, hey it's your buddy Fiorello! He looks like he's got something to say!

'Hey, Giacomo! Did you hear there's a new painting of the Madonna and Child over at the Basilica?'

'Pass.' God that's like, all these fuckers paint.

'Dude, I heard it's hosed up. Like Jesus is this like bizarre tiny old man, and he's honking Mary's titty!'

'Whoa. She's showing titty?!'

'Mm hmm! And on another wall, Jesus is like, some hosed up worm, and that one shows a titty too!'

'Oh poo poo, we should go check it out!'

Then you walk all day to the Basilica, because Hell, you don't have cars, and oh man those paintings are loving wild.

Clawtopsy posted:

when i was 11 my best friend came around and my dad was in the walls of our house

never found out why, never asked him why, don't want to know why

just knowing that my buddy and i walked into the tv room , the tv's missing and we hear a thump, followed by "I'm in the walls."

we went outside to play ball instead

Ariong posted:

Hey, do me a favor and gently caress off with this would ya?

Lloyd Christmas posted:

gently caress you all, gently caress everything, and gently caress the world.

gently caress the universe.

gently caress this.

gently caress.


Please just go gently caress yourselves, you loving fuckers. gently caress this. I refuse to participate. I will never be back here.

EorayMel posted:

EorayMel posted:

(Very bad quote)

Honky Dong Country posted:

Somebody funnel a bucket of mealworms and centrum into my rear end in a top hat I'm loving wasting away over here

Krankenstyle posted:

now im kinda curious what the bad quote was

jit bull transpile posted:

It unironically used the word "downsy" which should let you extrapolate all you need to know.

Trig Discipline posted:

Y'all getting excited about hauling all the way across England and Scotland for Twatt when you could take a trip to Austria and walk from Hucking to loving in thirty minutes.

minato posted:

born on a mountain
raised in a cave

Krankenstyle posted:

all right, thanks. im guessing it was one of the autobans from the dawn of time that Eoray likes to post, though.

anyway:

Lt. DAT posted:

A Fight

Rain ran down the tree into the pool in the fork of the trunk to overflow ran onto a vine that wrapped around the tree from the roof of the jungle. A small white flower grew at the vine's end hung not more than a hand span over and an inch behind the head of Captain Wills, perfectly positioned to drip a steady stream of water down the neck of his armor. He had lain there and endured the incessant plinking of cold water for the past hour and a half, cursing that idiotic
lording Thewen for being late with the cavalry and himself for trusting the drunken fool to manage to get where he need to be.
Of average high and slightly thick build, a square jaw, the kind of muscle that comes of a lifetime spent on campaign, and a truly impressive set of scars, the Captain was the very image of a legionnaire officer. Had he not gone almost completely bald with age, and did he not need a pair of spectacles to see clearly due to his weakening eyesight, he would have matched the bards descriptions of the stoic and determined leader who had built the Empire in the short span of three generations from a few villages and a minor city to a realm that spanned half a continent. As it was, with a fringe of grey hair around the sides of his head and round little glasses clinging precariously to his nose he looked more like the image of a harassed tutor who had put on legionnaire armor and taken up the tower shield for a costume ball. Until you saw him move, and realized that the
armor was as much a part of him as his skin. Not that being a tutor to some noble brat sounded all that bad right at the moment.
His bad knee ached from the way he had to hold it flat to keep it from sticking up from underneath all the low scrub his company had used to get close to the orcs. The arrowhead that had spent the last 10 years lodged in between two of the ribs on his back gave a sharp pain every time he tried to twist slightly to bend his knee a bit, and just for good measure the place on his rear end where he had been stabbed by the rebels in his first battle all those years ago was starting to ache. If he didn’t get out of this position soon, he would barely be able to walk for a week without a stiff shot of brandy and one of the apothecary's awful bitter teas.
...
USER WAS PUT ON PROBATION FOR THIS POST

Nick L posted:

This is awesome.

cautious posted:

The entire middle section of that 'stroy' was just various groups of people/orcs/things shouting GRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGHHHHH!

Feedback: Hilariously bad.

Bareback Rodeo posted:

It's not just a shield, or even a wall. It's like a city -- an empire, even. A massive empire spanning half a continent, which flows on the overflows oak tree drip drop vine soldier lovely incomprehensible sentence never write a story again please.

The Agent posted:

It was like the rain dropping onto the leaves of a massive oak that was once coated in the blood of spearmen who fought bravely against the horde of undead who were once part of a mighty nation that used magic that they stole from the secret wizard's lair under the ocean who once spoke to the Stormgod Stormrule who rules the ocean and the clouds and the rain which now is dropping down onto the leaves of a massive oak.

Son of Thunderbeast posted:

Apparently it's mainly due to the fact that most of the steaming porn companies got bought by one company and their CEO is extremely into the incest porn

DoombatINC posted:

quote:

steaming porn

That's what I call fuckburgers, it's a regional dialect

mind the walrus posted:

Well I'm from San Fernando Valley and I've never heard the expression "steaming porn."

Oscar Wild posted:

It's a dry heat there.

Time posted:

I'm better than shaq at lots of things. I bet I can type faster, for instance. his hands are too big for most keyboards and I mastered mario teaches typing

Heath posted:

One spring, during President Trump's third consecutive term, the flowers didn't bloom.

Nobody knew what the cause was, specifically - it could be blamed in some broad sense on climate change and our total failure to deal with it, but no chemical or biological reason could be pinpointed. Weeks into June and not a single blossom could be found anywhere.

"These things come in cycles," my father said. "Why, when I was a kid, we had winters with ten-foot snow drifts. You all complain too much. They'll be back next year."

None of us were quite sure what to make of it. Accusations of alarmism flew from all corners. Younger generations claimed it was a sign of the end times. Older generations were less concerned. It'll get better, they told us.

The summer passed without a trace, hot, bright, colorless. Dead bees, what ones remained, accumulated in clumps, overflowing gutters. Butterflies gathered and flew in mysterious concentric circles around false flowers in porchside pots for hours at a time. I spent a day watching them, and I could hear their chanting. They had resorted to magic ritual, formerly the purview of humanity, to bring the flowers back, but nothing came. The summer passed into fall, and our food supplies were dwindling. No cause for alarm, we were told - things would be better next year.

President Trump began to swell in size. He had already been a large man, but even over video his presence seemed to extend from the screen into the very room we occupied while we watched, often in silence, rationing our stale and freezerburnt bread. We no longer needed the failing flowers, he said - we had something newer, better, bigger in development. Within weeks, the official White House store put on offer a new substance available to each and every American, each container golden and sparkling, promising tremendous sustenance. Whether the flowers came back or not, we would be fine, better than before, even. Bigger, stronger, huger.

"You really ought to try this stuff. I haven't felt this good in years," my uncle told me. In fact, everyone told me that, at least, everyone over a certain age - it was implicit among my cohort that we didn't trust anything Trump had on offer. He was well over 400 pounds now by all appearances, but even that was a conservative estimate, because he was becoming indistinguishable from the buildings he occupied, and even from the people around him. It was impossible to place quite where he began and we ended. But all we could do was continue on.

Our parents weren't worried. Things were better now. The stock market was up, and the job market was better than ever now that a majority of the workforce was employed in the manufacture of the mysterious liquid that was sustaining what remained of the population. Those who would talk about the process by which it was made, its ingredients, its origins, all gave conflicting accounts about any of them. Those who wouldn't talk about it no longer had light in their eyes - but then, none of us did.

The following spring, more things happened, or didn't happen, as the case may be. The branches of willow trees reached upwards as though hung upside-down, their leaves sprouting, green for a few days and fading to a sick yellow, falling off, blowing away in the wind, and accumulating in occult patterns on the parched and abandoned farmlands. The phases of the moon began to slow; it would remain full for days, and then weeks at a time, and disappear entirely. Every time it came back, it was either larger, or closer - no one could be sure. Telescopes could no longer focus, or when they could, seemed to peer into other, better worlds. Increasingly, we were trapped here. But for the sun and the moon, the stars had abandoned us.

By some luck, I had traded some of my remaining food, simple corn flakes, for a small leather pouch filled with dessicated lilacs. These little pouches were quite the commodity these days. One could not walk down the street without being assaulted with the stench of greasy, rotting flesh from the Boomers around us. A shrunken, leathery woman, her eyes long since rotted away and replaced with scarred flesh, grabbed me by the collar and, weeping, shrieked the question she had been asking every other passerby: "Where are the flowers? Where have they gone?" I reached into my pocket and retrieved a few petals, put them into her hands, and shoved her away. She huffed them hungrily, snorting with a strange sort of belch, and slinked away into an alleyway.

The AARP became a frequent topic of discussion. "You really ought to join the AARP," the Boomers told us. "It's the best way to travel. It's bliss." None of us knew what they meant or why they were so focused on it, at least, not at first. Suddenly, the Boomers began appearing in several places at once. My uncle paid me a surprise visit, and at the same time, also visited my sister, two counties away, to sell us on the virtues of the AARP. "You'll love the benefits," he said. "You should join as soon as possible."

The roads were already crumbling, and had been for years. The cracks in between the chunks of asphalt began to fill with a strange, thick substance that could only be described as loose fatty flesh that snaked its way into every crevice like a reeking, invasive kudzu. One of my friends, on one night with an oppressively bright and humongous moon, witnessed a Boomer kneel down and begin to burrow into the slime, disappear entirely within it, and reemerge the next day. When confronted, the Boomer explained that he was simply going to his AARP meetup. We learned that the AARP was their name for this network of rancid, tumescent growth, a portion of the sort of hive they had developed for themselves to survive the increasingly harsh heat of the day. None of us dared approach it for fear of being assimilated, if not devoured.

Our children had long since disappeared. They, too, had their own sort of secret communication - through their innocence, they had found a way to escape from this doomed world. My five year old told me, sadly, that he couldn't tell me how I could follow him, and that I didn't need to worry. At times, he would reappear, telling me tales of other worlds where things had gone differently. He would share treasures with me, but said I could not keep them, for fear of some contamination, or sanction from some incomprehensible body, or some other obscure reason. I didn't have much willpower, or indeed much capacity, to try and comprehend his reasons. I was simply happy to see him. I did gain some understanding of the unequal flow of time between us. While I aged as normal, he would appear to me one day as a middle aged man, and then a few weeks later, perhaps, as a seven-year-old, and then again at twenty-three; he was very explicit that I should never share his future with him, lest I disrupt his travels. I made sure to stick to that, for his sake. I loved him dearly.

The moon was intruding intolerably within our conscious space. It began to fill the entire sky, such that the days and nights looked much the same. God Emperor Trump was correct about one thing - no one went hungry anymore. No one even experienced the sensation. We simply could not die.

One day, a structure emerged on the surface of the moon. It appeared like some sort of unicorn's horn expanding outward toward us. We prayed that this was either a portent of salvation, or of a quick end, if not both. It was the first time any of us felt anything like hope. The Boomers had now retreated entirely within the confines of the AARP, where nothing could reach them, with the exception of God Emperor Trump - which, that is to say, was one in the same with the flesh mound, having covered most of what remained of dry land at this point.

The structure came closer with each day, grew longer, extending toward the surface of our planet. A crystalline minaret, beautiful and made of glass, the first shining thing any of has had seen in what seemed like centuries. We could see the spiral staircase contained within, and a single figure was descending at a leisurely pace. His journey took years. We knew he was coming to take us away from here. We waited in silent meditation. It had been so long since he had ascended to the lunar surface that most of us had forgotten about him.

Then, with nothing left but our hope, the figure mere days away from our surface, the AARP attacked. Tendrils of rotting, veiny flesh wrapped around the spiral staircase and relentlessly grasped it, twisting it, crushing it; and us with it. We did not fight back - we maintained our silent prayers, for it was all we could do. Shards of crystal rained across the earth, injuring many, burying themselves in our skin, and the descending figure fell gracefully into the aether, and was never seen again. The glassy pieces fell between stones, into the dirt. We gave them water. We prayed. If they could only bloom, we might see the flowers again.

Oxxidation posted:

SuperMechaGodzilla posted:

12:05 PM eastern standard time, the Muslims have vanished. Check for yourself if you don't believe me. Where have they gone to?

There is speculation, of course. Scientists mention a cosmic storm that passed the Earth on January 20. A man says they are all in caves. Certain groups lament a faulty Rapture. A woman says he has taken their power and absorbed it into himself. She means Barack Obama. I doubt it, but he does seem somehow taller. The ground rumbles at times. The breaking news says WASHINGTON DC, with red concentric circles. I'm uneasy, but what can we do? Terror is defeated and if Obama were a Muslim, he'd be just as gone as them. There's no cause for alarm.

Within months, Barack Obama has declared a war on vague unease. It's a good idea, because frankly we could all use some peace of mind. Approval rating is higher than ever now that the Muslims had left, but I don't think we are happy yet. His eyes are shining sometimes, as a deer's eyes shine in a flashlight beam. Small fissures criss-cross the pavement. Trees are swaying, but the breeze is gone. Something is changing in our world.

Aeroplanes don't exist anymore. Scientists explain that the density of the air is too low to support their wings. Then how do we breathe?! We should have died by now, but I think we are evolving. Our bodies haven't changed, but the atmosphere..

One man says it was the rapture after all, and we have since entered the Kingdom of God. Barack is now the size of an oak tree. He sleeps outside since the rains have ceased, and his skin is thick to bullets. Now he wanders through he countryside impassively. He ignores a rural photo-op. He studies a leaf for twenty days. Only a fool would call this Heaven.

Satellites fall to earth like rain used to. No friction burns them away, so we trudge past countless flecks of solar panel and ribbons of golden cloth. It's a silent car crash every few hours, though cars themselves no longer run. No oxygen remains to ignite their fuel. Obama strides across the landscape, taller than the Freedom Tower. We've given up on assassination; all men are immortal now, and guns no longer fire.

I'm starting to wish the Muslims were back.

We found them with a telescope. Images of a colony on the right side of the moon. See the parts that jut from the lower right? I think they're mosques. Soon they are visible to the naked eye, but how? Their cities are enormous. We watch them as they live and die. They have our former atmosphere; the moon is fringed with blue. "Look at how they wield their guns," writes a man. "I always said he'd take our guns away." They eat and sleep like we once did, building worthless ziggurats. We have everything we wanted, but oh how we envy their strife!

It's long been clear that Obama brought this uncomfortable perfection upon us, but I can't bring myself to blame him for it. He's reminded us all of how our lives had been discarded out of fear. I know now why he grows each day. In time, when we are ready he will reach out into space. He will raise us up in his great hand, to this new Earth that gleams like a frozen star. And if Obama does not carry us, we can climb...