Say Nothing posted:

Hyperlynx posted:

That's an Aussie burger chain. Pretty good food.

AtomD posted:

Typical. Someone writes nonsensical poo poo and people on the internet say it's because of Aus burgers.

resting bort face posted:

The Love Song of J. Aspie Prufrock

Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a neckbeard engorged with cheap gorditas;
Let us go, into certain half-deserted threads,
The caffeine-strung dread
Of restless nights in gimmick posters’ jokes
And hippie/neocon headbutting over Newsmax links:
Threads that follow like a tedious argument
About gun control and governments
To lead you to commit some fakeposting …
Oh, do not ask, “Who gives a poo poo?”
Let us go and make our visit.

In BYOB the goonettes come and go
Talking of their cooters and Halo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drainz,
can haz the soot that falls from chimneys on itz back,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October lol,
Curled once about the house, and haz a nap rofl.

And indeed there will be time
For the Photoshops that prompt us all to laugh,
or snarl, or scoff, or forward them to friends;
There will be time, there will be time
To ‘shop a shark with the head of a giraffe;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time to post about it on the forums:
the E/N threads which we all love to hate;
Time for you to spam emotes,
And time yet for a hundred quote not edits,
And for a hundred edits and quotes and edits,
Before the making of a bacon boat.

In BYOB the goonettes come and go
Talking of their titties and Halo.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Will I get 5s?” and, “Will I get 5s?”
Time to turn back and delete the jive,
from Fark, from 4chan, from kotaku contrived—
(They will say: “mods please gas and ban!”)
My beefy-T, my chest hair rising thicky to my chins,
My neckbeard rich and modest, but asserted by a Sailor Moon pin—
(They will say: “lol animu fatty aspie FTW!”)
Do I dare
Disturb the multiverse?
In a minute there is time
For quotes and edits which an admin will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all:—
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with Jap cartoons;
I know the voices dubbed with a dying fall
Beneath the J-pop from a farther room.
So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The eyes that would not fit inside a human head,
And when I receive my anime pillow girl,
When I pin it underneath my flab, and thrust, and bawl,
Then how should I begin
To ask a human woman if she’d like to watch my animes?
And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms penned and inked with glorious Nippon care
(But in the screen’s light, endowed with brilliant blue hair!)
It is Pocky from the store
That makes me such a bore?
Arms that don’t jiggle when they move, no, not at all.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?
. . . . .
Shall I say, I have lurked for years in many threads
And know the heart-felt honesty and bitter sarcasm
Of lonely men in boxer shorts, running Windows?…

I should have been a large-breasted woman-tiger
With a twenty-inch penis tentacle inside her.
. . . . .
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Soothed by medication,
Asleep … tired … after masturbation,
Stretched on the floor, here beside the TV.
Should I, after Mountain Dews and snacks,
Have the strength to do some jumping jacks?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and gorged,
Though I have seen my head (grown slightly greasy) sawed off upon a bus,
I am no Goku—and here’s no great fuss;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the snack stand sold out of Snickers,
And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the Dews, the Red Bulls, the Pepsis,
Among discussions of Final Fantasy
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the carrot with a smile,
To have squeezed myself in jeans too small
To sweat and toil and drop the pounds,
To say: “I am Naruto, with awesome hair,
Come back to ask you out, I shall ask you out”—
If one, startled right out of her chair,
Should say: “Why can’t we just be friends?
It’s best, it is. Just friends.”

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the Heroes and Teen Titans and the Wiki edits,
After the mangas, after the green teas, after the neko-cats meowing through the door—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if the fog of my ‘Sperger’s lifted:
Would it have been worth while
If one, grimaced at my face or startled from a chair,
And calling the police, should say:
“Why can’t we just be friends?,
It’s best, it is. Just friends.”
. . . . .
No! I am not Prince Zuko, nor was meant to be;
Am the whipping boy, one that will do
To relieve the tension, rip a fart or two,
regale my friends about Evangelion,
let them laugh behind my back, shoulder the abuse,
Honorable, wise, and never one to whine;
admiring of samurai, but a bit obese;
At times, indeed, almost elephantine—
Almost, at times, a Beast.

I grow old … I grow old …
I shall gorge myself on bacon-wrapped sausage rolls.

Shall I wash my hair today? Do I dare to eat a salad?
I shall wear my dirty sweatpants, and call this basement “palace.”
I have heard the Sailors singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them flying into battle in their suits
With hair the colors of the rainbow, and even black,
While I reach and pop the pimples on my back.

We have lingered in the afterhours of GBS
By false hyperlinks tricked with swap.avi red and brown
Till another Rickroll pwns us, and we frown.

Antivehicular posted:

This pre-dated SEA PATROL, I think? It was one scuba-diver goon dunking on another completely incomprehensibly to non-divers. I also recall the insult(?) "stroke" showing up.

Karate Bastard posted:

No! No! No! No for the sake of God's love do not! Do not ask that!

Do you not know that these people will answer

OMG JC a Bomb! posted:

MY GIRLFRIEND insists on listening to Top 40 FM stations whenever we take her car anywhere. It's an endless wasteland of vain, broken idiots reciting lyrics and music written by the same dozen or so people operating out of California. Every track is designed in a lab to be addictive, emotionally manipulative, and optimally marketable. I’ve endured a lot of reprehensible poo poo on our road trips together. There’s Sam Smith, who charmed the world by sobbing into a microphone like Jimmy Swaggart. There’s Megan Trainor, who is contractually obligated to include at least one mention of her huge rear end in every single. There’s Taylor Swift, who wants to be a “bad gurl” despite being as edgy as Motel 6 wallpaper.

But worst of all is Ed Sheeran’s “Shape of You”.

A few months ago it began playing three to four times an hour on every FM cesspool across the country, almost as if there was a concerted effort by Clearchannel and iHeartRadio to exhaust the public’s interest in it as fast they could. Yet it persists to this day, playing incessantly between endless repeats of vile 21 Pilots and Chainsmokers hits.

Ed begins by boldly shunning one of pop music’s most sacred idols, “The Club”. Instead, he prefers to be among his people at the bar “doing shots” and “talking slow”. At some point a woman approaches Ed and speaks to “only him”, perhaps believing him to be a tubby, drunken leprechaun that will grant her a wish. Van Morrison is namedropped, so you know that Ed is totally above the Top 40 schlock that he’s currently subjecting you to. I’m surprised the next verse doesn’t involve him lecturing Girl on the rich, dark sound that only vinyl can provide. Instead, Ed starts to dance with this enraptured stranger, probably grinding his chode against her miniskirt to the sultry sounds of “Van the Man”.

Not trying to brag, but the first time I heard the bridge of this song my first thought was, “Was that the loving chorus from ‘No Scrubs’?” The surviving members of TLC apparently thought so, and began exploring legal restitution a few weeks after the song poo poo up the charts. Ed and his legion of studio lawyers immediately capitulated and gave TLC writing credits, even though being non-consensually associated with this song should be legally actionable in any God-fearing country.

The bridge, sung to the tune of “No Scrubs”, begins with “Girl, you know I want your love. Your love was handmade for somebody like me.” I can’t argue with his logic, honestly. As we’re about to find out in the next verse, both Ed and his new lady-friend are terrible assholes. He would also have us believe that she actively wanted Ed to “put your (doughy, ginger) body on me”, probably in the same sense that Ivanka Trump wants The Don’ to put his body on her. Hint: It involves access to large amounts of money.

The chorus begins here, but I’ll save it for later.

Having bonded over drunken thrusting in an Irish pub, Ed and Girl go on their first date. And wouldn’t you know it, they’re entirely compatible! Compatible in the sense that they’re both unbearable, anyway. It’s like two people on OkCupid meeting after answering in the affirmative to match questions like “Do you think that tipping cultivates feelings of entitlement and should be banned for the good of our culture?” or “Do you enjoy lengthy conversations/debates about circumcision?”

Our deplorable duo begin their evening together by ripping off a Chinese buffet. Ed piles tremendous amounts of food on his plate and gorges himself (try to contain your shock). Girl opens up her purse, presumably with several plastic bags inside, and dumps food into it. Sheeran congratulates himself and his partner for being “thrifty”, probably because a Buzzfeed or Salon article once told him that stealing food from immigrants just trying to run a business is acceptable because Trump or something. To make matters worse, these gigantic pricks occupy their table for “hours” discussing the feast they’re stuffing into their gullets and handbags. Probably after closing, if I had to guess. And if you think the busboy found a single red cent left behind on their table, I envy your loving optimism more than words can say.

Speaking of exploiting immigrants, Ed and Girl depart in a taxi that gets immediately transformed into their personal gently caress-den. They sloppily kiss each other in the back seat as Ed’s fat fingers fumble their way over Girl’s moistened crevices. The scent of several pounds of ill-gotten Chinese food mingles with the odor of Guiness-infused sweat as their driver begins to question the wisdom of leaving Pakistan. Ed takes a break from his dry humping to lean forward and ask the driver to “make the radio play” (this very song, odds are). I have to assume the poor bastard was grateful for an excuse to cover up the symphony of wet squelches behind him. Ed’s only act of kindness in this entire song was accidental, and a product of his lack of empathy.

Now, as promised, we get to the chorus.

Sheeran, his mind clouded by lust and MSG, begins trying to describe the sensations of coitus in the most nonsensical way possible. The thrusting of his blindingly-white rear end over her prone form is described as “push[ing] and pull[ing] like a magnet do.” You might be tempted to believe that his awkward use of ebonics was intended to lead into a rhyme that he felt was absolutely essential, but he couldn’t find a more eloquent way to make it work. Nah. The next line is “Although my heart is falling too.” What the gently caress am I supposed to derive from that? He’s sad that he’s getting laid? His heart sank because he thought of the episode where Dr. Green died on “ER”? If anyone’s heart should be sinking, it should be Girl’s as she watched the coils of red fur spill outward as Ed unbuttoned his shirt.

Oblivious to the feelings of others as always, Ed spends more time describing the aftermath of their lovemaking than the act itself. “[L]ast night you were in my room, and now my bedsheets smell like you,” Ed croons in ecstasy. Imagine, if you will, this neckbearded Englishman sprawled out in his bed next to a woman presumably far above his metaphorical weight class and far under his actual weight class. His nostrils flare as he inhales the combined scent of vagina, Astroglide, and General Tso’s. A satisfied grin creeps through his tangle of unkempt facial hair. Though the actual lyric is “Every day discovering something brand new”, my mind can’t help but hear it as “Everything is covered in something brand new.” Lamps, and end tables, and that poster with the naked women that have Pink Floyd albums painted on their backs covered in the combined bioslime of Ed and Girl—like a set decorated by H.R. Giger. Great ropey strands dangle from the ceiling like the webs of some unspeakable spider before dribbling onto the carpet to harden into crusts. Everything is covered in something brand new.

Everything is covered in something brand new.

LITERALLY A BIRD posted:

He meant to quote canyoneer, I was confused too for a moment

Son of Thunderbeast posted:

this one:

Dumb Lowtax posted:

The pun in the post above royally SUCKED

Pick posted:

I can't keep up with what's expected of my labia.

Cacafuego posted:

Holy poo poo, it’s an apocryphal “I was watching X, I said <something funny> and the whole audience clapped and cheered.

Does some one have the chain of those handy?