Attention all blacked watchers, Elsa Jean is in great danger, and she needs your help to have sweaty and borderline rape with Tyrone and Jamal. But to do this, she needs a new Calvin Klein purse and a couple of new silicone titties. To help her all she sneeds is your mom's credit card number, the three digits on the back, and the expiration month and year. But, you gotta be quick, so Elsa Jean can be filled with the superior nubian seed and get fucked epic, BBC Royale!
вторник, 6 ноября 2018 г.
воскресенье, 24 июня 2018 г.
I'd love to smoke a bowl with you and take you to a party.
$100 says you clam up and hang out in the garage with the dog until I finally come out to find you and I'm like "Dude, why do always do this" and you're all like "Yeah whatever dude this party sucks, it's full of bugs" and I'm like "Seriously? This "bug people" thing again? Why can't you ever just chill?" You just sit silently petting the dog and I'm like "Hey, hello? Are you even listening bro? What the fuck is your problem?!" And you're just silent as tears well in your eyes as you slowly pet the dog and then I march over and grab your shoulder and I'm like "Dude!!" And you turn to me with tears streaming down your face and I'm all shocked and taken aback and then you scream "YOU JUST DON'T GET ME MAN, NOBODY DOES!!!" And I'm stunned into silence as you bury your face in your hands and weep, great shuddering gasps in between sobs. And I'm like "Bro.... I'm sorry...." and you're just crying still but quieter now. I put my hand on your shoulder and you cringe away for a second but I'm all like "It's okay bro we all feel like that sometimes, c'mon man, let's go inside and have a beer, that girl Becky said she thinks you're cute, she digs the shy thing haha" and you look up and sniffle and you're like "Really? You're not just saying that?" And I chuckle and I'm like "Nah bro seriously, she's cute too right?" And you're like "Heh yeah I guess, kinda chubby but whatever" and I kinda joke punch you in the arm and we both smile. Then we go back to the party and you get too drunk and try to rape Becky and then after we kick you out you go home and hang yourself.
среда, 18 апреля 2018 г.
insult
Imagine being born in the modern era. You skipped 2 million years of Neanderthals bashing each other over the head for rape opportunities. You missed Ancient Greece where people were trying to cure diseases with chamomile tea and brine. You skipped the warring Roman, Ottoman, and Mongol empires - infinite war and unbearable brutality. You skipped the black death plague wiping out near 50 percent of the population of Europe in the Middle Ages with a slow, aching death. You missed the white phosphorus-laden trenches of WWI and the millions lost to WWII immediately after. The odds of your birth proceeding after millions of years of pain and anguish and starting at the advent of the most peaceful and prosperous time of the 1980s in the cradle of wealth that is Middle America are astronomically good. But you decide to live out your gormless life to pop out an entitled little cunt like yourself in the 2000s, and whine about the proportion of women not being correct at your dentist's office because this is a major sticking point in your life. These people are an existential insult.
пятница, 16 марта 2018 г.
you're tired
You're tired. You're tired a lot these days. You have trouble remembering the last time you weren't. Probably some time when you were still young. Seems like ages ago now. Not to say you're old. Nobody would say you are, but nobody asks to see your ID anymore either.
By most metrics, you really don't have anything to complain about. People ask you how things are going and you say 'good'. It wouldn't matter what you said anyway. Nobody's really interested, and neither are you. That's most of your interactions with people these days. Empty platitudes and predicable call-and-response conversations.
Things don't outrage you like they used to. Not the big things anyway. You feel disconnected from the things you read about, like they're happening on another world. It's the little things that get to you now. Things you see people doing, watching, reading, or talking about.
You catch yourself zoning out a lot. You're thinking to yourself and asking yourself questions that you don't have answers to. Your mind wanders the same paths it always does. Churning over the same thoughts again and again.
Every so often you'll read something that gives you a bit of hope about the way things are going. You stop for a second and picture a bright future. Your permanent scowl is softened for a moment. But eventually you snap out of it. You know better than that.
By most metrics, you really don't have anything to complain about. People ask you how things are going and you say 'good'. It wouldn't matter what you said anyway. Nobody's really interested, and neither are you. That's most of your interactions with people these days. Empty platitudes and predicable call-and-response conversations.
Things don't outrage you like they used to. Not the big things anyway. You feel disconnected from the things you read about, like they're happening on another world. It's the little things that get to you now. Things you see people doing, watching, reading, or talking about.
You catch yourself zoning out a lot. You're thinking to yourself and asking yourself questions that you don't have answers to. Your mind wanders the same paths it always does. Churning over the same thoughts again and again.
Every so often you'll read something that gives you a bit of hope about the way things are going. You stop for a second and picture a bright future. Your permanent scowl is softened for a moment. But eventually you snap out of it. You know better than that.
четверг, 1 марта 2018 г.
sexual skills and shit
I love this bug idea that somehow lots of one night stands makes you better at sex. You don't develop your sexual skills by drunkenly getting used in the club bathroom or some guys dorm for five minutes before the average two pump chump rolls over and passes out. You can tell when you hook up with a youngish chick whether she's been in a long term relationship because she actually knows what she's doing. She's spent time getting feedback from a in past relationships and being coached properly, not just playing pickup ball with half the campus. One night stand addicted girls (ho's) are easily spotted by the fact and have been trained by hundreds of sexual encounters to just lay back and let you take out your drunken sexual frustrations on them, a literal human felshlight
четверг, 22 февраля 2018 г.
Chapter I: The Saracen (by u/smellslikepuke)
It was new years' eve 2008. My friend Chelsea and I were at her friend's house, tryna get crunk.
We'd been friends for years at this point, but in the last six months she'd been dropping what I felt were some subtle hints that she wanted to date me.
It all started when she dropped out of GWU, less than one semester in. She flew back home and immediately started talking about wanting to get an apartment with me. All of a sudden, she’d give these weird backhanded compliments, like, "My friends think you're handsome". There was that drunk voicemail she left, gushing about how much she loved me. The unironic Love-You’s that marked the end of all our text conversations. That fall she got a job where I worked, at Peet's Coffee, a job she didn't need - she already had one. And when we worked together, she would spank me and play grab-ass while I worked register.
All really subtle stuff, and it was my fault for reading into it as far as I did. In the back of my head, somewhere, I thought that it all had to add up to something. All the cryptic hints and clues made me feel like she’d left college and come home because she missed me. This was my own narcissistic wishful thinking. I was too clumsy to navigate the nuances of her personality. In retrospect, I had a lot of my own issues to work on - namely, my misogynistic attitude and toxic expectations towards women. Chelsea owed me nothing. I was a pig.
She called me at noon on a Saturday in mid-November, saying she had two leftover parachutes of molly from a halloween rave. Her roommate was gone and she wanted to take them with me, alone. When I got there, she'd already taken both hits. Her pupils were as big as dinner plates – she looked hilarious, like a fucking anime character. I'd been trolled. But now she wanted to do something else. Change of plans. She wanted to go to Santa Cruz. Asked if I could drive. I obliged. Why the hell not? I gassed up the Corolla and we made the six hour trek, and that night she got us a hotel with her dad's credit card. We spent hours on the beach, watching the waves roll in, taking swigs from a fifth of Captain Morgan that a hobo bought for us. The last thing I remember from that night are some scattered bits and pieces of watching her do cartwheels in the sand, maniacally laughing as she fell every time.
I woke up in room 107 of the Casa Blanca Inn. The morning light poured in through the open blinds and fell on Chelsea's nude, porcelain-white skin. I rubbed my eyes and looked again. There she was, completely naked. “How did we get here?” I thought. I was still fully clothed.
Her eyes opened and gazed into mine. A smile washed over her face as she pulled me in close, wrapping her legs around me, nubile breasts squished against my shirt.
“Take me”, she whispered in my ear.
I understood the request.
I got up, tossed her some clothes, and took her to the Santa Cruz Mystery Spot – she’d been talking about it for years.
Still to this day, I have no idea why she was naked. Maybe she liked sleeping in the nude or something.
But I digress.
She invited me to her friend's new years’ eve party. Her - best - friend's party. Chels was selective about which guys she introduced to the rest of her friends. Only if things were serious, and you’d proven yourself, did she allow a loner guy friend into her inner circle. And this year, I was her +1. This was exclusive, this was a VIP affair. You see, in high school, she hung out with the really artistically switched-on, "with it" crowd. Hipsters before the word hipster had been cheapened to "flannel and glasses". These were the sort of kids who would cut class for a week to go crash Coachella with fake IDs, and do mescaline in the desert with Josh from Fleet Foxes - in junior year.
These kids, they were fucking cool.
I rolled into HipsterCon at 9:00pm sharp - not a minute late. I’d been pre-gaming in my car for hours with a pack of Camel Wides and a copy of Dinosaur Jr's Where You Been, which was my idea of cool music. It was at this mansion a few minutes off the PCH, out in the rolling yucca of west Malibu, and as I rounded the last bend of Yerba Buena and its behemoth roofline entered my view I could feel my insides churning. The driveway was littered with Priuses and Range Rovers, all driven by these teenage sophisticates. As I made my way up to the porch, MGMT’s Weekend Wars blared from inside. Sheepishly, I knocked. A girl with bangs and a sundress answered the door and let me in. There were Zooey Deschanels doing jello shots in the kitchen, and Alan Palomo doppelgangers in the living room, playing pong on a mahogany burl table. I was in awe of how upper crust everyone was, with their fucking tortoise-shell Clubmasters and hundred dollar haircuts. How does a 17 year old afford to look like he fucks models? It sure as hell wasn't from working at Jamba Juice. My mind sluggishly processed the scene.
I came wearing a Mossimo hoodie and ill-fitting boot cut jeans, reeking of Axe, with this atrocious overly gelled faux-hawk. I looked like Dane Cook on pizza bagels. It was clear, I didn't belong here. But the kids were all super nice, and they showed me all around the place, knowing I was friends with their friend. There was a long, winding cobblestone path from the backyard down into a fire pit area, and within minutes I was sitting by the fire, belgian saison in hand, listening to some girl exchange Burning Man stories with Daryl Hannah, who appeared to be a long term house guest.
I’d integrated into the party like a virus infects a host.
Earlier in the day, I'd made up my mind that I was gonna ring the new year in with a kiss. When the ball dropped and the clock struck 12, I was gonna fuckin’ do it. I was gonna kiss Chelsea. She was gonna get smooched. The entire night leading up to this, I was so nervous that my hands and feet kept going numb. My heart was pounding out of my chest. I was nauseous with adrenaline. The only remedy was to get drunk. So get drunk I did. The first two hours of the party, I must have puked in the bushes three times. Not just from sheer autistic terror, but also from being a rookie at tequila shots. I don't know if anyone saw how much of a wreck I was. They must have. The entire night, Chelsea was avoiding me, as if she was embarrassed and knew she made a mistake by inviting me. I didn't realize this at the time - too fixated on the task at hand.
11:56 – Everyone gathered in the living room. We were packed in like sardines.
11:59 – There were 5 or 6 people between her and me, and I was afraid I wouldn't be able to get to her. I began to push through the crowd.
TEN. NINE. EIGHT. SEVEN.
I had no idea what I was doing.
SIX. FIVE FOUR.
I hadn't thought this one through. Her back is turned to me oh fuck shit fuck how am I gonna do this--
THREE.
TWO.
ONE.
I grabbed her by the shoulders and tried to turn her around. People gasped. The whole room parted around us like the red sea.
She ducked and squirmed out of my grip, lunged forward, and turned to face me, withdrawing a blade. It was a 12th century Saracen's sabre. Wootz steel. The light from the foyer gave its patina a purplish glow. Beautiful. She drew back before plunging it into my stomach. I stood there in shock - not even feeling pain yet. She pulled it out. I looked down to see rich bright red arterial blood, along with bits of eviscerated liver tissue, drooling from my gaping misogynistic wound. I was so fucking embarrassed. The whole room pointed and laughed at me. Tears began welling up in my eyes. Partially digested food seeped out of a slit in my small intestine and spilled all over the floor. People were crying with laughter. I looked out over the sea of people to see a girl leaned up against the staircase who had pissed herself laughing.
I looked back down and my gaze settled on my friend, who was still standing in front of me, smirking. The sword dropped to the ground and she approached. She inserted two fingers into my abdominal cavity, making a "come hither" motion and tickling my gallbladder. My grey hoodie was now red and dripping. The stench of iron and shit stained the air. I began to feel woozy. She took her hand out of me and licked her fingers, savoring the taste of my blood and bile.
The room was quiet.
She looked me in the eyes, and with this cold, silent stare - eyes as black and dead as a gerbil's - she said,
"I’m telling mom, bro. You’re so grounded."
We'd been friends for years at this point, but in the last six months she'd been dropping what I felt were some subtle hints that she wanted to date me.
It all started when she dropped out of GWU, less than one semester in. She flew back home and immediately started talking about wanting to get an apartment with me. All of a sudden, she’d give these weird backhanded compliments, like, "My friends think you're handsome". There was that drunk voicemail she left, gushing about how much she loved me. The unironic Love-You’s that marked the end of all our text conversations. That fall she got a job where I worked, at Peet's Coffee, a job she didn't need - she already had one. And when we worked together, she would spank me and play grab-ass while I worked register.
All really subtle stuff, and it was my fault for reading into it as far as I did. In the back of my head, somewhere, I thought that it all had to add up to something. All the cryptic hints and clues made me feel like she’d left college and come home because she missed me. This was my own narcissistic wishful thinking. I was too clumsy to navigate the nuances of her personality. In retrospect, I had a lot of my own issues to work on - namely, my misogynistic attitude and toxic expectations towards women. Chelsea owed me nothing. I was a pig.
She called me at noon on a Saturday in mid-November, saying she had two leftover parachutes of molly from a halloween rave. Her roommate was gone and she wanted to take them with me, alone. When I got there, she'd already taken both hits. Her pupils were as big as dinner plates – she looked hilarious, like a fucking anime character. I'd been trolled. But now she wanted to do something else. Change of plans. She wanted to go to Santa Cruz. Asked if I could drive. I obliged. Why the hell not? I gassed up the Corolla and we made the six hour trek, and that night she got us a hotel with her dad's credit card. We spent hours on the beach, watching the waves roll in, taking swigs from a fifth of Captain Morgan that a hobo bought for us. The last thing I remember from that night are some scattered bits and pieces of watching her do cartwheels in the sand, maniacally laughing as she fell every time.
I woke up in room 107 of the Casa Blanca Inn. The morning light poured in through the open blinds and fell on Chelsea's nude, porcelain-white skin. I rubbed my eyes and looked again. There she was, completely naked. “How did we get here?” I thought. I was still fully clothed.
Her eyes opened and gazed into mine. A smile washed over her face as she pulled me in close, wrapping her legs around me, nubile breasts squished against my shirt.
“Take me”, she whispered in my ear.
I understood the request.
I got up, tossed her some clothes, and took her to the Santa Cruz Mystery Spot – she’d been talking about it for years.
Still to this day, I have no idea why she was naked. Maybe she liked sleeping in the nude or something.
But I digress.
She invited me to her friend's new years’ eve party. Her - best - friend's party. Chels was selective about which guys she introduced to the rest of her friends. Only if things were serious, and you’d proven yourself, did she allow a loner guy friend into her inner circle. And this year, I was her +1. This was exclusive, this was a VIP affair. You see, in high school, she hung out with the really artistically switched-on, "with it" crowd. Hipsters before the word hipster had been cheapened to "flannel and glasses". These were the sort of kids who would cut class for a week to go crash Coachella with fake IDs, and do mescaline in the desert with Josh from Fleet Foxes - in junior year.
These kids, they were fucking cool.
I rolled into HipsterCon at 9:00pm sharp - not a minute late. I’d been pre-gaming in my car for hours with a pack of Camel Wides and a copy of Dinosaur Jr's Where You Been, which was my idea of cool music. It was at this mansion a few minutes off the PCH, out in the rolling yucca of west Malibu, and as I rounded the last bend of Yerba Buena and its behemoth roofline entered my view I could feel my insides churning. The driveway was littered with Priuses and Range Rovers, all driven by these teenage sophisticates. As I made my way up to the porch, MGMT’s Weekend Wars blared from inside. Sheepishly, I knocked. A girl with bangs and a sundress answered the door and let me in. There were Zooey Deschanels doing jello shots in the kitchen, and Alan Palomo doppelgangers in the living room, playing pong on a mahogany burl table. I was in awe of how upper crust everyone was, with their fucking tortoise-shell Clubmasters and hundred dollar haircuts. How does a 17 year old afford to look like he fucks models? It sure as hell wasn't from working at Jamba Juice. My mind sluggishly processed the scene.
I came wearing a Mossimo hoodie and ill-fitting boot cut jeans, reeking of Axe, with this atrocious overly gelled faux-hawk. I looked like Dane Cook on pizza bagels. It was clear, I didn't belong here. But the kids were all super nice, and they showed me all around the place, knowing I was friends with their friend. There was a long, winding cobblestone path from the backyard down into a fire pit area, and within minutes I was sitting by the fire, belgian saison in hand, listening to some girl exchange Burning Man stories with Daryl Hannah, who appeared to be a long term house guest.
I’d integrated into the party like a virus infects a host.
Earlier in the day, I'd made up my mind that I was gonna ring the new year in with a kiss. When the ball dropped and the clock struck 12, I was gonna fuckin’ do it. I was gonna kiss Chelsea. She was gonna get smooched. The entire night leading up to this, I was so nervous that my hands and feet kept going numb. My heart was pounding out of my chest. I was nauseous with adrenaline. The only remedy was to get drunk. So get drunk I did. The first two hours of the party, I must have puked in the bushes three times. Not just from sheer autistic terror, but also from being a rookie at tequila shots. I don't know if anyone saw how much of a wreck I was. They must have. The entire night, Chelsea was avoiding me, as if she was embarrassed and knew she made a mistake by inviting me. I didn't realize this at the time - too fixated on the task at hand.
11:56 – Everyone gathered in the living room. We were packed in like sardines.
11:59 – There were 5 or 6 people between her and me, and I was afraid I wouldn't be able to get to her. I began to push through the crowd.
TEN. NINE. EIGHT. SEVEN.
I had no idea what I was doing.
SIX. FIVE FOUR.
I hadn't thought this one through. Her back is turned to me oh fuck shit fuck how am I gonna do this--
THREE.
TWO.
ONE.
I grabbed her by the shoulders and tried to turn her around. People gasped. The whole room parted around us like the red sea.
She ducked and squirmed out of my grip, lunged forward, and turned to face me, withdrawing a blade. It was a 12th century Saracen's sabre. Wootz steel. The light from the foyer gave its patina a purplish glow. Beautiful. She drew back before plunging it into my stomach. I stood there in shock - not even feeling pain yet. She pulled it out. I looked down to see rich bright red arterial blood, along with bits of eviscerated liver tissue, drooling from my gaping misogynistic wound. I was so fucking embarrassed. The whole room pointed and laughed at me. Tears began welling up in my eyes. Partially digested food seeped out of a slit in my small intestine and spilled all over the floor. People were crying with laughter. I looked out over the sea of people to see a girl leaned up against the staircase who had pissed herself laughing.
I looked back down and my gaze settled on my friend, who was still standing in front of me, smirking. The sword dropped to the ground and she approached. She inserted two fingers into my abdominal cavity, making a "come hither" motion and tickling my gallbladder. My grey hoodie was now red and dripping. The stench of iron and shit stained the air. I began to feel woozy. She took her hand out of me and licked her fingers, savoring the taste of my blood and bile.
The room was quiet.
She looked me in the eyes, and with this cold, silent stare - eyes as black and dead as a gerbil's - she said,
"I’m telling mom, bro. You’re so grounded."
воскресенье, 18 февраля 2018 г.
Some rap lyrics I wrote
I don’t know how funny these will be to anyone else. if you are familiar with modern rap I think it will at least make sense what I was going for:
Never in my life been loyal to a bitch
Get so much pussy, I'm pussy rich
She open her legs like a reverse alligator
Pussy so sweet like a sweet potater
Fuck that pussy so hard til it dead
Pull out my dick and cum on the bed
Listenin to the pussy and hearin the pussy tones
Put on her pussy like a pair of dickphones
It's an emergency, I need help somebody
Use the pussy like a porta potty
Pussy so good it'll entangle ya
Experiment on the pussy like Joseph mengle
My dick so loud they call it the reverse Teller
Make the pussy deaf, call that pussy Hellen Keller
All the pussy love me, they call me the pussy Raymond
Zap zap Shoot the pussy with a ray gun
My dick sink the pussy like the titanic
Afterward she need to go to the pussy mechanic
Ride in that pussy like a Toyota carolla
Sippin on that pussy like Coca-Cola
Talkin to that pussy like Motorola
Keep that pussy on track like Thomas the tank engine
Throw some bread to that pussy like it was a hungry pigeon
That pussy need to take a break from my dick
That pussy take a knee like Colin kappernick
Flip the pussy like a flap jack
This is a pussy and im'a Mack
That pussy got me turnt like lean
Jump on that pussy like a trampoline
Never in my life been loyal to a bitch
Get so much pussy, I'm pussy rich
She open her legs like a reverse alligator
Pussy so sweet like a sweet potater
Fuck that pussy so hard til it dead
Pull out my dick and cum on the bed
Listenin to the pussy and hearin the pussy tones
Put on her pussy like a pair of dickphones
It's an emergency, I need help somebody
Use the pussy like a porta potty
Pussy so good it'll entangle ya
Experiment on the pussy like Joseph mengle
My dick so loud they call it the reverse Teller
Make the pussy deaf, call that pussy Hellen Keller
All the pussy love me, they call me the pussy Raymond
Zap zap Shoot the pussy with a ray gun
My dick sink the pussy like the titanic
Afterward she need to go to the pussy mechanic
Ride in that pussy like a Toyota carolla
Sippin on that pussy like Coca-Cola
Talkin to that pussy like Motorola
Keep that pussy on track like Thomas the tank engine
Throw some bread to that pussy like it was a hungry pigeon
That pussy need to take a break from my dick
That pussy take a knee like Colin kappernick
Flip the pussy like a flap jack
This is a pussy and im'a Mack
That pussy got me turnt like lean
Jump on that pussy like a trampoline
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