goddamn mother fucker

fuckin niggers

yeah, really

hoo tha fuck r u?

i know you've marked yourself up, just like all the youngsters these days. so where is it...

not where you can see...

it is an impression on my brain, an angle, or rather, a halo. but not where you can see it; at least not without these special glasses.

i've got one that can SEE.

indeed, one is hardly visible anymore. nothing beyond the surface is taken in. what lay within is invisible. perhaps i'm transparent, perhaps only my clothing is visible. or perhaps it's the heat.

indeed, seems like networking is hardly an option, this time of night.

it's late. well, maybe.

but let's assume it is. it seems as if most people aren't willing to let me take just two minutes of their time.

round up all the loose minutes i collect and use them to make an unprofessional, yet effective, time bomb.

cause minutes are flammable; at least on paper.

the burger king is always smiling. he "hails" from great britain. he used to wear brown overcoats, used to stab people to death on the sidewalk on snowy nights. during celebrations, he always said "give that man a banana!". sure enough, the man always got a banana.

he liked sesame seeds, but they weren't magical. so he switched to linseed, and cut his extracts with linseed oil. it made him smile so much his face got stuck.

the King is well known for his seemingly magical ability to pull sandwiches out of various places. everyone who works at burger king is told the secret, but have to swear to keep it a secret, or else the king will show up at your door and pull a knife out of your side.

one day a spider crawls down the back of a black man. punctures the skin, then uploads itself into him. it sprouts out of his hand, in the form of a deadly nightshade. then a nicotiana. it burns, addiciting him to tobacco products. then it turns into a pistol, and his brain becomes an infected mushroom; he starts hearing little voices, telling him to vote or die, to kill the white man. he takes a look at the bottom of the gun, and hits himself with the corner, making him appear edgy. he turns into a robot. decides to disassemble, to split up, after a backbreaking day of work. he comes home a little bugged. drinks a king cobra. nothing can make him tick anymore. watches a special on contaminated food, dead meat. becomes a little hungry. notices the blood coming from his head. can't feel it now. must be the beer. he smokes some midgrade. starts to feel a pressure in the back of his head. goes to sleep. in the morning his wife comes in to find a black hole in his head, and assumes it to be a gunshot wound. nobody can find the bullet. magic bullet? or magic mushroom?

my vagina smells like chicken

i thought i told you, this is our turf. what, you wanna make a move?

I built an awesome lego mecha.

except turning into robots

>>11
anti-sage