"He was like 'go to class' and calling me an idiot and stuff. And I didn't like it. And he pushed me and stuff and ran down to the front of the office and that's when I hit him,'' Ritchard said.
"I don't know why (I punched him) because I was just really pissed off at him ... giving me mouth.''
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Anonymous2011-03-21 13:03
>>2
The little kid was being a dick and sure he deserved payback, but let's see someone put your kid's head into a concrete slab. Jesus, everyone is so riled up at seeing some bullying, or just so busy fist pumping each other at such ownage, that they don't notice that little kid could have been seriously fucked up right there. Just for being a dumbarse kid.
And if you want to honestly try and suggest that he deserved serious head injury, well then you're a tool.
I'd suspend fattie and suspend skinny longer. Ultimately fatty made a mistake, skinny didn't.
This is what you little nerds need to see and emulate. Everyone gets bullied in life.
BE A MAN AND FIGHT BACK!
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Anonymous2011-03-21 15:13
>>6
Don't be stupid. The liberal stereotype is to blame the bully, not the victim. You know how we're never supposed to "blame the victim" when some whore gets raped and that sort of thing? What >>4 did was blame the victim, which takes some anti-liberal balls. The bullied kid was the nerds in Revenge of the Nerds, where they got some revenge and got to look at pussy hair on closed circuit TV of the sorority house.
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Anonymous2011-03-21 18:41
"anti-bullying movement"
bigger kid hurts littler kid in the anus of the world
retards fist pump about it all over
every government continues to opress its own and often not its own people
de-evolution continues
humanity still stuck on earth becomes extinct when the planet ceases to be able to support it
nothing of value or potential value is lost
A key point the fist pumping low-class hicks are missing here is the danger presented to skinny.
Fatty deserves blame for this... he took only 1 weak hit in the face. That's not a license to cut sick. Let fists fly ok, but risking a kid's head slamming on concrete isn't. Not for kids. Fatty needs to be punished for his recklessness.
A person who eats someone else is called a cannibal. But what are you called if you drink someone? Like I did.
No, no, no. Don't put down the book. This isn't a horror story. It isn't even a horrible story. And it's not about vampires and ghouls. But it sure is a weird tale. Really weird.
Now you can say that you don't believe me if you like. But I tell you this ? I don't tell lies. Well, that's not quite true. I did tell one once. A real big one. Did I do the right thing? I don't know. You be the judge.
It began the day Dad and I moved to the end of the world. There we were. In the middle of the desert. The proud new owners of the Blue Singlet Motel. There was no school. There was no post office. There was no pub. There were no other kids. There was nothing except us and our little cafe with its petrol pumps. And two rooms out the back for rent.
The red desert stretched off in every direction.
And it was hot. Boy was it hot. The heat shimmered up off the sand. When you walked outside you could feel the soles of your shoes cooking.
'Paradise,' said Dad.'Don't you reckon?'
'Ten million flies can't be wrong,' I said, waving a couple of hundred of them away from my face.
'Don't be so gloomy,' said Dad. 'You'll love it. The trucks all stop here on their way to Perth. It's a little goldmine.'
Just then I noticed the dust stirring in the distance. 'Our first customer,' said Dad. A huge truck was buzzing towards us at great speed. Dad picked up the nozzle of the petrol pump. 'He'll probably want about a hundred litres,' he said with a grin.
The truck roared down the road. And kept roaring. Straight past. It vanished into the lonely desert.
Poor old Dad's face fell. He put the nozzle back on the pump. 'Don't worry,' he said. 'There'll be plenty of others.'
But he was wrong. For some reason hardly any of the trucks pulled up. They just tore on by. There were a few tourists. They stopped and bought maps and filled up their water-bottles and topped up with petrol. Some even stayed the night. It was a living. But it wasn't a goldmine.
But to be honest it wasn't too bad. And Dad had a plan. A plan to attract customers.
'It's called a Wobby Gurgle', Dad said, waving an old faded book at me. 'There's a legend that the Wobby Gurgle lives around here in the desert.'
'What's it look like?' I said.
Dad looked a bit embarrassed. 'No one's ever seen one,' he said.
'Well, how do you know there's any such thing?'
'Stories,' said Dad. 'There are stories.'
'Well, what does a Wobby Gurgle do?' I asked.
'Drink.'
'Drink?'
'Yes,' he went on.'It, ah, likes to drink water.'
I scoffed. 'There isn't any water around here. Only what we bring in by truck. There isn't a waterhole for hundreds of miles.' Dad wasn't going to give up.
'Well, maybe it sort of saves water up. Like a camel.'
'It would have to be big. It hasn't rained here for twelve years,' I told him.
Dad tried to shush me up. He was getting all excited. 'Imagine if it was true,'he said. 'People would come from everywhere to see it. We could sell films and souvenirs. Lots of petrol. We could open a museum. Or a pub.'
Dad was getting excited. His face was one big happy grin.
'Like the Loch Ness Monster,' he yelped. 'No one's ever really seen it. But people go to Loch Ness from all over the world ? just hoping to catch a glimpse.'
'So?' I said.
'So we let people know about the Wobby Gurgle. They'll come for miles to see it.'
'But what if there isn't one?' I said. 'Then you would be telling a lie.'
Dad's face fell. 'I know,' he said. 'But we'll keep our eyes open. If we see one it will be like hitting the jackpot.'
Well, we didn't see anything. Not for a long time anyway. Time passed and I started to enjoy living at the Blue Singlet Motel. We didn't make a lot of money. But we got by.
I liked the evenings the best. After the sun went down and the desert started to cool. Sometimes a gentle breeze would blow in the window. I would sit there staring into the silent desert, wondering if anything was out there.
'Never go anywhere without a water-bottle,' Dad used to say. 'You never know what can happen out here in the desert.'
Anyway, this is about the time that things started to get weird. One night I filled my water-bottle to the brim and put it on the windowsill as usual. I fell off to sleep quickly. But something was wrong. I had bad dreams. About waterfalls. And tidal waves. And flooding rivers.
I was drowning in a huge river. I gave a scream and woke up with a start. I was thirsty. My throat was parched and dry. I went over to my water-bottle and opened it.
Half the water was gone.
I examined it for holes. None.
Who would do such a thing? Dad was the only other person around and I could hear him snoring away in his bedroom. He would never pinch my water. He was the one always giving me a lecture about never leaving the property without it.
I looked at the ground outside. My heart stopped. There, on the still-warm sand, was a wet footprint.
I opened my mouth to call out for Dad. But something made me stop. I just had the feeling that I should handle this myself. It was a strange sensation. I was scared but I didn't tell Dad.
I jumped out of the window and bent over the footprint. I touched it gently with one finger.
Pow. A little zap ran up my arm. It didn't hurt but it gave me a fright. It was like the feeling you get when lemonade bubbles fizz up your nose. Like that but all over.
I jumped back and looked around nervously. The night was dark. The moon had not yet risen. All around me the endless desert spread itself to the edges of the world.
The warm sand seemed to call me. I took a few steps and discovered another footprint. And another. A line of wet footprints led off into the blackness.
I wanted to go home. Turn and run back to safety. But I followed the trail, still clutching the half-empty water-bottle in my hand.
How could someone have wet feet in the desert? There was no pond. No spring. No creek. Just the endless red sand.
The footprints followed the easiest way to walk. They avoided rocks and sharp grasses. On they went. And on.
I was frightened. My legs were shaking. But I had to know who or what had made these prints. I was sure that a Wobby Gurgle had gone this way.
I could run and get Dad, but the trail would have vanished by then.The tracks behind me were evaporating. In a few minutes there would be no trail to follow.
If I could find a Wobby Gurgle we would be set. Visitors would come by the thousands.
A cricket chirped as I hurried on. A night mouse scampered out of my way. Soon the cafe was only a dark shadow in the distance. Should I go on? Or should I go back?
I knew the answer.
I had to go back. It was the sensible thing to do. Otherwise I might be gobbled up by the desert. I was in my pyjamas and slippers. And only had half a bottle of water. That wouldn't last long. Not once the sun came up.
The footprints were fading fast. I looked back at the cafe. Then I headed off in the opposite direction, following the tracks into the wilderness.
I had never been one to do the sensible thing. And anyway, if I could spot a Wobby Gurgle we would make a fortune. Tourists would come from everywhere to look for it. That's what kept me going.
On I went and on. The moon rose high in the sky and turned the sand to silver. The Blue Singlet Motel vanished behind me. I was alone with the wet footprints. And an unknown creature of the night.
The moon started to lower itself into the inky distance. Soon the sun would bleach the black sky. And dry the footprints as quickly as they were made. I had to hurry.
My eyes scoured the distance. Was that a silvery figure ahead? Or just the moon playing tricks?
It was a tree. A gnarled old tree, barely clinging to life on the arid plains. I was disappointed but also a little relieved. I wasn't really sure that I wanted to find anything.
I decided to climb the tree. I would be able to see far ahead. If there was nothing there I would turn around and go home. I grabbed the lowest branch of the tree.
I can't quite remember who saw what first. The creature or me. I couldn't make sense of it. My mind wouldn't take it in. At first I thought it was a man made of jelly. It seemed to walk with wobbly steps. It was silvery and had no clothes on.
It let out a scream. No, not a scream. A gurgle. Well, not a gurgle either. I guess you could call it a scurgle. A terrifying glugging noise. Like someone had pulled out a bath plug in its throat.
It was me that let out a scream. Boy, did I yell. Then I turned and raced off into the night. I didn't know where I was running. What I was doing. I stumbled and jumped and ran. I felt as if any moment a silvery hand was going to reach out and drag me back. Eat me up.
You heard it hear from Capt. Liberal. When you get bullied or attacked you curl up in a little ball and wait for help. It should be illegal to defend yourself.
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fart man2011-03-23 6:57
>>23
That was an interesting story! but you didn't drink anybody.
Anonymous quickly slid his copy of the D&D monster manual between his Algebra and bio books and closed his locker door. If he was to survive the afternoon he would have to move quickly. He pulled up his hood, trying to look inconspicuous, and turned around, only to come face to face with the flawless white tabard of the captain of the paladins.
"WHITHER GOEST THOU, KNAVE?!" he demanded, his voice loud despite the muffling of his visored greathelm. "I was just getting my books, leave me alone." said Anonymous. He felt the hairs rising on the back of his neck; the armored bulk of the members of the Paladin squad blocked the hallway entirely.
"I POSTED AN EDICT BANNING YOU FROM THIS CORRIDOR, KNAVE!" The captain roared. His lieutenant looked up from his breviary and addressed no one in particular:
"METHINKS THE HERETIC LOOKS TO BE SMOTE!"
"NOoooo!" cried Anonymous, dodging away from the tightening circle of paladins. "Leave me alooone!" he yelled as he ran toward the stairway for all he was worth, the clanking of plates against chainmail close behind him.
"SMITE! SMITE! SMITE!" The cry echoed from the concrete walls.
'Somebody heeellllp!" he cried as the paladins lifted him bodily across the school courtyard. At their captain's encouragement they broke into a run.
"SMITE! SMITE! SMITE!" the paladins let anonymous go on the upswing, and for a brief second he was weightless, coasting through the air, until he landed with a squishy thud in the fetid darkness of the cafeteria dumpster.
"THY WILL BE DONE OH LORD," the paladins intoned as they slammed the lid.
Anonymous waited until their hymns of triumph faded in the distance before dragging himself clumsily out, shaking, stained and stinking. He felt he could burst into tears any second, but the varsity cheerwenches were there, giggling at his discomfiture.
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Anonymous2011-03-23 15:07
>>24
You can always trust a butthole to call someone Captain and drag politics into every fucking thing.