How I thought I lost my virginity
Think back if you will to the early 80's...1982 to be exact. I was a freshman with an astonishingly large penis. While I did, on occasion, milk the melons, like most teenage guys I was pretty consistently lugging around a few gallons of boy goo in my swollen gnads.
Now, I don't mind bragging about my rakish good looks anymore than I mind confirming my length and girth. I was one handsome dude, and the girls, well, they loved me. At the time of this story, I was dating "Christy," a cheerleader from our chief rival high school, because she was so god damn HOT. Not too bright, but FUCK, what a smoking little body she had. Taut and coiled like a fucking snake. The kind of girl that made your balls ache just looking at her. Christy was a giggler and a cocktease of the first order. We'd been out a few times, you know, the movies and shit, and she was a midnight stroker, so I kinda figured I'd finally do the deed with her at some point.
She had cheerleading practice after school, but of course no car, so her Mom usually picked her up on the way home from her hairstylist gig. Her Mom knew she was going to be later than usual at work one day, and asked Christy if she could find another way home. So Christy calls me up, and drops the skinny...can I pick her up (I had a hardship license) so we can head to her place for a few uninterrupted hours of pleasure? Motherfucking YES I CAN.
So the day comes and I pick her up in my Chevy Vega and we head to her place. The house is a split level with a driveway along the south side that wraps around behind the back of the house. I park on the street though, and we head inside, up the steps, and get as far as the living room before I get my grope on. I'm kneading her titties like they are nerveless globs of play-doh when her dainty little hand first makes it way to my cock. Gulp! Holy shit, that first contact between soft, perfumed hand and denim is almost enough to make me pass out. And she starts going for it...she's undoing my jeans! So naturally, being the rico suave motherfucker that I am, I jam my hand down the front of her jeans like I'm plunging a toilet. She's making progress freeing my purple jack-in-the-box while I'm fumbling like a dipshit for anything pussy-related. She gets my pants and jockeys around my knees and then takes a step backwards. At this point, I'm ready to clear the picture frames off the mantle with propulsive jets of semen. She undoes her jeans and slides them off, revealing the kind of skimpy white cotton panties that really only look good on high school girls anyway. And then she slides those off...and there it is...the first bush I've ever seen by the light of day and the first bush I will have the very great satisfaction of nailing. And it's perfect...a naturally trimmed, sandy blonde wonder. She unbuttons her shirt, and undoes her front-clasp bra, but leaves them both on, then steps back towards me. We are cock to chest. She grabs my wang as I try to jam my entire fist inside of her vice-like sweetness. Fuck! She smells like baby powder. Jesus, but I can hardly get knuckle deep. She tells me, "This is going to be perfect. I want you to be my first." I'm sure I mumbled Valentino-like something to the effect of "murble."
She lays down slowly on the living room carpet, dragging me with her, and it's clear that this is going to be IT. No foreplay, no dining at the Y or polesmoking. I'm going to fuck this girl right here right now. So we stare pointedly into each other's eyes and I try to figure out how to bump my way inside her. So far, I'm basically fucking everything but her. Unfortunately, she's not helping guide my uninitiated firehose, so it's up to me. I'm getting a little impatient, mostly because I'm so fucking ready to EXPLODE, and I'm not really certain if I managed to strike pussy yet, when I get my first smooth stroke. Aaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhh. Nice! This is so fucking nice. I figure I'm good for at least another 2 or 3 strokes. I open my eyes and look at her so I can flash her a Don Juan look of lust - she looks back somewhat bewildered. Hell, she probably doesn't know when she's getting fucked, think I, the master fucker. Well, you're getting fucked now, bitch! One more stroke, and FUCKING KABOOM!!! I start "sperming" and dropping pounds by the nanosecond. It's like I came half my body weight - a solid twelve to fifteen contractions and load-heavy blasts. I'm so ready to collapse on top of her and suck some oxygen when we hear the unmistakable sound of car tires on gravel.
Oh, fuck no! Is it? I get up, and Christy jumps up to the living room window, announcing that her Mom's cruising down the driveway. While her firm little tush is poised by the window, I notice that her buttocks and lower back are rather saturated with an unusual amount of gack. I casually glance over to the spot where I just gave this choice piece of ass the finest fucking of her young life, and notice a HUGE puddle of cum on the carpet! What the fuck?! It looks like someone threw a bucket of yogurt off a bridge. Christy says, "Don't worry about that now, you've got to get out of here!" as she grabs panties and jeans. And it hits me... yep, it slipped right in, didn't it? right in where? right in between her ass and the carpet. Yep, I just fucked the shit out of her Mom's burnt orange shag carpet.
With one hand, I'm tugging on my jockeys and jeans, as Christy leads me to her bedroom at the back of the house. As I finish getting my jeans on, she opens her bedroom window, just as we hear her Mom at the front door. I look at her. "I'll call you," I say. She pushes me out the window, and after about an 8 foot drop, I land on her garbage can, knocking it over, and spreading shit everywhere. I stand up and hear, "What was that? Christy?" "Nothing, Mom." She pulls the blinds closed without a second look, and I sneak around the house, bolt for my car, and get the fuck out of there.
Considering it was the biggest load I ever dropped, it just might have been the best fuck I ever had.
And, sadly, no, I did not wipe my cock on the drapes.
(!) My Greatest Hits (!)
Moderator: Jesus H Christ
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Moorese
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(!) My Greatest Hits (!)
Last edited by Moorese on Mon Jan 31, 2005 8:29 pm, edited 1 time in total.
When life hands you a park steak, you'd better motherfucking ISSUE it.
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Liberate Cascadia!
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Clearly, as always, one of the top 5 singular posts on any message board
EVAR!!!
EVAR!!!
John Boehner wrote:Boehner said. "In Congress, we have a red button, a green button and a yellow button, alright. Green means 'yes,' red means 'no,' and yellow means you're a chicken shit. And the last thing we need in the White House, in the oval office, behind that big desk, is some chicken who wants to push this yellow button.
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Moorese
- Lancing the lovelies
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- Joined: Sat Jan 15, 2005 4:59 am
- Location: The People's Republic of Seattle
Going Snowboarding this Weekend for the first time
Ah, the crisp winter air and the fresh dusting of powder on the slopes! I can certainly understand your excitement, R.C., for now is truly a spectacular time to partake in wintery outdoor recreational delights. As such, permit me to dispense these ten tidbits of advice as you head into your personal winter wonderland.
First, you don't have to be a FAG to gain entry to a ski basin. Sure, at first glance, you might beg to differ after observing the throngs of dumbfucks loafing around in coordinated skiwear (s'up Colorado?), but you can enjoy the hill and keep your manhood by wearing appropriate, non-faggotty clothing - LEATHER. Miss C's got the right idea. Fleece is for baked, hippie ski fags, not you my friend. Frankly, anything that can be purchased at REI screams, "Poser faggot!" Bust THIS bitch out on the slopes.
Some burned-out Rocky Mountain dipshit may tell you that leather gets wet. The appropriate response to such a statement is "Fuck off, fag." Who fucking cares if leather gets wet? You'll look like a fucking ski stud with a huge slab, and that's considerably more important than being a puss for comfort.
Second, while not all skiers are fags, they are all PUSSIES. You can get whatever the fuck you want at whatever ski basin you hit by showing severe sack at all times. Example. Skiers are borderline retarded because of years at high altitude and the corresponding lack of oxygen; thus, they speak slowly. Don't wait for some pussy to finish his "hey bra..." sentence. You don't have all fucking day to get your bomber downhill on. Grab said pussy by his goggles and bellow, "Where's the goddamn lift, you stuttering retard!" The same decisiveness will serve you well at the lodge when dealing with the notoriously idiotic seasonal employees.
Third, YOU do not have to wait in the goddamn lift lines. This dovetails into the skiers are pussies maxim. Walk straight to the front of the line. If some fag skier complains with a "bro?!", grab his poles, break the first one over your knee, break the second one over his head, and toss the remnants off into the snow with a quick and pointed, "Fuck you, DUDE." If said complainant is a snowboarder, grab his IPod, crush it under your boot, and then call for his fucking Mommy, who is guaranteed to be somewhere nearby dressed as a snow princess.
Fourth, don't let anyone into your chair with you unless you plan on fucking them.
Fifth, don't wait for the lift chairs to reach their destination before exiting. It's a bitch move, lacking in testicular fortitude.
Sixth, the best way to slow a rapid and out-of-control descent is by piling headlong into a group of skiers up ahead of you. Once you are certain that you have lost control, pick your party, clench your fists and direct them at the base of their skulls, and slam into them, letting forth a bloodcurdling scream. When the pileup is finished, make certain you are the first up so you can grab everyone else's gear and throw it into the path of any other folks coming down the hill.
Seventh, ski fags have a communal language all their own - it's pretty fucking annoying. Anytime a ski fag drops some mountain vernacular on your ass, blast 'em in the chops. Rest assured that no response other than a "whoa" will be forthcoming as they are pussies. If you don't get a "whoa," blast them again.
Eighth, ski fags wear hats that make them look like imbeciles. Be a good neighbor and point this out. When you see dude with a hat that has a tassel, ball, deely-bopper thing, or looks like a long Dr. Seuss sock, smack it off dude's head with a "you look like a dumb fag, you dumb fag." If you see a chick with such a hat, ask her, "Hey, are you a whore? 'cause that dude over there (indicate nearest dude sporting deely-boppers) said you were his whore." Chick will then remove dude's headgear in appropriate fashion.
Ninth, when your day of bliss on the hill is done, probably after about an hour and a half, retire to the cozy confines of a lodge and its finest bar to get marinated. While doing so, complain bitterly about every goddamn thing in a voice loud enough for every ski fag in the bar to hear. The formula is simple. "This _______ fucking sucks compared to _________ at :anyotherskibasin:"
Lastly, don't eat the yellow snow, but more importantly, steer clear of the brown and crimson speckled snow as Buzzer has probably just drug a sore or two over it.
Ah, the crisp winter air and the fresh dusting of powder on the slopes! I can certainly understand your excitement, R.C., for now is truly a spectacular time to partake in wintery outdoor recreational delights. As such, permit me to dispense these ten tidbits of advice as you head into your personal winter wonderland.
First, you don't have to be a FAG to gain entry to a ski basin. Sure, at first glance, you might beg to differ after observing the throngs of dumbfucks loafing around in coordinated skiwear (s'up Colorado?), but you can enjoy the hill and keep your manhood by wearing appropriate, non-faggotty clothing - LEATHER. Miss C's got the right idea. Fleece is for baked, hippie ski fags, not you my friend. Frankly, anything that can be purchased at REI screams, "Poser faggot!" Bust THIS bitch out on the slopes.
Some burned-out Rocky Mountain dipshit may tell you that leather gets wet. The appropriate response to such a statement is "Fuck off, fag." Who fucking cares if leather gets wet? You'll look like a fucking ski stud with a huge slab, and that's considerably more important than being a puss for comfort.
Second, while not all skiers are fags, they are all PUSSIES. You can get whatever the fuck you want at whatever ski basin you hit by showing severe sack at all times. Example. Skiers are borderline retarded because of years at high altitude and the corresponding lack of oxygen; thus, they speak slowly. Don't wait for some pussy to finish his "hey bra..." sentence. You don't have all fucking day to get your bomber downhill on. Grab said pussy by his goggles and bellow, "Where's the goddamn lift, you stuttering retard!" The same decisiveness will serve you well at the lodge when dealing with the notoriously idiotic seasonal employees.
Third, YOU do not have to wait in the goddamn lift lines. This dovetails into the skiers are pussies maxim. Walk straight to the front of the line. If some fag skier complains with a "bro?!", grab his poles, break the first one over your knee, break the second one over his head, and toss the remnants off into the snow with a quick and pointed, "Fuck you, DUDE." If said complainant is a snowboarder, grab his IPod, crush it under your boot, and then call for his fucking Mommy, who is guaranteed to be somewhere nearby dressed as a snow princess.
Fourth, don't let anyone into your chair with you unless you plan on fucking them.
Fifth, don't wait for the lift chairs to reach their destination before exiting. It's a bitch move, lacking in testicular fortitude.
Sixth, the best way to slow a rapid and out-of-control descent is by piling headlong into a group of skiers up ahead of you. Once you are certain that you have lost control, pick your party, clench your fists and direct them at the base of their skulls, and slam into them, letting forth a bloodcurdling scream. When the pileup is finished, make certain you are the first up so you can grab everyone else's gear and throw it into the path of any other folks coming down the hill.
Seventh, ski fags have a communal language all their own - it's pretty fucking annoying. Anytime a ski fag drops some mountain vernacular on your ass, blast 'em in the chops. Rest assured that no response other than a "whoa" will be forthcoming as they are pussies. If you don't get a "whoa," blast them again.
Eighth, ski fags wear hats that make them look like imbeciles. Be a good neighbor and point this out. When you see dude with a hat that has a tassel, ball, deely-bopper thing, or looks like a long Dr. Seuss sock, smack it off dude's head with a "you look like a dumb fag, you dumb fag." If you see a chick with such a hat, ask her, "Hey, are you a whore? 'cause that dude over there (indicate nearest dude sporting deely-boppers) said you were his whore." Chick will then remove dude's headgear in appropriate fashion.
Ninth, when your day of bliss on the hill is done, probably after about an hour and a half, retire to the cozy confines of a lodge and its finest bar to get marinated. While doing so, complain bitterly about every goddamn thing in a voice loud enough for every ski fag in the bar to hear. The formula is simple. "This _______ fucking sucks compared to _________ at :anyotherskibasin:"
Lastly, don't eat the yellow snow, but more importantly, steer clear of the brown and crimson speckled snow as Buzzer has probably just drug a sore or two over it.
When life hands you a park steak, you'd better motherfucking ISSUE it.
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Liberate Cascadia!
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Liberate Cascadia!
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Moorese
- Lancing the lovelies
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- Joined: Sat Jan 15, 2005 4:59 am
- Location: The People's Republic of Seattle
Critters I'd like to kill
If you saw a midget moving along at a surprisingly rapid clip, then you, sir, have caught sight of the ever elusive Moorese in the wild. Let me explain the optical illusion that has you so perplexed.
When you saw this midget "running," did you carefully study the gait of said midget? Had you done so, you would have noticed two stubby little arms flailing about wildly, and two stubby little legs kicking like a toddler on a highchair, but you also would have noticed that it was two other sleek and powerful legs of normal adult proportions that were actually responsible for propelling the midget at such a furious pace.
How can this be? You see, friend, when I fuck a midget, I generally fuck 'em from behind. On occasion when I'm lending my slab doggy-style to some delightful dwarf, and so intent on reconfiguring the arrangement of the gastrointestinal tract with my penile helmet, I am prone to being startled by loud and unexpected noises.
For example, imagine that I'm assfucking a midget in an alleyway when a passing car backfires. BAM! A gunshot? Oh dear! With the noise, I stand, instantly alerted, and take flight from a potential predator (in much the same fashion that midgets take flight from me).
And then, once alerted to danger, the Moorese bounds away with the speed of a gazelle and the cock of a gorilla, taking his prey ever deeper into the wilds of the urban jungle...
In so doing, I end up lifting the little ones off the ground, impaled and dangling as they are on my massive cockhead. As I race away from peril, they bounce along for the ride, attached to my cock, and completely unable to get their little block-shaped footsies back on the ground. Once I have cleared the area, I bend back over to resume the fucking, giving my conquest renewed purchase upon the ground.
If you had looked up, you would have noticed that the midget "appeared" to have two heads - the typical, cinder-block shaped head of a midget, and a well-formed visage of almost divine grace with a look indicating simultaneous feelings of alarm, fear, and carnal pleasure. And then, sir, you would have recognized my face.
By the way, how tall are you, fatboy?
Carneliat wrote:
Never would I even imagine I could out run a midget, how the hell do you people get your little sausage link legs to move that fast?
If you saw a midget moving along at a surprisingly rapid clip, then you, sir, have caught sight of the ever elusive Moorese in the wild. Let me explain the optical illusion that has you so perplexed.
When you saw this midget "running," did you carefully study the gait of said midget? Had you done so, you would have noticed two stubby little arms flailing about wildly, and two stubby little legs kicking like a toddler on a highchair, but you also would have noticed that it was two other sleek and powerful legs of normal adult proportions that were actually responsible for propelling the midget at such a furious pace.
How can this be? You see, friend, when I fuck a midget, I generally fuck 'em from behind. On occasion when I'm lending my slab doggy-style to some delightful dwarf, and so intent on reconfiguring the arrangement of the gastrointestinal tract with my penile helmet, I am prone to being startled by loud and unexpected noises.
For example, imagine that I'm assfucking a midget in an alleyway when a passing car backfires. BAM! A gunshot? Oh dear! With the noise, I stand, instantly alerted, and take flight from a potential predator (in much the same fashion that midgets take flight from me).
And then, once alerted to danger, the Moorese bounds away with the speed of a gazelle and the cock of a gorilla, taking his prey ever deeper into the wilds of the urban jungle...
In so doing, I end up lifting the little ones off the ground, impaled and dangling as they are on my massive cockhead. As I race away from peril, they bounce along for the ride, attached to my cock, and completely unable to get their little block-shaped footsies back on the ground. Once I have cleared the area, I bend back over to resume the fucking, giving my conquest renewed purchase upon the ground.
If you had looked up, you would have noticed that the midget "appeared" to have two heads - the typical, cinder-block shaped head of a midget, and a well-formed visage of almost divine grace with a look indicating simultaneous feelings of alarm, fear, and carnal pleasure. And then, sir, you would have recognized my face.
By the way, how tall are you, fatboy?
When life hands you a park steak, you'd better motherfucking ISSUE it.
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Liberate Cascadia!
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Liberate Cascadia!
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Moorese
- Lancing the lovelies
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- Joined: Sat Jan 15, 2005 4:59 am
- Location: The People's Republic of Seattle
Cuda wrote:
Question: Which is faster, a midget or a tard?
A midget fleeing from Moorese is deceptively quick, even considering the shortcomings inherent in stubby little legs, because it is loath to have its intestines all mashed up into its lungs due to the piledriving force of the raging slab that is my fully-engorged wang.
A midget bicycling its little legs whilst riding atop the cockhammer of a Moorese in flight is extremely fast, faster than a lone midget would otherwise be.
A midget bicycling its little legs whilst riding atop the cockhammer of a Moorese in flight from a slobbering retard intent on dispensing its defective seed into Moorese's pristine backside is the fastest of all.
Retards are freakishly strong, but as they rarely run in the same direction for any appreciable amount of time, they are not really a threat to run down a stumpy little midget or myself so long as a safe distance is kept. Chimps are another story entirely.
When life hands you a park steak, you'd better motherfucking ISSUE it.
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Liberate Cascadia!
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Liberate Cascadia!
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Moorese
- Lancing the lovelies
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So let's review. Examine the photo below.
This little hottie's probably pretty quick on those tree stump legs, quick enough to outrun a full-size retard, but she's not quick enough to stop me from making a wreck of her innards with my swollen slab of cock meat. Notice how the body mass tends to collect like an inner tube around the gut, padded pooch, and thighs. Those are actually this midget's organs compressed into a tiny area, absolutely reachable and proddable if your cock is as substantial as mine. With a little sexual stamina, you can fuck those organs up into the shoulder area. If you turn her upside down afterwards, they will stay there, gravity being what it is. Otherwise, they will eventually settle back down into the ass region, although not necessarily in the appropriate order. Thus, these organs may no longer function correctly. (Apparently, this tasty treat can also swim, which has got to be a fucking hoot to watch, much like kicking an amputee off a boat.)
Next...
This fucker is undoubtedly strong. Make it a point when you are in the proximity of a retard to carefully monitor when said retard is getting frustrated because they are too goddamn stupid to understand what's going on around them. The telltale sign is a vacant expression...o.k. an unusually vacant expression...that transforms into a smouldering glare of anger without the slightest trace of comprehension.
Witness this photo. The retard's special ed teacher, awash in her fat 20k per year salary, has probably just callously informed the retard not to eat paste for the umpteenth time. Naturally, the retard has no fucking clue what this bitch is saying; and as such, he is getting angry...very angry...while this dumb whore is looking down at her crossword puzzle...a no-no. Never take your eyes off a retard.
Judging by the look on this retard's face, he is about thirty seconds from a synaptic short circuit in which he will grab the bitch's pencil, shishkabob her eyeball, yank an arm clean out of its socket, and proceed to beat the fuck out of this lady with her own arm until a crew of four to five handlers subdue the retard long enough to tranquilize him.
Do not trifle with retards. Yes, they are funny...and dumb...because they are, well, retarded, so it is natural to want to get close to them so you can point and laugh at them, and try to make them cry. Just recognize that mirth with your friends can quickly turn into a devastating injury, not if, but when your retard loses control, and you have made the mistake of feeling comfortable.
This little hottie's probably pretty quick on those tree stump legs, quick enough to outrun a full-size retard, but she's not quick enough to stop me from making a wreck of her innards with my swollen slab of cock meat. Notice how the body mass tends to collect like an inner tube around the gut, padded pooch, and thighs. Those are actually this midget's organs compressed into a tiny area, absolutely reachable and proddable if your cock is as substantial as mine. With a little sexual stamina, you can fuck those organs up into the shoulder area. If you turn her upside down afterwards, they will stay there, gravity being what it is. Otherwise, they will eventually settle back down into the ass region, although not necessarily in the appropriate order. Thus, these organs may no longer function correctly. (Apparently, this tasty treat can also swim, which has got to be a fucking hoot to watch, much like kicking an amputee off a boat.)
Next...
This fucker is undoubtedly strong. Make it a point when you are in the proximity of a retard to carefully monitor when said retard is getting frustrated because they are too goddamn stupid to understand what's going on around them. The telltale sign is a vacant expression...o.k. an unusually vacant expression...that transforms into a smouldering glare of anger without the slightest trace of comprehension.
Witness this photo. The retard's special ed teacher, awash in her fat 20k per year salary, has probably just callously informed the retard not to eat paste for the umpteenth time. Naturally, the retard has no fucking clue what this bitch is saying; and as such, he is getting angry...very angry...while this dumb whore is looking down at her crossword puzzle...a no-no. Never take your eyes off a retard.
Judging by the look on this retard's face, he is about thirty seconds from a synaptic short circuit in which he will grab the bitch's pencil, shishkabob her eyeball, yank an arm clean out of its socket, and proceed to beat the fuck out of this lady with her own arm until a crew of four to five handlers subdue the retard long enough to tranquilize him.
Do not trifle with retards. Yes, they are funny...and dumb...because they are, well, retarded, so it is natural to want to get close to them so you can point and laugh at them, and try to make them cry. Just recognize that mirth with your friends can quickly turn into a devastating injury, not if, but when your retard loses control, and you have made the mistake of feeling comfortable.
When life hands you a park steak, you'd better motherfucking ISSUE it.
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Liberate Cascadia!
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Liberate Cascadia!
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Moorese
- Lancing the lovelies
- Posts: 532
- Joined: Sat Jan 15, 2005 4:59 am
- Location: The People's Republic of Seattle
JCT wrote:
What if you have a retarded midget?
I apologize, Junction. I did not mean to duck your question. It is both a good one and a difficult one. Certainly, a retarded midget would be both strong and quick - a potentially devastating combination - however, it would still be really fucking stupid. So how would our stupid friend fare against a chimp? Consider the following excerpt.
We've covered this material before, but I'll elaborate for the sake of any newcomers.Moorese wrote:
TheArtist wrote:
Remember: angry is funny...
Anger, standing alone, is not necessarily funny.
However, it is undisputed that chimps, midgets, retards, and all combinations thereof are funny. It therefore follows that an angry chimp, an angry midget, an angry midget chimp, an angry (so to speak) retard, an angry retarded chimp, or an angry retarded midget is funny. We also know that all sexual couplings between chimps, midgets, and retards are especially funny. This explains, for example, why we Arsenio Hoot every time we come across a chimp hate-fucking a retarded midget in an alleyway.
As you can see, the final sentence indicates that even the retarded midget, with its impressive strength and speed, is not necessarily superior to the deceptively cute, yet sexually ravenous, strong, swift, and reasonably intelligent chimp. Plus, when a retard, midget or not, is getting assfucked by chimp, they generally do not understand the ramifications of the primate penis plunging into and out of their asshole amidst the gleeful chimp shreeks and screetches. By the time the retard realizes that he was not petting a kitty kat, but rather getting force-fucked in the anus by a goddamn monkey, our chimp friend has long since quit the field.
But some retards are mentally nimble enough to catch on as to the wily chimp's true intent before the chimp is completely out of range. And ultimately, while chimps are very strong for their size and weight, there are few things on this earth as awful and powerful as a pissed-off retard who has just figured something out. In such rare situations, a battle royale ensues. Consider my comments to Vic.
Moorese wrote:
How quickly we forget, eh Vic? Chimps DO the hatefucking. Only a slobbering retard is likely to have the strength necessary to overcome a chimp and fuck him/her against his/her will, and even then, a protracted battle is to be expected.
But what about you and I? How do we measure up against a chimp that wants to play "rip and tear" in our assholes? We fare well when we remain cautious and guarded. Unfortunately, we tend to finds monkeys cute; and thus, we let them into our anal perimeter with little thought to the danger until it is too late. And again, while it hurts to be ass-fucked by a chimp because they have so much energy that their TPM's (thrusts per minute) are off the charts, it's still goddamn funny...even when it is happening to you.
Here is some more of my exchange with Vic which illustrates this point.
Moorese wrote:
Now, it might be humiliating and somewhat painful for the uninitiated to be assfucked by a chimp, but I guarantee that your grimaces will be interspersed with fits of laughter as you look back and see that little chimp grinning from ear to ear while hammering away at your cornhole and making those god damn hilarious chimp screechy noises.
Moorese wrote:
Invictus wrote:
Shoot Mo, I've forgotten just that quickly.
We all like to get a little fucked up now and again. I'd feel horrible if you copped a buzz and sauntered over to an apparently accomodating chimp, thinking you might get your Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom on, only to be brutally sodomized in front of a raucous and approving crowd. Female chimps are generally so quick that they get away, and male chimps are generally so quick that they are impossible to get away from.
Unlike retards and most midgets, chimps are quite close to our intellectual equals. A savvy male chimp will hide his package between his thighs and twinkletoe over to you, thereby making you think he is a she, prop his ass up in the air, and screech and coo in the equivalent of the chimp high sign. As you settle in behind that pink, fur-bordered ass with your pants around your ankles, said chimp will backflip Hong-Kong-Fuey style right over your head, landing in perfect position to plunge his now released chimp cock into your astonished backside. Remember that part in Seabiscuit where a partially disrobed Tobey Macguire tries to get away from the horse that is trying to fuck him? Well, pretend that horse is a lusty sexual freak with blinding quickness, a disarmingly huge grin, and opposable thumbs.
It's best to scope the sex of your chimp from a safe distance, and if it's a girl, bring it down with a dart. If you really have a hankering to witness the rarity that is a male chimp catching a cock in the ass, head down to the local merry-go-round and hire a retard. Just make sure you wear a rain slicker because the fluid dispersal can be quite tremendous.
I'm just looking out for you, Vic. I hope to teach so that my friends who also enjoy fucking strange things are not doomed to repeat my mistakes.
There are a few ultimate conclusions I can share with you, Junction. First, I've never met the midget that could outrun my eager cock. I've also never met a retard I couldn't trick long enough to fuck and then get away from. After all, they are pretty fucking stupid. I'm also certain that I am quick enough to catch a retarded midget, smart enough to stun the same while I fuck it, and quick enough to get away before the hellish retard strength and midget speed combo evens the score.
As between chimps and midgets, bet on the chimp every time. Chimps are faster, stronger, and damn near as smart. (O.K. Maybe midgets aren't stupid just because they are midgets. But they look stupid so they might as well be.) As between chimps and retards, be they midgets or not, I tend to favor the chimp, but every retard has its day, and when it does, a truly annoyed retard who finally gets his hands on the monkey that has been ass-fucking him will commit the most gruesome violence that you have ever seen. Should you ever need to exact revenge on a chimp, a retard is a good choice. Just point out the chimp, exclaim "Kitty Kat...," and let the slow progress of the retard's memory begin a march to conclusion.
As between monkeys and Moorese?
Once bitten, twice shy...babe.
When life hands you a park steak, you'd better motherfucking ISSUE it.
- - -
Liberate Cascadia!
- - -
Liberate Cascadia!
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Moorese
- Lancing the lovelies
- Posts: 532
- Joined: Sat Jan 15, 2005 4:59 am
- Location: The People's Republic of Seattle
Question for Workout Experts
Oh absolutely, Pp. And because I respect you and admire you so much as a result of the brief time I've spent familiarizing myself* with your wit and charm, I'd be happy to assist you in buffing that cunny up for the summer. I've developed a specialized routine for you which I've summarized below, and it's my sincere pleasure to offer you a free trial membership to my personal state-of-the-art fitness emporium so that I may oversee the sculpting of your physique.
First, arrive at my gym in a camisole and tap pants around 11:30 p.m. Sports bras and exercise pants are for fat girls...not you, my lovely...and as your metabolic rate is at its peak in the evening, we'll burn more of your fat together if you show up when it's pretty dark. It's also crucial that you stay sufficiently hydrated so be sure to arrive with plenty of lubricant.
Now, the key to any successful and injury-free exercise routine is to incorporate adequate stretching and warm up time. Make sure to limber up your pectoralis muscles and...uhm...clitoral muscle with a few minutes devoted to
Then, loosen up a little further with stretching on an exercise ball or mat. May I suggest
Afterwards, jog in place on a treadmill to elevate your heart rate. (Can you feel some shit rising, 'cause baby, I can.)
Now, you are ready for some strength training. The incline bench press builds powerful arms, a strong, deep chest, classic "v-shaped" lats, and a flat, taut abdomen.
And undoubtedly, one of the finest stength and toning exercises is the squat because it works all muscle groups, especially your creamy inner thighs, and operates with your own weight as part of the resistance.
After a strenuous workout, it's important to engage in cool down exercises before I replenish you with plenty of fluids. Then we'll relax together and enjoy a delightful protein smoothie.
I'm really looking forward to helping you achieve your fitness goals.
* pulling off ring-shaped chunks of foreskin whilst dreaming of you begging me to stop because "it's too big, it's too thick, oh God! it's fucking huge, and I want it in my mouth...no wait, my ass...no, mouth...no...no, deep in my ass, definately the ass."
ppanther wrote:
I am wondering if it's worth $50/session to have someone tell me "do 2 sets here. then do 2 sets here." etc.
Oh absolutely, Pp. And because I respect you and admire you so much as a result of the brief time I've spent familiarizing myself* with your wit and charm, I'd be happy to assist you in buffing that cunny up for the summer. I've developed a specialized routine for you which I've summarized below, and it's my sincere pleasure to offer you a free trial membership to my personal state-of-the-art fitness emporium so that I may oversee the sculpting of your physique.
First, arrive at my gym in a camisole and tap pants around 11:30 p.m. Sports bras and exercise pants are for fat girls...not you, my lovely...and as your metabolic rate is at its peak in the evening, we'll burn more of your fat together if you show up when it's pretty dark. It's also crucial that you stay sufficiently hydrated so be sure to arrive with plenty of lubricant.
Now, the key to any successful and injury-free exercise routine is to incorporate adequate stretching and warm up time. Make sure to limber up your pectoralis muscles and...uhm...clitoral muscle with a few minutes devoted to
Then, loosen up a little further with stretching on an exercise ball or mat. May I suggest
Afterwards, jog in place on a treadmill to elevate your heart rate. (Can you feel some shit rising, 'cause baby, I can.)
Now, you are ready for some strength training. The incline bench press builds powerful arms, a strong, deep chest, classic "v-shaped" lats, and a flat, taut abdomen.
And undoubtedly, one of the finest stength and toning exercises is the squat because it works all muscle groups, especially your creamy inner thighs, and operates with your own weight as part of the resistance.
After a strenuous workout, it's important to engage in cool down exercises before I replenish you with plenty of fluids. Then we'll relax together and enjoy a delightful protein smoothie.
I'm really looking forward to helping you achieve your fitness goals.
* pulling off ring-shaped chunks of foreskin whilst dreaming of you begging me to stop because "it's too big, it's too thick, oh God! it's fucking huge, and I want it in my mouth...no wait, my ass...no, mouth...no...no, deep in my ass, definately the ass."
When life hands you a park steak, you'd better motherfucking ISSUE it.
- - -
Liberate Cascadia!
- - -
Liberate Cascadia!
-
Moorese
- Lancing the lovelies
- Posts: 532
- Joined: Sat Jan 15, 2005 4:59 am
- Location: The People's Republic of Seattle
An Ode to MissJo or MissJo Down By The Sally Gardens
And for this I am truly regretful. Dearest MissJo, we've yet to have the opportunity to consummate our relationship, as sparing and fleeting as even that has been. And this pains me. It pains me, MissJo. I was so eagerly anticipating a pairing between you and I so that I could tell you how I genuinely feel about you.
I love you, MissJo! You and only you. Each and every square hectacre of you.
Yes, my beautiful one, love may be a pregnant word too frequently offered by randy lads who know little of love's propensity to consume one's soul like leprosy ravages our bodies (s'up, my penis?), but in our unique situation, I tell you true that "love" is the only word that does justice to the depth and potency of my feelings for you.
Were you to address me in an unkind fashion, could I respond similarly? Nay, my love. You could pummel me with verbal stones, and even then the ache in my heart would compel my admission that I have repeatedly relieved my swollen loins to the picture of your prodigious bulk and planet-obscuring mammaries as barely contained in your Mardi Gras carnival tent outfit. I would admit that as you made your tour of my land, sucking the cocks of strange men in exchange for a crust of bread and a place to rest your sweet, fucking gigantic head, I gnashed my teeth in utter agony knowing that you would not be arriving at my door some evening, promising the fruits of your ample bosom in exchange for 9 or 10 Extra Value meals and a few flagons of ale. Please know, angel, that I would have suffered any price for your trip to my threshold. I would have hollowed out our love star, Venus, and rendered the goddess but a heavenly bucket filled to the rim with greasy bits of chicken flesh we could feed to each other...well, actually I suppose you'd eat all the goddamn chicken, being a huge, fat whore and all, but even so, just the opportunity to watch you lay waste to a few thousand pounds of fried chicken would surpass witnessing the adornment of the Sistine Chapel. Know too, that as you visited Fall River Jim, and shared with him the secrets of your massive ass and cunt, I grew spiteful and envious, vowing to hunt him down in the "woods" to which he retreated to put a savage end to his life for the injury he has done to me by tasting first your delicious love.
I know you, MissJo, I know you, and yet pity you, for I am resplendent with the understanding that you, yourself, have never known the complete fulfillment of true, unabashed love. Such is the curse of fat girl beauty. I know that no man has touched the glorious bottom of your giant pussy, or for that matter even neared the glistening walls that adorn the sides of your holy cunt temple. Like a hot dog down a hallway, a man may indeed pass through the wonder of the Pacific in a rowboat, but he has not seen her majesty in its entirety. A cripple may drive his motorized wheel chair off an observation platform and into the Grand Canyon without ever truly appreciating the scope and grandeur of a thousand mile geological feature whose marvelousness still pales in comparison with the splendor of your continent-spanning cunt.
I know that you endure your frustration in silence, and even play at gaiety when the topic of carnal pleasure is breached. What a fair and noble sport you are to say
when it is abundantly clear to all your myriad admirers that not even a
would suffice to bring you the erotic joy you so richly deserve. And yet, would that I were that torpedo, that I might try to bring you to the heights of sexual ecstacy.
Oh MissJo, I realize that my rather impressive nine inches of manhood (all right, 8 3/4 inches, and yeah, I've measured it) would be to you but a gnat upon the haunch of that king of beasts, the elephant, but I am so taken by your gargantuan ass and sunlight-absorbing pussy that I implore you to consider my humble request for a moment of your passion. In return for your generous consideration, I respectfully promise to do all in my power to bring to your fat fucking face and stupid clown lips a blissful smile. I will tenderly remove your tarpaulin, and crane your ass down into a fully drained olympic-sized diving pool such that your yogurt-covered love mound is completely exposed towards the sky. Then, my love, I shall annoint my entire body with the aromatic essence of bacon grease, and ascend to the pinnacle of the 10 meter platform as it rises above your sweltering cunt cavern. And once there, I shall proclaim to all and in no uncertain terms my undying affection for the corpulent globes that make up the east and west of your ass, as well as the putrid tip to taint that comprises the north and south of your odorific cheesemaker. And with a final, long look into this seething mass of cottage cheese curds, pubic hairs as long as firehoses, and flaps of dirty, oily skin like so many disemboweled cattle, and a last inhale of the perfume of salted cod and rotten cabbage, I shall leap skyward, clutch my knees to my chest, and CANNONBALL!!! down into the heretofore unexplored blackness of your cunt. And as I do so, I shall be calling your name...MissJo!...MissJo! in hopes that I can hear you respond with a single sigh of pleasure before I draw my last whisper of air and expire in the lonely, perfect vacuum of your infinite cunt.
By the way, if I run into any other dudes down there, admittedly a likely possibility, I'll give 'em the keys so they can drive out of that pus barn.
missjo wrote:
Moorese . . .He scares me
And for this I am truly regretful. Dearest MissJo, we've yet to have the opportunity to consummate our relationship, as sparing and fleeting as even that has been. And this pains me. It pains me, MissJo. I was so eagerly anticipating a pairing between you and I so that I could tell you how I genuinely feel about you.
I love you, MissJo! You and only you. Each and every square hectacre of you.
Yes, my beautiful one, love may be a pregnant word too frequently offered by randy lads who know little of love's propensity to consume one's soul like leprosy ravages our bodies (s'up, my penis?), but in our unique situation, I tell you true that "love" is the only word that does justice to the depth and potency of my feelings for you.
Were you to address me in an unkind fashion, could I respond similarly? Nay, my love. You could pummel me with verbal stones, and even then the ache in my heart would compel my admission that I have repeatedly relieved my swollen loins to the picture of your prodigious bulk and planet-obscuring mammaries as barely contained in your Mardi Gras carnival tent outfit. I would admit that as you made your tour of my land, sucking the cocks of strange men in exchange for a crust of bread and a place to rest your sweet, fucking gigantic head, I gnashed my teeth in utter agony knowing that you would not be arriving at my door some evening, promising the fruits of your ample bosom in exchange for 9 or 10 Extra Value meals and a few flagons of ale. Please know, angel, that I would have suffered any price for your trip to my threshold. I would have hollowed out our love star, Venus, and rendered the goddess but a heavenly bucket filled to the rim with greasy bits of chicken flesh we could feed to each other...well, actually I suppose you'd eat all the goddamn chicken, being a huge, fat whore and all, but even so, just the opportunity to watch you lay waste to a few thousand pounds of fried chicken would surpass witnessing the adornment of the Sistine Chapel. Know too, that as you visited Fall River Jim, and shared with him the secrets of your massive ass and cunt, I grew spiteful and envious, vowing to hunt him down in the "woods" to which he retreated to put a savage end to his life for the injury he has done to me by tasting first your delicious love.
I know you, MissJo, I know you, and yet pity you, for I am resplendent with the understanding that you, yourself, have never known the complete fulfillment of true, unabashed love. Such is the curse of fat girl beauty. I know that no man has touched the glorious bottom of your giant pussy, or for that matter even neared the glistening walls that adorn the sides of your holy cunt temple. Like a hot dog down a hallway, a man may indeed pass through the wonder of the Pacific in a rowboat, but he has not seen her majesty in its entirety. A cripple may drive his motorized wheel chair off an observation platform and into the Grand Canyon without ever truly appreciating the scope and grandeur of a thousand mile geological feature whose marvelousness still pales in comparison with the splendor of your continent-spanning cunt.
I know that you endure your frustration in silence, and even play at gaiety when the topic of carnal pleasure is breached. What a fair and noble sport you are to say
missjo wrote:
Silver Bullets rule!!!!
when it is abundantly clear to all your myriad admirers that not even a
would suffice to bring you the erotic joy you so richly deserve. And yet, would that I were that torpedo, that I might try to bring you to the heights of sexual ecstacy.
Oh MissJo, I realize that my rather impressive nine inches of manhood (all right, 8 3/4 inches, and yeah, I've measured it) would be to you but a gnat upon the haunch of that king of beasts, the elephant, but I am so taken by your gargantuan ass and sunlight-absorbing pussy that I implore you to consider my humble request for a moment of your passion. In return for your generous consideration, I respectfully promise to do all in my power to bring to your fat fucking face and stupid clown lips a blissful smile. I will tenderly remove your tarpaulin, and crane your ass down into a fully drained olympic-sized diving pool such that your yogurt-covered love mound is completely exposed towards the sky. Then, my love, I shall annoint my entire body with the aromatic essence of bacon grease, and ascend to the pinnacle of the 10 meter platform as it rises above your sweltering cunt cavern. And once there, I shall proclaim to all and in no uncertain terms my undying affection for the corpulent globes that make up the east and west of your ass, as well as the putrid tip to taint that comprises the north and south of your odorific cheesemaker. And with a final, long look into this seething mass of cottage cheese curds, pubic hairs as long as firehoses, and flaps of dirty, oily skin like so many disemboweled cattle, and a last inhale of the perfume of salted cod and rotten cabbage, I shall leap skyward, clutch my knees to my chest, and CANNONBALL!!! down into the heretofore unexplored blackness of your cunt. And as I do so, I shall be calling your name...MissJo!...MissJo! in hopes that I can hear you respond with a single sigh of pleasure before I draw my last whisper of air and expire in the lonely, perfect vacuum of your infinite cunt.
By the way, if I run into any other dudes down there, admittedly a likely possibility, I'll give 'em the keys so they can drive out of that pus barn.
When life hands you a park steak, you'd better motherfucking ISSUE it.
- - -
Liberate Cascadia!
- - -
Liberate Cascadia!
-
Moorese
- Lancing the lovelies
- Posts: 532
- Joined: Sat Jan 15, 2005 4:59 am
- Location: The People's Republic of Seattle
Morning Vic (An Ode To Trevalicious)
But fear not, trev, my big bottomed beauty, we can put all this behind us. Girl, let us freak. I will pick you up tonight in my Cutlass Supreme with the cankle feelers and disintegrating vinyl top. You'll be looking extra fucking luscious in your ketchup-stained stirrup pants with the outline of your sweaty, swollen cunt lips flapping about like jello on a pie plate. I'll drive your fatass down to the KFC for a gallon or so of popcorn chicken nuggets. When the zit-riddled retard hands me that bucket of chicken, I'll cuff his deformed wrist to the side mirror, gun the fucking engine, and hit the pavement just to make you smile, baby. I'll crank up some Nazareth to drown out the fucker's howls as his knees and thighs are getting peeled away by the asphalt. We'll pull over after a few blocks, bust off the mirror to dislodge the greasy puke, and rob the corpse to assist in the payment of our by-the-hour palace of squalor. Don't worry, I'll swipe his uniform shirt so we can role play when we hit the stabbin' cabin. You want that supersized, you fucking whore?
On the way to the room, we'll stop by the store for a fifth of grain and some fixins for the meal I'm about to make in your ass. Bring your wallet, bitch. I'll push your dimpled shit factory into the room, and tell you to take off your fucking clothes while I make us a drink. I'll drain the toilet, dump in some booze and gatorade powder, piss in it for good measure, and mix it up with the toilet brush. Once you're naked, and punishing the cheap mattress with your bulk, I'll tell you what a repulsive pig you are, and how the sight of your pale folds of dank blubber make me want to cut off your fucking head when you go to sleep.
We'll get our drink on, girl - my piss tastes like fucking champagne - and as soon as the grain alcohol starts loosening your spacious ass and pussy, I'll tie your hands together and tape your gaping fucking maw shut. I'll fill a turkey baster with honey mustard and douche your filthy ass and cunt, then I'll prop you up on all fours, while I draw a bullseye on the wall across from the bed with your lipstick. Game time, whore. I'll put on the fast-food uni, and slip a finger or two near your juiced-up ass and gash to make sure the mixture of mustard, cunt juice, shit, and blood is free-flowing for our carnival party. By the way, DO NOT make any fucking noise. It's fucking distracting. Why the FUCK do you think I gagged you anyway?
Into your ass goes a chicken nugget. NUGGETS! NUGGETS ON! I'm gonna let this bitch marinate up in your stinkhole mostly so the breading sops up some of the soup I'm cooking. Then, watch for your cue. When I punch you in the back of your head, I want you to clench your ass and fire the nugget out like a missile towards the bullseye. NUGGETS!!! NUGGETS UP!!! Don't fucking turn your head to look and see if you hit it. You'll fuck up the trajectory. I'll fucking tell you. Besides, the mark left by the ass stew should make it easy for us to tell where the nugget hits on the wall. I'll let you eat every bullseye, you famished shitbag. I guess I had contemplated fucking you at some point, but I expect that I'll be fairly disgusted by the time we make our way through the bucket of chicken, so I'll probably just split and get a beer with the fellas.
Anyhoo. If you feel like doing something, give me a call. If this doesn't sound good, maybe we could just catch a movie?
But fear not, trev, my big bottomed beauty, we can put all this behind us. Girl, let us freak. I will pick you up tonight in my Cutlass Supreme with the cankle feelers and disintegrating vinyl top. You'll be looking extra fucking luscious in your ketchup-stained stirrup pants with the outline of your sweaty, swollen cunt lips flapping about like jello on a pie plate. I'll drive your fatass down to the KFC for a gallon or so of popcorn chicken nuggets. When the zit-riddled retard hands me that bucket of chicken, I'll cuff his deformed wrist to the side mirror, gun the fucking engine, and hit the pavement just to make you smile, baby. I'll crank up some Nazareth to drown out the fucker's howls as his knees and thighs are getting peeled away by the asphalt. We'll pull over after a few blocks, bust off the mirror to dislodge the greasy puke, and rob the corpse to assist in the payment of our by-the-hour palace of squalor. Don't worry, I'll swipe his uniform shirt so we can role play when we hit the stabbin' cabin. You want that supersized, you fucking whore?
On the way to the room, we'll stop by the store for a fifth of grain and some fixins for the meal I'm about to make in your ass. Bring your wallet, bitch. I'll push your dimpled shit factory into the room, and tell you to take off your fucking clothes while I make us a drink. I'll drain the toilet, dump in some booze and gatorade powder, piss in it for good measure, and mix it up with the toilet brush. Once you're naked, and punishing the cheap mattress with your bulk, I'll tell you what a repulsive pig you are, and how the sight of your pale folds of dank blubber make me want to cut off your fucking head when you go to sleep.
We'll get our drink on, girl - my piss tastes like fucking champagne - and as soon as the grain alcohol starts loosening your spacious ass and pussy, I'll tie your hands together and tape your gaping fucking maw shut. I'll fill a turkey baster with honey mustard and douche your filthy ass and cunt, then I'll prop you up on all fours, while I draw a bullseye on the wall across from the bed with your lipstick. Game time, whore. I'll put on the fast-food uni, and slip a finger or two near your juiced-up ass and gash to make sure the mixture of mustard, cunt juice, shit, and blood is free-flowing for our carnival party. By the way, DO NOT make any fucking noise. It's fucking distracting. Why the FUCK do you think I gagged you anyway?
Into your ass goes a chicken nugget. NUGGETS! NUGGETS ON! I'm gonna let this bitch marinate up in your stinkhole mostly so the breading sops up some of the soup I'm cooking. Then, watch for your cue. When I punch you in the back of your head, I want you to clench your ass and fire the nugget out like a missile towards the bullseye. NUGGETS!!! NUGGETS UP!!! Don't fucking turn your head to look and see if you hit it. You'll fuck up the trajectory. I'll fucking tell you. Besides, the mark left by the ass stew should make it easy for us to tell where the nugget hits on the wall. I'll let you eat every bullseye, you famished shitbag. I guess I had contemplated fucking you at some point, but I expect that I'll be fairly disgusted by the time we make our way through the bucket of chicken, so I'll probably just split and get a beer with the fellas.
Anyhoo. If you feel like doing something, give me a call. If this doesn't sound good, maybe we could just catch a movie?
When life hands you a park steak, you'd better motherfucking ISSUE it.
- - -
Liberate Cascadia!
- - -
Liberate Cascadia!
Rack the above. Too bad the original thread is AWOL. Some of the context is gone but I love that post. I sent it to a woman I was seeing at the time but she didn't find it as funny as I did.
Ah, the brilliance of Mo.
punishing the cheap mattress with your bulk, I'll tell you what a repulsive pig you are, and how the sight of your pale folds of dank blubber make me want to cut off your fucking head when you go to sleep.
Ah, the brilliance of Mo.
-
Moorese
- Lancing the lovelies
- Posts: 532
- Joined: Sat Jan 15, 2005 4:59 am
- Location: The People's Republic of Seattle
Respect
Where scratching=fondling or where scratching=autofellatio, then I believe you wholeheartedly, dear Bace. But should anyone claim that scratching=scratching; and thus, that they scratch their balls, well then, with them I must disagree.
No one scratches their balls. It's called the "pinch and roll." The pinch and roll is NOT scratching. It is pinching, and then rolling.
Permit me a brief illustration.
Drop your pants at your desk, and unload your cock holster. Have you done so? I have. Now, sit back onto your office chair, and hoist your legs into the air so you have as good of a view of the entirety of your genitalia as possible. Have you done so? I have.
Now, scratch, if you can, back and forth in linear fashion across your scrotum, utilizing the standard exposed fingernail configuration. Are you attempting to do so? I am. Do you see the undeniable difficulty? I do.
The spherical and pliant nature of your scrotum resists any attempt at scratching. Your scratching motions must either become curved in an attempt to trace the curvature of the scrotum, or you must artificially stretch the scrotum with one hand, while scratching with the other.
Now, instead, pick a particularly troublesome spot on your scrotum. Let me suggest the former location of a wart or other abnormality. Have you done so? I have. Now, gently but firmly pinch this spot between your thumb and forefinger. Are you doing so? Boy, I am. Now, roll the pinched skin between your thumb and forefinger. As you can see (and feel), a kind roll addresses the mildest of itches, while a vigorous roll makes even the most serious itch manageable. And notice that your scrotum cannot get away. It is completely within your control. Of course, in cases of multiple itches, simply select the next spot on your scrotum which requires attention, and engage in another pinch and roll.
I hope this helps. I would suggest talcum powder, wheat gluten, or sawdust for the moisture problem you describe.
Adding Thera-Gesic penetrating pain relief creme to your pinch and roll regimen will dramatically increase your relief from the discomfort caused by persistent itching. It also makes a delightful lubricant (along with other similar commercial products such as Icy Hot and Vic's Vapor Rub) for use during personal masturbatory sessions or consensual intercourse.
In addition, Thera-Gesic contains Methyl salicylate and Menthol, both of which act as natural antibacterial agents, and you and I both know what an added bonus that can be.
Bacefelice wrote:
I'd raise my hand, but I can't stop scratching.
scratching = fondling
Where scratching=fondling or where scratching=autofellatio, then I believe you wholeheartedly, dear Bace. But should anyone claim that scratching=scratching; and thus, that they scratch their balls, well then, with them I must disagree.
No one scratches their balls. It's called the "pinch and roll." The pinch and roll is NOT scratching. It is pinching, and then rolling.
In such cases of severe discomfort, the "roll" portion of the pinch and roll tends to be considerably more aggressive, thereby generating increased friction to address the itching sensation. Consider it a vigorous rub between the thumb and forefinger, if you will. Nevertheless, it does not evolve into a "scratch" where the fingernails are dragged vigorously in a back and forth motion across a surface that is relatively flat and taut. While the shaft of the penis may be scratched, the morphology of the scrotum and the delicate nature of the contents inside (apologies, e) simply do not permit traditional scratching to occur.Bacefelice wrote:
Zeers. There's the kind of itch that requires full fingernail contact, the kind that requires just a little scrot adjustment and the centralized kind that would require a pinch to resolve any itching. Don't get me wrong, I see where the pinch and roll would be useful (ingrown recently shaved hair), but the scrot is a very dynamic area. If your scrot was itchy due to increased moisture combined with three days of stubble, would the pinch and roll be sufficient? I think not.
Permit me a brief illustration.
Drop your pants at your desk, and unload your cock holster. Have you done so? I have. Now, sit back onto your office chair, and hoist your legs into the air so you have as good of a view of the entirety of your genitalia as possible. Have you done so? I have.
Now, scratch, if you can, back and forth in linear fashion across your scrotum, utilizing the standard exposed fingernail configuration. Are you attempting to do so? I am. Do you see the undeniable difficulty? I do.
The spherical and pliant nature of your scrotum resists any attempt at scratching. Your scratching motions must either become curved in an attempt to trace the curvature of the scrotum, or you must artificially stretch the scrotum with one hand, while scratching with the other.
Now, instead, pick a particularly troublesome spot on your scrotum. Let me suggest the former location of a wart or other abnormality. Have you done so? I have. Now, gently but firmly pinch this spot between your thumb and forefinger. Are you doing so? Boy, I am. Now, roll the pinched skin between your thumb and forefinger. As you can see (and feel), a kind roll addresses the mildest of itches, while a vigorous roll makes even the most serious itch manageable. And notice that your scrotum cannot get away. It is completely within your control. Of course, in cases of multiple itches, simply select the next spot on your scrotum which requires attention, and engage in another pinch and roll.
I hope this helps. I would suggest talcum powder, wheat gluten, or sawdust for the moisture problem you describe.
DMike316 wrote:
Thanks but I'll stick with Theralgesic.
Adding Thera-Gesic penetrating pain relief creme to your pinch and roll regimen will dramatically increase your relief from the discomfort caused by persistent itching. It also makes a delightful lubricant (along with other similar commercial products such as Icy Hot and Vic's Vapor Rub) for use during personal masturbatory sessions or consensual intercourse.
In addition, Thera-Gesic contains Methyl salicylate and Menthol, both of which act as natural antibacterial agents, and you and I both know what an added bonus that can be.
When life hands you a park steak, you'd better motherfucking ISSUE it.
- - -
Liberate Cascadia!
- - -
Liberate Cascadia!
-
Moorese
- Lancing the lovelies
- Posts: 532
- Joined: Sat Jan 15, 2005 4:59 am
- Location: The People's Republic of Seattle
Pictures from my vacation
After a few crappy winter wonderland style trips to shithole ski resorts with hillbilly shops full of lamps made of antlers and shit, I felt a true tropical destination was in order. Hawaii? I seem to end up in Hawaii at least once a year by default. Even paradise gets old. Mexico? Nah...too many goddamn fucking Mexicans. Besides, Mexico is a depressing, insufferable third world wasteland. (No, you dumb fucking chile picker, I don't need another threadbare fucking blanket that smells like hay.) Did you know that Mexican Christmas decorations include flaming bags of dirt out in the front yard? Peachy.
So, I thought, "how about the Carribean?" Why sure, what a good idea.
I settled on the Bahamas. It was pretty sunny and warm and there were still a lot of people that sure looked like Mexicans, but they were very quick to get this dude some fly drink with an umbrella in it. The food was certainly yummy. Here's a pic of me eating my first conch fritter. They are fried and delicious, and boy, they really taste like the ocean.
Here's pic of me at a great snorkelling beach. Check out the cool starfish. There was all sorts of marine life up in the hizzy.
Here's one of me blowing into a conch shell. They sound like miniature foghorns. Buh-whaaaaaaaaaaaaaa! Buh-whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!
Here's a picture of me riding a native island donkey down a steep, wooded trail to a secluded inland lagoon.
Here's a pic of me fucking that dude from the Cosby Show.
And here, I'm enjoying the delightful tropical breezes and getting a little sun poolside, while the attentive hotel staff caters to my every need. Oopsie! Looks like someone forgot to reapply the old sunscreen.
And finally, here's a picture of me at the beach in the early morning digging for clams.
Turns out they don't have any clams in the Bahamas. Who knew? Anyway, people say I look like that dude from the West Wing in the picture. What do you think?
Maybe? Yeah, I know, I think I look more like
After a few crappy winter wonderland style trips to shithole ski resorts with hillbilly shops full of lamps made of antlers and shit, I felt a true tropical destination was in order. Hawaii? I seem to end up in Hawaii at least once a year by default. Even paradise gets old. Mexico? Nah...too many goddamn fucking Mexicans. Besides, Mexico is a depressing, insufferable third world wasteland. (No, you dumb fucking chile picker, I don't need another threadbare fucking blanket that smells like hay.) Did you know that Mexican Christmas decorations include flaming bags of dirt out in the front yard? Peachy.
So, I thought, "how about the Carribean?" Why sure, what a good idea.
I settled on the Bahamas. It was pretty sunny and warm and there were still a lot of people that sure looked like Mexicans, but they were very quick to get this dude some fly drink with an umbrella in it. The food was certainly yummy. Here's a pic of me eating my first conch fritter. They are fried and delicious, and boy, they really taste like the ocean.
Here's pic of me at a great snorkelling beach. Check out the cool starfish. There was all sorts of marine life up in the hizzy.
Here's one of me blowing into a conch shell. They sound like miniature foghorns. Buh-whaaaaaaaaaaaaaa! Buh-whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!
Here's a picture of me riding a native island donkey down a steep, wooded trail to a secluded inland lagoon.
Here's a pic of me fucking that dude from the Cosby Show.
And here, I'm enjoying the delightful tropical breezes and getting a little sun poolside, while the attentive hotel staff caters to my every need. Oopsie! Looks like someone forgot to reapply the old sunscreen.
And finally, here's a picture of me at the beach in the early morning digging for clams.
Turns out they don't have any clams in the Bahamas. Who knew? Anyway, people say I look like that dude from the West Wing in the picture. What do you think?
Maybe? Yeah, I know, I think I look more like
When life hands you a park steak, you'd better motherfucking ISSUE it.
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Liberate Cascadia!
- - -
Liberate Cascadia!
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The Whistle Is Screaming
- Left-handed monkey wrench
- Posts: 2819
- Joined: Fri Jan 14, 2005 2:24 pm
- Location: Eat Me Luther, Eat Me!
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Moorese
- Lancing the lovelies
- Posts: 532
- Joined: Sat Jan 15, 2005 4:59 am
- Location: The People's Republic of Seattle
Women in those videos where chicks do horses
Women that routinely copulate with horses have shorter lifespans than women who reproduce entirely within their own species. The depth of an average women's vaginal canal is 7.5-9 centimeters. However, the average equine penis is over 66 cm long. Thus, on average, when a women gets fucked by a horse, there is an additional 57-58.5 centimeters of cock making a semen slushie out of her internal viscera. It is true that there is considerable variability in vaginal elasticity, and that some women have truly prodigious vaginal canals unrepresented by statistical means. Regardless, even the most stoic and conditioned woman with exceptional sphincter control will eventually involuntarily shit out the organ smoothie that results from repeated horse fucking. The resulting absence of key organs such as the kidneys or the spleen impairs the body's ability to filter waste products, and leads directly to an abbreviated lifespan. However, available data suggests that most of the women who fuck horses don't really care.
The depth of an average horse's vaginal canal is 60.5-64.5 centimeters...if that helps.
Women that routinely copulate with horses have shorter lifespans than women who reproduce entirely within their own species. The depth of an average women's vaginal canal is 7.5-9 centimeters. However, the average equine penis is over 66 cm long. Thus, on average, when a women gets fucked by a horse, there is an additional 57-58.5 centimeters of cock making a semen slushie out of her internal viscera. It is true that there is considerable variability in vaginal elasticity, and that some women have truly prodigious vaginal canals unrepresented by statistical means. Regardless, even the most stoic and conditioned woman with exceptional sphincter control will eventually involuntarily shit out the organ smoothie that results from repeated horse fucking. The resulting absence of key organs such as the kidneys or the spleen impairs the body's ability to filter waste products, and leads directly to an abbreviated lifespan. However, available data suggests that most of the women who fuck horses don't really care.
Smackie Chan wrote:
No wonder I'm always knockin' bottom.
The depth of an average horse's vaginal canal is 60.5-64.5 centimeters...if that helps.
Then Moorese wrote:
I was at a party last night and discovered that some information that I had previously dispensed to those who frequent this board is incorrect. The depth of an average horse's vaginal canal is 59.5-63.5 centimeters. I apologize to Smackie and any others who may have relied on my representation to their detriment.
But thankfully Salad Tosser wrote:
No sweat, dude. Everyone else here already knew that the actual depth of an average horse's vaginal canal is 59.5-63.5 centimeters. It's just that nobody wanted to embarrass you by calling you out on it, that's all.
When life hands you a park steak, you'd better motherfucking ISSUE it.
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Liberate Cascadia!
- - -
Liberate Cascadia!
Oh dear lord.............Judging by the look on this retard's face, he is about thirty seconds from a synaptic short circuit in which he will grab the bitch's pencil, shishkabob her eyeball, yank an arm clean out of its socket, and proceed to beat the fuck out of this lady with her own arm until a crew of four to five handlers subdue the retard long enough to tranquilize him.
Mo Rules.
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Raydah James
- Eternal Scobode
- Posts: 3820
- Joined: Sun Jan 16, 2005 1:52 am
I'll rack it-Mo's creative writing skills are second to none and had me laughing..
That being said, Mo is quite honestly the biggest board attention whore ive ever witnessed.
Starting a greatest hits thread about yourself?
Nobody that posts on these BB's is interesting enough to do that. Nobody.
Get out a little Mo.......
That being said, Mo is quite honestly the biggest board attention whore ive ever witnessed.
Starting a greatest hits thread about yourself?
Nobody that posts on these BB's is interesting enough to do that. Nobody.
Get out a little Mo.......
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Moorese
- Lancing the lovelies
- Posts: 532
- Joined: Sat Jan 15, 2005 4:59 am
- Location: The People's Republic of Seattle
fairly lame stripper reset, but apropos nonetheless
First. Bowling Green, KY...circa 1989...a strip club called "Uncle Sams." The strippers were kinda fat, loose, and sweaty. One of 'em was even pregnant and showing. (Her man had apparently neglected to blast her in the gut so she could get back to pulling down the scratch.) We were busting on preggie a little because the idea of fucking some kid's eye socket is pretty gross...still...her tits were huge. She was whoring around us for a few bills, but none of us were about to waste any on her stretched-out flab. Thus, she was getting kinda pissed at our table. Anyway, I was getting pretty drunk, but had another couple minis of Beam in my buddy's car. So I went outside to get 'em, and while rooting around on the floorboard, I found a roll of duct tape. I'm kind of a jackass, and I got a jackass idea, so I grabbed the duct tape, put it in my coat, and went back inside. The talent cycle revolves around again, and before you know it, the sow is back up on the stage jiggling around and bouncing her unborn's head on her thong. She gets a bill from some old blind fuck, then hits the floor to spread 'em for our table and beg some cash. Fucking nasty...I could tell she was having a girl. None of us budged (thankfully, no one puked). She gets up in a huff and moves to the other side of the stage. Plan in action. I ripped off a piece of duct tape, pushed a quarter on it, cupped it in my hand, and headed to the stage with one hand behind my back. She sees me, smiles, and dances over. She's getting ready to pull her thong out so I can slide what she thinks is a dollar bill in between the sweaty polyester and her hamhock. Instead, I motion for and ask her to turn around. She smiles and obliges, bending over a little and shimmying her big ol' ass in my face. I wound up like Nolan Ryan and smacked that duct taped quarter right on her fat ass cheek. She yelped, shoved me, and peeled the tape (which peeled some reddish hair) off her ass. A couple of good old boys took me outside and beat the shit out of me, but not too bad. I coulda sworn I heard Three Dog Night on the way to the parking lot. This was before Rob Zombie took over the sound system of every strip club in the country.
Second. Las Vegas, NV...circa 1999...a strip club called "The Crazy Horse II." The strippers are hot Vegas hardbodies with perfectly round tits and sweet, seemingly steaming pussies like warm cornbread right from the oven. Drinks are pretty pricey, but the talent is so nice that I don't care. I've got my eye on this scorchingly hot blonde skank - the kind with a body that looks so tight and fuckable that you just ache to treat her like shit. I watch her dance, and decide that a table dance is worth it. She heads off the stage, and is followed by a fairly hot Middle Eastern-looking-chick. They start making the rounds, and I see they are heading my way, but the fucking blonde cuts left instead of right around a chair, and ends up on the other side of my table, where one of my buddies instantly gulps "yes" and forks over some cash when asked if he wants a dance. I stare over at him, my wood already subsiding, thinking I'm fucking next on that shit... Suddenly, a hand turns my chin to look up. It's the Middle-Eastern chick asking if I want a dance. Since I'm sporting a semi with a twenty in my hand, it's pretty hard to say no...besides she's got a nice body. She starts talking while waiting for the next song to start up, and she's got this annoying fucking accent. Turns out she's Iranian and from Texas. What the fuck ever...fine by me because she's kinda gropey. She's patting my thigh and brushing against my HUGE WANG. I'm fine. Song starts...some White Zombie remix. She gets up and starts into the routine...massaging the knobs...squeezing 'em together...off comes the top, etc. Now, we're getting to the part where she's showing off her nice ass, and putting a foot on my chair so she can angle her cunny a little closer to my face. Very cool...but wait...then I notice it...the unmistakable stench of rotting crab meat. HOLY SHIT. Where is that fucking smell coming from? Is that from...her...pussy? She dances away, and the putrid air fades a little. She turns her ass to me, and bends over to smile at me from between her ankles (a fucking stupid stripper move, by the way...). Naturally, I ignore her face and stare right at her gash, which I cannot help but notice looks like a handful of earthworms are trying to get out of her thong. FUCK. This lady's junk is nasty. She spins around and comes in for another cunt swoop...and her comes the smell. Dude. I can't take it...my eyes are starting to water. But she keeps getting closer. Her cunt cheese is now only a few inches from my face so I start leaning backwards AWAY from it. I'm about to pass out. She leans further in and I think I see some kind of mealyworm. I lean back even further, and my chair is about to go over. She notices, stands back a foot, puts her hands on her hips, and says in a Texan drawl, "Go on honey, it won't bite you..." And like a dumbfuck, I reply,"No, but the smell is about to kill me..." She slaps my face, dumps my drink on my head, and heads straight over to the bouncers. They come get me, escort me outside, and slap me around a little, but not too bad. I took a cab back to Bally's and kept drinking.
I guess the morals of these stories from my point of view are as follows:
1 - Don't slap duct tape on a stripper's ass, not even a fat one.
2 - Don't tell a stripper that her pussy smells like rotten crab or looks like worms.
First. Bowling Green, KY...circa 1989...a strip club called "Uncle Sams." The strippers were kinda fat, loose, and sweaty. One of 'em was even pregnant and showing. (Her man had apparently neglected to blast her in the gut so she could get back to pulling down the scratch.) We were busting on preggie a little because the idea of fucking some kid's eye socket is pretty gross...still...her tits were huge. She was whoring around us for a few bills, but none of us were about to waste any on her stretched-out flab. Thus, she was getting kinda pissed at our table. Anyway, I was getting pretty drunk, but had another couple minis of Beam in my buddy's car. So I went outside to get 'em, and while rooting around on the floorboard, I found a roll of duct tape. I'm kind of a jackass, and I got a jackass idea, so I grabbed the duct tape, put it in my coat, and went back inside. The talent cycle revolves around again, and before you know it, the sow is back up on the stage jiggling around and bouncing her unborn's head on her thong. She gets a bill from some old blind fuck, then hits the floor to spread 'em for our table and beg some cash. Fucking nasty...I could tell she was having a girl. None of us budged (thankfully, no one puked). She gets up in a huff and moves to the other side of the stage. Plan in action. I ripped off a piece of duct tape, pushed a quarter on it, cupped it in my hand, and headed to the stage with one hand behind my back. She sees me, smiles, and dances over. She's getting ready to pull her thong out so I can slide what she thinks is a dollar bill in between the sweaty polyester and her hamhock. Instead, I motion for and ask her to turn around. She smiles and obliges, bending over a little and shimmying her big ol' ass in my face. I wound up like Nolan Ryan and smacked that duct taped quarter right on her fat ass cheek. She yelped, shoved me, and peeled the tape (which peeled some reddish hair) off her ass. A couple of good old boys took me outside and beat the shit out of me, but not too bad. I coulda sworn I heard Three Dog Night on the way to the parking lot. This was before Rob Zombie took over the sound system of every strip club in the country.
Second. Las Vegas, NV...circa 1999...a strip club called "The Crazy Horse II." The strippers are hot Vegas hardbodies with perfectly round tits and sweet, seemingly steaming pussies like warm cornbread right from the oven. Drinks are pretty pricey, but the talent is so nice that I don't care. I've got my eye on this scorchingly hot blonde skank - the kind with a body that looks so tight and fuckable that you just ache to treat her like shit. I watch her dance, and decide that a table dance is worth it. She heads off the stage, and is followed by a fairly hot Middle Eastern-looking-chick. They start making the rounds, and I see they are heading my way, but the fucking blonde cuts left instead of right around a chair, and ends up on the other side of my table, where one of my buddies instantly gulps "yes" and forks over some cash when asked if he wants a dance. I stare over at him, my wood already subsiding, thinking I'm fucking next on that shit... Suddenly, a hand turns my chin to look up. It's the Middle-Eastern chick asking if I want a dance. Since I'm sporting a semi with a twenty in my hand, it's pretty hard to say no...besides she's got a nice body. She starts talking while waiting for the next song to start up, and she's got this annoying fucking accent. Turns out she's Iranian and from Texas. What the fuck ever...fine by me because she's kinda gropey. She's patting my thigh and brushing against my HUGE WANG. I'm fine. Song starts...some White Zombie remix. She gets up and starts into the routine...massaging the knobs...squeezing 'em together...off comes the top, etc. Now, we're getting to the part where she's showing off her nice ass, and putting a foot on my chair so she can angle her cunny a little closer to my face. Very cool...but wait...then I notice it...the unmistakable stench of rotting crab meat. HOLY SHIT. Where is that fucking smell coming from? Is that from...her...pussy? She dances away, and the putrid air fades a little. She turns her ass to me, and bends over to smile at me from between her ankles (a fucking stupid stripper move, by the way...). Naturally, I ignore her face and stare right at her gash, which I cannot help but notice looks like a handful of earthworms are trying to get out of her thong. FUCK. This lady's junk is nasty. She spins around and comes in for another cunt swoop...and her comes the smell. Dude. I can't take it...my eyes are starting to water. But she keeps getting closer. Her cunt cheese is now only a few inches from my face so I start leaning backwards AWAY from it. I'm about to pass out. She leans further in and I think I see some kind of mealyworm. I lean back even further, and my chair is about to go over. She notices, stands back a foot, puts her hands on her hips, and says in a Texan drawl, "Go on honey, it won't bite you..." And like a dumbfuck, I reply,"No, but the smell is about to kill me..." She slaps my face, dumps my drink on my head, and heads straight over to the bouncers. They come get me, escort me outside, and slap me around a little, but not too bad. I took a cab back to Bally's and kept drinking.
I guess the morals of these stories from my point of view are as follows:
1 - Don't slap duct tape on a stripper's ass, not even a fat one.
2 - Don't tell a stripper that her pussy smells like rotten crab or looks like worms.
When life hands you a park steak, you'd better motherfucking ISSUE it.
- - -
Liberate Cascadia!
- - -
Liberate Cascadia!
-
Moorese
- Lancing the lovelies
- Posts: 532
- Joined: Sat Jan 15, 2005 4:59 am
- Location: The People's Republic of Seattle
The War and Peace of Chicken Stories
(This baby’s all about the visuals, and you need to work at it. Be forewarned, there is no punchline, but this true story is STILL one of the funniest things I have ever witnessed.)
The year was 1990 or thereaboutsuch. I was the assistant manager of a bar and restaurant in Nashvegas (THE party capital of Middle Tennessee), working the closing shift. Since the joint was fairly close to Vanderbilt University, we tended to have a few Vandy pukes on the payroll. One of them happened to be a dipshit acquaintance of mine named Russ who bartended. Time came when we needed another nighttime bartender, and Russ suggested we hire his roommate, Chris. Why the fuck not, I said, and so it was done. For some unknown reason, I started calling him “Buckaroo” or “The Buckaroo,” and it stuck.
But Buckaroo was hardly the model college bartender type. First, he was fairly fucking fat, around 26 with a shit blonde Barney Rubble bowl cut and a perpetual scruff, and almost always drunk in a swollen-nose, Walter Matthau sort of way. He was also pretty fucking stupid (hence the 26 yr. old sophomore bit). He’d start a shift sober, but gradually liquor himself up by sneaking some Beam into his Big Gulp full of coke. I knew, of course, but he mopped a mean floor and sopped up stomach ejections out of the urinal like nobody’s business, so I let it slide, but made sure he was always the chosen one for sponging the colon spackle off the bathroom tile.
One other background point needs treatment. Buckaroo actually had a girlfriend - a disgusting bag of skin and shit named Melissa. MOTHERFUCK, was this bitch ugly. It wasn’t so much the weight, although she tipped the scales at a good 210-220 lbs. standing a mere 5 foot 4. It was the whole repulsive package. She was freakishly pale, almost newborn pink, with stringy blonde hair that came out in clumps, leaving patches of scalp showing. She also had a scorching excema problem, and was constantly picking scabbies off her arms and popping ‘em into her mouth when she thought no one was staring at her fat, filthy self. But fuck, who could look away? It was like uncontrollably staring at a circus midget or an amputee boxer. But the worst of it was the acne... It’s not that she was covered so much as it was that every single pimple (spread out as they were across her face, neck ... and yeah, arms, legs, and shoulders) was filled to the brim with a shot glass full of milky white pus. At least a few would spontaneously pop and ooze during the span of a short conversation. All in all, one nasty whore.
One night at work, both Russ and the Buckaroo are on the clock, but it’s slowing down and Buckaroo’s already slurring, so I tell him to clock out. He changes shirts, has a few more at the bar, and gets stoooooopid fucking drunk in a hurry. (Buckaroo was in a state of perpetual marination and always a drink or two away from a full-on bender.) Buck decides to amble off and walk home about an hour before we close. Russ and I close up with a few beers, and even though Russ is kind of a shit, Russ, I, and a nighttime cook, Johnny, agree to head to Russ’s (and Buckaroo’s) apartment to slam some beer and listen to tunes. Johnny and I follow Russ to his apartment complex and his building is kinda in the back. We park next to Russ, and walk around to the back of the building. Russ mentions that he and Buckaroo usually just leave the sliding glass patio door open anyway so Johnny and I follow Russ up to the patio door.
The vertical blinds are pulled open and the lights are on so we can see through the patio door across the living room to a bar that separates the living room from the kitchen. Just as Russ is getting ready to yank the door open, out comes Buckaroo from a hallway to the right of the living room BUCK FUCKING NAKED and obviously hammered. The three of us just kind of stand there for a second in shock trying to figure out just what the fuck Buckaroo is doing. He’s got a stiffy, but its only about 3 inches long and looks like a purple can of tuna, surrounded by a rather prodigious shit blonde man-thatch that had also established quite a foothold on his back and ass. So Buckaroo marches around the bar thingie and into the kitchen, where he opens the fridge and presumably begins a hunt for some late-nite niblets. He emerges with a metal lasagna pan, contents unknown, and stumbles back down the hallway.
Stifling some chuckles, we quietly discuss the best way to witness whatever perversions Buckaroo is playing to in his room. Johnny checks the window, but the blinds are barely open - all he can see is the door to the room, but it’s open. That’s it, we have to go in. Russ tells us that Buckaroo’s bed faces the doorway so we’ll have to be careful. We creep back through the patio door and down the hallway. As we get closer, we can hear a high-pitched constant squeal...kinda “meeeeeeeew, meeeeeeeeew, meeeeeeeeew, meeeeeeeeeew,” and a grunting, snuffling noise. As we reach the door, the squealing and snuffling stops, and we can hear Buckaroo and that fat cunt Melissa in a slurred discussion. “Gimme some.” “You want some?” “Hmmmm, this is so fucking good.”
And so we each stealthily peer around the door jam, and there it is, the single most disgusting event I have ever witnessed. Buckaroo’s standing up with his hairy ass to us, and fat fucking Melissa is propped up doggy-style on the bed, her wide, zit-riddled, slopbucket ass extending a half a foot on either side of Buckaroo. With his left hand, Buckaroo is rooting around the lasagna pan which is full of broiled chicken legs and thighs swimming in cooled, congealed chicken fat, and in his right hand is a drumstick that he’s slowly tearing fat-soaked meat from. Even though it’s a little tough to make out, we have just enough of an angle to see that Melissa’s got herself propped up on her elbows digging into a greasy chicken thigh. Buckaroo locates the perfect drumstick and hands it around to his grateful skank, and then slips his tuna can into her frothy pink buttermilk trough. HOLY SHIT, IT’S FUCKING REVOLTING. Buckaroo starts pounding her as much as you can pound a chick with a gash that could swallow a wheelbarrow. It sounds like he’s plunging a toilet. She starts her mewing, and he starts his snuffling, meanwhile both of them are working on their chicken.
Buckaroo starts getting busy. Little bits of chicken skin, meat, and fat are flying as both the Buck and his pig are devouring the bird chunks while he torpedoes her huge ass. Every so often, she has to take the chicken out of her mouth to let out a “mew.” Then Buck clutches his drumstick with his teeth alone, and devotes both hands to her fat ass globes, as he starts hammerin’ her can in earnest. She’s so sopping wet and filthy, it’s like someone popped a water balloon full of pus, cunt seepage, and chicken grease all over her ass. Buckaroo’s hitting the home stretch, and keeping the chicken in his mouth, but ALAS, the pan is starting to slide towards the bed edge with all the heavy mattress agitation. But thankfully, Buckaroo stops, catches it in the nick of time, and rescues the rest of the chicken, but the rescue requires a brief respite in fucking the whiteheads off his girl’s ass. Melissa gurgles for more chicken, and Buck, pan in hand, gives her a piece so she can return to her doggy-style vittle fest, but what to do with the pan? No fucking problem. The ever resourceful Buckaroo grabs another drumstick, and then sets the fucking pan ON HER BACK! He slips his snausage back into her lard tunnel, and starts fucking her again, while she keeps gnawing on her chicken. The bed, sheets, and her pale pink back and ass are pretty much covered in chicken giblets and fat.
I can’t fucking take it any longer. The chicken pan on the back was it for me. I bust out laughing, and so we all have to bolt. Russ gave ‘em a few hours before returning to the apartment, and when he did, Buckaroo and his milky snatch were thoroughly crashed, and the now-damn-near-empty pan of chicken was sitting on the kitchen counter. Dude never said a word to me, and I don’t know that he ever found out, but to this day, the sight of a pan of chicken at a barbeque or some shit makes me simultaneously start to laugh and choke back the puke.
(This baby’s all about the visuals, and you need to work at it. Be forewarned, there is no punchline, but this true story is STILL one of the funniest things I have ever witnessed.)
The year was 1990 or thereaboutsuch. I was the assistant manager of a bar and restaurant in Nashvegas (THE party capital of Middle Tennessee), working the closing shift. Since the joint was fairly close to Vanderbilt University, we tended to have a few Vandy pukes on the payroll. One of them happened to be a dipshit acquaintance of mine named Russ who bartended. Time came when we needed another nighttime bartender, and Russ suggested we hire his roommate, Chris. Why the fuck not, I said, and so it was done. For some unknown reason, I started calling him “Buckaroo” or “The Buckaroo,” and it stuck.
But Buckaroo was hardly the model college bartender type. First, he was fairly fucking fat, around 26 with a shit blonde Barney Rubble bowl cut and a perpetual scruff, and almost always drunk in a swollen-nose, Walter Matthau sort of way. He was also pretty fucking stupid (hence the 26 yr. old sophomore bit). He’d start a shift sober, but gradually liquor himself up by sneaking some Beam into his Big Gulp full of coke. I knew, of course, but he mopped a mean floor and sopped up stomach ejections out of the urinal like nobody’s business, so I let it slide, but made sure he was always the chosen one for sponging the colon spackle off the bathroom tile.
One other background point needs treatment. Buckaroo actually had a girlfriend - a disgusting bag of skin and shit named Melissa. MOTHERFUCK, was this bitch ugly. It wasn’t so much the weight, although she tipped the scales at a good 210-220 lbs. standing a mere 5 foot 4. It was the whole repulsive package. She was freakishly pale, almost newborn pink, with stringy blonde hair that came out in clumps, leaving patches of scalp showing. She also had a scorching excema problem, and was constantly picking scabbies off her arms and popping ‘em into her mouth when she thought no one was staring at her fat, filthy self. But fuck, who could look away? It was like uncontrollably staring at a circus midget or an amputee boxer. But the worst of it was the acne... It’s not that she was covered so much as it was that every single pimple (spread out as they were across her face, neck ... and yeah, arms, legs, and shoulders) was filled to the brim with a shot glass full of milky white pus. At least a few would spontaneously pop and ooze during the span of a short conversation. All in all, one nasty whore.
One night at work, both Russ and the Buckaroo are on the clock, but it’s slowing down and Buckaroo’s already slurring, so I tell him to clock out. He changes shirts, has a few more at the bar, and gets stoooooopid fucking drunk in a hurry. (Buckaroo was in a state of perpetual marination and always a drink or two away from a full-on bender.) Buck decides to amble off and walk home about an hour before we close. Russ and I close up with a few beers, and even though Russ is kind of a shit, Russ, I, and a nighttime cook, Johnny, agree to head to Russ’s (and Buckaroo’s) apartment to slam some beer and listen to tunes. Johnny and I follow Russ to his apartment complex and his building is kinda in the back. We park next to Russ, and walk around to the back of the building. Russ mentions that he and Buckaroo usually just leave the sliding glass patio door open anyway so Johnny and I follow Russ up to the patio door.
The vertical blinds are pulled open and the lights are on so we can see through the patio door across the living room to a bar that separates the living room from the kitchen. Just as Russ is getting ready to yank the door open, out comes Buckaroo from a hallway to the right of the living room BUCK FUCKING NAKED and obviously hammered. The three of us just kind of stand there for a second in shock trying to figure out just what the fuck Buckaroo is doing. He’s got a stiffy, but its only about 3 inches long and looks like a purple can of tuna, surrounded by a rather prodigious shit blonde man-thatch that had also established quite a foothold on his back and ass. So Buckaroo marches around the bar thingie and into the kitchen, where he opens the fridge and presumably begins a hunt for some late-nite niblets. He emerges with a metal lasagna pan, contents unknown, and stumbles back down the hallway.
Stifling some chuckles, we quietly discuss the best way to witness whatever perversions Buckaroo is playing to in his room. Johnny checks the window, but the blinds are barely open - all he can see is the door to the room, but it’s open. That’s it, we have to go in. Russ tells us that Buckaroo’s bed faces the doorway so we’ll have to be careful. We creep back through the patio door and down the hallway. As we get closer, we can hear a high-pitched constant squeal...kinda “meeeeeeeew, meeeeeeeeew, meeeeeeeeew, meeeeeeeeeew,” and a grunting, snuffling noise. As we reach the door, the squealing and snuffling stops, and we can hear Buckaroo and that fat cunt Melissa in a slurred discussion. “Gimme some.” “You want some?” “Hmmmm, this is so fucking good.”
And so we each stealthily peer around the door jam, and there it is, the single most disgusting event I have ever witnessed. Buckaroo’s standing up with his hairy ass to us, and fat fucking Melissa is propped up doggy-style on the bed, her wide, zit-riddled, slopbucket ass extending a half a foot on either side of Buckaroo. With his left hand, Buckaroo is rooting around the lasagna pan which is full of broiled chicken legs and thighs swimming in cooled, congealed chicken fat, and in his right hand is a drumstick that he’s slowly tearing fat-soaked meat from. Even though it’s a little tough to make out, we have just enough of an angle to see that Melissa’s got herself propped up on her elbows digging into a greasy chicken thigh. Buckaroo locates the perfect drumstick and hands it around to his grateful skank, and then slips his tuna can into her frothy pink buttermilk trough. HOLY SHIT, IT’S FUCKING REVOLTING. Buckaroo starts pounding her as much as you can pound a chick with a gash that could swallow a wheelbarrow. It sounds like he’s plunging a toilet. She starts her mewing, and he starts his snuffling, meanwhile both of them are working on their chicken.
Buckaroo starts getting busy. Little bits of chicken skin, meat, and fat are flying as both the Buck and his pig are devouring the bird chunks while he torpedoes her huge ass. Every so often, she has to take the chicken out of her mouth to let out a “mew.” Then Buck clutches his drumstick with his teeth alone, and devotes both hands to her fat ass globes, as he starts hammerin’ her can in earnest. She’s so sopping wet and filthy, it’s like someone popped a water balloon full of pus, cunt seepage, and chicken grease all over her ass. Buckaroo’s hitting the home stretch, and keeping the chicken in his mouth, but ALAS, the pan is starting to slide towards the bed edge with all the heavy mattress agitation. But thankfully, Buckaroo stops, catches it in the nick of time, and rescues the rest of the chicken, but the rescue requires a brief respite in fucking the whiteheads off his girl’s ass. Melissa gurgles for more chicken, and Buck, pan in hand, gives her a piece so she can return to her doggy-style vittle fest, but what to do with the pan? No fucking problem. The ever resourceful Buckaroo grabs another drumstick, and then sets the fucking pan ON HER BACK! He slips his snausage back into her lard tunnel, and starts fucking her again, while she keeps gnawing on her chicken. The bed, sheets, and her pale pink back and ass are pretty much covered in chicken giblets and fat.
I can’t fucking take it any longer. The chicken pan on the back was it for me. I bust out laughing, and so we all have to bolt. Russ gave ‘em a few hours before returning to the apartment, and when he did, Buckaroo and his milky snatch were thoroughly crashed, and the now-damn-near-empty pan of chicken was sitting on the kitchen counter. Dude never said a word to me, and I don’t know that he ever found out, but to this day, the sight of a pan of chicken at a barbeque or some shit makes me simultaneously start to laugh and choke back the puke.
When life hands you a park steak, you'd better motherfucking ISSUE it.
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Liberate Cascadia!
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Liberate Cascadia!
Mo is THAT interesting, you fucking ass-wipe.Gaydah James wrote:That being said, Mo is quite honestly the biggest board attention whore ive ever witnessed.
Starting a greatest hits thread about yourself?
Nobody that posts on these BB's is interesting enough to do that. Nobody.
Here's to you getting hate-fucked by a chimp, Gaydah James
WacoFan wrote:Flying any airplane that you can hear the radio over the roaring radial engine is just ghey anyway.... Of course, Cirri are the Miata of airplanes..
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Raydah James
- Eternal Scobode
- Posts: 3820
- Joined: Sun Jan 16, 2005 1:52 am
Just make sure to wipe your chin, cunt.Cuda wrote:*slurp slurp* Mo is THAT interesting, *ball fondle* you fucking ass-wipe.Gaydah James wrote:That being said, Mo is quite honestly the biggest board attention whore ive ever witnessed.
Starting a greatest hits thread about yourself?
Nobody that posts on these BB's is interesting enough to do that. Nobody.
Here's to you getting hate-fucked by a chimp, Gaydah James
Find another thread to get your tard on in.Raydah James wrote:I'll rack it-Mo's creative writing skills are second to none and had me laughing..
That being said, Mo is quite honestly the biggest board attention whore ive ever witnessed.
Starting a greatest hits thread about yourself?
Nobody that posts on these BB's is interesting enough to do that. Nobody.
Get out a little Mo.......
John Boehner wrote:Boehner said. "In Congress, we have a red button, a green button and a yellow button, alright. Green means 'yes,' red means 'no,' and yellow means you're a chicken shit. And the last thing we need in the White House, in the oval office, behind that big desk, is some chicken who wants to push this yellow button.
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Moorese
- Lancing the lovelies
- Posts: 532
- Joined: Sat Jan 15, 2005 4:59 am
- Location: The People's Republic of Seattle
Crank calling Palcian style
So the wife's out of town for a week. Get me? I'm supposed to meet up with some people at a show, but I decide to bag it because I'm kinda tired. I leave work at a decent hour to maximize the nightly pleasure, and grab some Indian grub and a sixer on the way home to watch the M's game in cock-fondling peace. After watching said game (epic walk-off grand salami), downing said sixer, and fondling said cock, I'm feeling pretty fucking iodotic whilst cruising the channels. I hit the home-shopping network and pause for awhile during an advertisement for a "stunning" cubic zirconia bracelet. Ahh ... the memories of me and my old law school roommate crank calling those fuckers while sucking down brews and torching bowls. Good times. So, "what the fuck?" I figure...wife's out, I'm drunk, got nothing else to do except go to bed.
I pick up the phone. Dial. Prepare Frog Lick, Arkansas accent.
chick: Home shopping network. What product are you admiring this evening?
Me: Hey, I been watching yer program an I seen that there bracelet yall got on the screen there, an its muh girlfriend Maxine's birthday uh comin soon, an I been thinkin bout gettin her sumpin real fine like that there bracelet.
chick: Are you talking about item #blah, blah, blah, the stunning 3 carat cubic zirconia bracelet with cabochons?
Me: Uhm...yeah...I reckon. Say, is that there a diamond? cuz my baby says she wants a diamond.
chick: It's 3 carats of sparkling cubic zirconiums set in stainless steel with dangling cabochons.
Me: Uhm... Pubic merconeeeyum?
chick: Cubic zirconium, sir.
Me: Oh. (pause) Is that a diamond?
chick: It's a semi-precious gemstone that's created and cut in a laboratory, sir.
Me: Shee peepers! In a lavertorie? You mean like a washroom?
chick: Laboratory sir.
Me: So it's a plastic thing?
chick: No sir, it's a synthetic diamond.
Me: Synthetic?
chick: Yes sir.
Me: Gol durn. You mean like a robot?
chick: Uhm... well... it is a synthetic diamond, sir.
Me: Does it change into a building?
So the wife's out of town for a week. Get me? I'm supposed to meet up with some people at a show, but I decide to bag it because I'm kinda tired. I leave work at a decent hour to maximize the nightly pleasure, and grab some Indian grub and a sixer on the way home to watch the M's game in cock-fondling peace. After watching said game (epic walk-off grand salami), downing said sixer, and fondling said cock, I'm feeling pretty fucking iodotic whilst cruising the channels. I hit the home-shopping network and pause for awhile during an advertisement for a "stunning" cubic zirconia bracelet. Ahh ... the memories of me and my old law school roommate crank calling those fuckers while sucking down brews and torching bowls. Good times. So, "what the fuck?" I figure...wife's out, I'm drunk, got nothing else to do except go to bed.
I pick up the phone. Dial. Prepare Frog Lick, Arkansas accent.
chick: Home shopping network. What product are you admiring this evening?
Me: Hey, I been watching yer program an I seen that there bracelet yall got on the screen there, an its muh girlfriend Maxine's birthday uh comin soon, an I been thinkin bout gettin her sumpin real fine like that there bracelet.
chick: Are you talking about item #blah, blah, blah, the stunning 3 carat cubic zirconia bracelet with cabochons?
Me: Uhm...yeah...I reckon. Say, is that there a diamond? cuz my baby says she wants a diamond.
chick: It's 3 carats of sparkling cubic zirconiums set in stainless steel with dangling cabochons.
Me: Uhm... Pubic merconeeeyum?
chick: Cubic zirconium, sir.
Me: Oh. (pause) Is that a diamond?
chick: It's a semi-precious gemstone that's created and cut in a laboratory, sir.
Me: Shee peepers! In a lavertorie? You mean like a washroom?
chick: Laboratory sir.
Me: So it's a plastic thing?
chick: No sir, it's a synthetic diamond.
Me: Synthetic?
chick: Yes sir.
Me: Gol durn. You mean like a robot?
chick: Uhm... well... it is a synthetic diamond, sir.
Me: Does it change into a building?
When life hands you a park steak, you'd better motherfucking ISSUE it.
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Liberate Cascadia!
- - -
Liberate Cascadia!
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chargerfan
- Elwood
- Posts: 387
- Joined: Sat Jan 15, 2005 5:11 pm
He is one of the better legal minds on here as well. (for a fucking liberal) But I have already fed his non-existent ego enough today. I wouldn't want Dr. DeRaiderJames to get any more worked up.Van wrote:Moorese, you're quite simply the best writer we've seen on these boards.
Ever do anything beyond the evil scatological musings on sex/midgets/tards thing?
John Boehner wrote:Boehner said. "In Congress, we have a red button, a green button and a yellow button, alright. Green means 'yes,' red means 'no,' and yellow means you're a chicken shit. And the last thing we need in the White House, in the oval office, behind that big desk, is some chicken who wants to push this yellow button.
I take offense to that evaluation.Van wrote:Moorese, you're quite simply the best writer we've seen on these boards.
Ever do anything beyond the evil scatological musings on sex/midgets/tards thing?
Sincerely,
Jay in Phoenix
Catfish
Porgy
Nostra
mcatboy
Geno
Boston Phinn
Sandman
Some old guy in Iowa named, Mace
RadioFan
PSUFAN
Dinsdale (without shrooms)
MCET
Mike the Lab Rat
Rip City
p.s. I could list more but I have gas.
T1B Rules of Operation:
4. Forums. If you don't like it, leave. It is that simple.
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OK, bye.
4. Forums. If you don't like it, leave. It is that simple.
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OK, bye.