53 Forum Posts by "Cheesus666"
At 6/13/11 09:07 PM, zalecot wrote: 53 posts? What is that like 3 weeks ago?
Nope, I came on here really rarely and when I did I never did much.
It's just like (I'm leaving school next week) when I look back on all the stuff I used to do and how I used to act, I think "Man, what a douche."
I feel really sad at how much of a twat I used to be, I haven't been on here for Christ knows how long but I just saw all my old posts, they all just annoyed me, weren't funny, and I wondered what I was thinking.
Maybe I've just matured, anyone else find this?
I'm just rocking the GIMP.
No good with any of it though :/
AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
Give me a second
BAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
Nice "sketch" though.
Fuck the Loony Toons, whatever happened to Courage the Cowardly Dog?
Censorship can @#*;! my #'@\!
This is a story I wrote a while back (when I first started writing) and it's a little bit explicit I guess.
Anyway I know it isn't amazing, but this was one of my first short stories.
The Back Alley
"Son! Eddie! I'm off to work! I'll leave you to get better." Eddies Mum shouted at him before walking through the door out of their Brighton flat. He told her he didn't feel well, Eddie was a professional slacker, he always had been.
In primary and junior school he could always remember falling from his bike and scraping a knee or an elbow so he could stay at home. Now he had to resort to more grown up ways of appearing ill. He'd usually warm his forehead with the hot water bottle under his covers, shooting his temperature straight up. Or even better he would lick his palms, clammy palms always made his Mum queasy.
He stood up and stretched out of his hibernation. Looking around at various posters of Iggy Pop and The Cure, he brushed the hair back from his forehead and crumbled away the sleep between his eyes like old mortar. The dark green walls gave a damp feeling to the room, making you always feel cooler than it was outside in the sunny Brighton atmosphere. The days that Eddie got off were slowly decreasing and he knew he had to make the most of them. The sixteen your old could easily pass for twenty-one and get into any local bar or pub. But there was only one place he wanted to go today, the local sex shop.
He walked along the streets of Brighton as the sun penetrated through his dark hair and warmed his scalp like some sort of thermal hat. The back streets and alleys weren't crowded; most of them were empty in the working hours. Everyone would be busy tapping away at keyboards in offices while he made his quick trip to The Back Alley sex shop. The distance was close enough to walk but the sun always made time go slower.
He came to a turning into one of the small, littered, back streets. The Back Alley had frosted glass to stop the little ones peeking in and the shop was hidden away from prying eyes and police. Roger, the owner, was more than a simple sex shop clerk, he also ran his own sort of in-store brothel, which was exactly what Eddie was looking for.
He entered the dingy shop and looked around at various videos and dildos and aphrodisiacs. The grey walls matched the grey carpets, the most glamorous decorations here were the various luminous dildos, standing at attention in glassed cabinets. Roger sat behind the counter tip tapping away at his laptop, probably watching only the filthiest pornography. Eddie tried not to disturb him by looking around at various latex moulds before he heard Roger call his name. "Edward, my boy, in for another ... treat?" Rogers pale complexion made him appear as if he had never been in the Brighton sun. The glasses perched on his nose magnified his big eyes, and his comb over hair gave him the look of Gollum. "Yeah Rog, anyone in the back rooms?"
"Only one Eddie, about forty years old, tied up and waiting."
Eddie paid the small man as he led the way behind the counter and down a secret trapdoor that his chair usually remained perched on. The underground hall was cooler than outside and the red, atmospheric lights didn't have a heating effect at all. Eddies crotch tightened as he though of the woman, probably tied and suspending from the ceiling, ready for a spanking and a good fucking.
Roger opened the padlock on one of the many doors and let Eddie in, "Ring the buzzer when you're finished Edward, she's all yours." Eddie walked into the small, squared room. It was grey like upstairs, except it had a smoky tinge from the overhead fluorescent lights. His crotch tightened as he examined the various cuffs and sex toys strapped to the wall on his right. He stood forwards and pulled his trousers off, he was instantly erect as he saw the woman's round buttocks, and she was suspended from the ceiling, like a mobile. He knew this would have to be quick, perhaps a nice bit of oral sex to start things off. Eddie span the woman around so his penis was just a few inches away from her masked face. The woman looked up at him and gasped, "Edward!" he recognised the voice.
This voice was the one that said goodbye every morning, the voice that taught him to tie his shoelaces, the voice that taught him to wipe his own arse. His penis dangled, flaccid. "Mum," he whispered.
Some black chick in my class said "Being Homosexual is wrong because it spreads AIDs."
All I could think was, "What the fuck? You come from the most AID ridden nation in the world."
And she is fresh off the boat
I was on a bus once, I was on about a forty five minute journey, and all the OAP's were having this kind of gathering, the centre of attention was this black guy (he was like their ring leader) and they all seemed engrossed in his story how ,"This one car was being chased by the police when I was on a bus, then they turned a corner, and came out in front of the bus!"
It seemed like a completely pointless fucking story, but they were all engrossed in it, strange how old people will do anything for a conversation.
Check out my new thread, it's called weddings, funerals, other miseries. it's the actual complete first chapter, finished.
I finished the first chapter, I've edited it three times, be kind, I'm only fifteen.
Funerals, weddings, and other miseries.
Chapter one.
It was another wet night for Alex, he locked up the shop, combed his slick, black hair and began to bike his way home, just like he did every other night. Alex had worked at the local music store for the past five years now, he was hired when he was fifteen by his Dad, who ran the store, and now Alex was in management; His parents died in a tragic accident, they were driving home from another wedding, for some reason his family liked weddings, funerals, any annoying gathering that forces misery or happiness onto everyone there.
Of course, they were drunk. Driving by the cliffs near his seaside house, his Father swerved from the edge into the deep blue below them, the car wasn't found for another two weeks, all that was left from each person was half a decaying corpse, Alex didn't talk about this much, he hated it. The funeral was like any other, the same lot always arriving, one man arrived who Alex had never seen before, the man left before the wake when he was hoping he would be able to introduce himself. Alex moved into a new apartment, the depression of riding past the cliffs every day antagonized him, it made him more pissed off to be upset, that he would forget about being upset.
Alex sat on his bed in his foggy, green swamp of a bedroom, and opened his draw where he kept all the savings he had, as well as his "special friend". He pulled out a bag of white powder and walked into his living room. He poured some coke onto the glass coffee table that he lost his virginity on and began his favorite part, pulling out the razorblade and making fine lines, pouring out some wine to drink between lines. He was ready to snort the chemicals deep into his system. He rolled up a ten pound note and bent over the table, sniffing up line by line until he had finished three. He gulped down his blood red wine, tipped the rest of his Charlie into the bag and rolled up a joint.
He turned on his old television and put on some Saturday morning cartoons, that was the strange thing about cocaine, Alex could stay up all night, and even weed wouldn't tire him. He would stare at the walls then, just to end the high on a subtle note, watch some cartoons, baked out of his mind, sinking deeper into the sofa. There was a knock at the door "Rent money...rent money...rent money!!" Alex leapt into his bedroom and grabbed the one hundred pound for this week. He opened the door to see an old woman, somewhere in her eighties: purple hair, too much make up, curlers in. "Here you go Mrs. Wench. All one hundred, I love your red hair today." Alex always gave her a compliment, just so she wouldn't get annoyed with him and decide to search the flat. She always preferred having her hair called red; even she doesn't know why, the crack around her lips looked like various canals leading into a big sea of red lipstick. "Oh fuck off you little shit, I know what you're up to!"
"And a nice day to you too, Mrs. Wench!" He called after her on her way down the corridor.
Alex's family seemed to enjoy the gatherings they had, the misery is what they thrived on, and they seemed to love it. The wakes were almost too fun filled, at his Uncle Peters funeral there was a clown making balloon animals, fucking balloon animals. Alex wondered if Mrs. Wench's funeral would have a clown;that would suit the grumpy bitch. Alex sat on his bed, wandering what to do, where to go. The streets around South Essex weren't how they used to be; now it was drug ridden, just like him. Grabbing his coat, Alex walked down the stairs and outside for some fresh air, he lit up a cigarette and decided to see if anyone interesting was in the local pub, normally it was filled with saggy bags of bones reminiscing the times you could drink ten pints and drive home with no troubles.
Alex walked into the pub and as soon as he grabbed his usual corner seat, found his old mate and cocaine dealer, Pigeon. No one knew why they called him Pigeon, not even the man himself. They sat down for a chat, "Alex my old lad, how you been doing mate?" The old bird said between sniffs,
"Nothing really, I just wanted to come down here for a quick pint." Replied Alex,
"Well, you know, if you need anything, give us a ring, I'm off for a slash."
The Pigeon strutted into the men's toilet, leaving Alex to finish his pint. Twenty minutes later, Alex wandered what the fuck is he doing? Alex walked into the toilets to find his dealer laying on the floor, three men, each of them at least a good six feet, stood around his bloody body. The blood mixed with the piss on the floor like a heroin needle dipping into someone's arm. The three blokes each turned to face him, one with a chain, one with a cricket bat, and the last had an old razorblade, like the barbers used to use. "Pigeon! You cunts!" Screamed Alex as he filled with rage.
I'm trying to decide what to do at the moment, so far I only planned out that he would be a stoner and have no parents, to be honest I was writing for the fun of it, not with a plan, which sounds stupid. I'm thinking of having him join a gang and doing something wrong though.
Funerals, weddings, and other miseries.
Chapter one.
It was another wet night for Alex, he locked up the shop, combed his slick, black hair and began to bike his way home, just like he did every other night. Alex had worked at the local music store for the past five years now, he got hired when he was fifteen by his Dad, who ran the store, and now Alex was in management; His parents died in a tragic accident, they were driving home from another wedding, for some reason his family liked weddings, funerals, any annoying gathering that forces misery or happiness onto everyone there.
Of course, they were drunk. Driving by the cliffs near his seaside house, his Father swerved from the edge into the deep blue below them, the car wasn't found for another two weeks, all that was left from each person was half a decaying corpse, Alex didn't talk about this much, he hated it. The funeral was like any other, the same lot always arriving, one man arrived who Alex had never seen before, the man left before the wake when he was hoping he would be able to introduce himself. Alex moved into a new apartment, the depression of riding past the cliffs every day antagonized him, it made him more pissed off to be upset, that he would forget about being upset.
Alex sat on his bed in his foggy, green swamp of a bedroom, and opened his draw where he kept all the savings he had, as well as his "special friend". He pulled out a bag of white powder and walked into his living room. He poured some coke onto the glass coffee table that he lost his virginity on and began his favorite part, pulling out the razorblade and making fine lines, pouring out some wine to drink between lines. He was ready to snort the chemicals deep into his system. He rolled up a ten pound note and bent over the table, sniffing up line by line until he had finished three. He gulped down his blood red wine, tipped the rest of his Charlie into the bag and rolled up a joint.
He turned on his old television and put on some Saturday morning cartoons, that was the strange thing about cocaine, Alex could stay up all night, and even weed wouldn't tire him. He would stare at the walls then, just to end the high on a subtle note, watch some cartoons, baked out of his mind, sinking deeper into the sofa. There was a knock at the door "Rent money...rent money...rent money!!" Alex leapt into his bedroom and grabbed the one hundred pound for this week. He opened the door to see an old woman, somewhere in her eighties: purple hair, too much make up, curlers in. "Her you go Mrs. Wench. All one hundred, I love your red hair today." Alex always gave her a compliment, just so she wouldn't get annoyed with him and decide to search the flat. She always preferred having her hair called red, even she doesn't know why, the crack around her lips looked like various canals leading into a big see of red lipstick. "Oh fuck off you little shit, I know what you're up to!"
"And a nice day to you too, Mrs. Wench!" He called after her on her way down the corridor.
Well, four, from tommorrow (tuesday) I'm going til Saturday, with eating only fruit and vegetables, drinking only water (Serious diet coke addict), no sexual contact, porn, or masturbation. No cigarettes (if I can). I'll post on here every day with any body changes, I live off a diet of coke, crisps, and cigarettes. Let's see if I can make it.
To be honest I prefer writing stories but I never get around to finishing them. That's why this poem is so story-based. I've found these tips really helpful, I'll re-write and message anyone the edited version if they wish.
A quick bio of me : I'm Frank, I come from England and I'm only fifteen. I hope to become famous in the literature or drama industries, I look up to people such as Nick Cave, Quentin Tarantino, Tom Mcrae, Billy Corgan etc etc. This poem is unedited, edit it if you like, constructive criticism only.
This is my first ever poem.
The priest reads me my last rites,
The supper (my last) lays cold in my stomach, yet
the coldness of my supper is not as cold as my
victims skin.
I feel no remorse, I see myself as innocent, I told
the priest, the judge, the family of my victim. I am innocent.
I am afraid I told a lie.
The clothe is whipped over my face and a sponge on my head,
I sweat, for the seat is still hot from the rapist or predator that
died before yours truly.
I am beginning to burn like a cigarette, from top to butt. The clamps hold my arms from becoming aggressive.
It started with my first love, who lived with me, on that dark house on a dark hill,
The love crippled me, unclean and tired were the only two words to describe me.
I didn't want to let her go.
I conjured her deepest fears with a mere kitchen knife.
I kept her as mine.
The sex was never this good, even when she was dreaming.
The police found me leaving my darling in a landfill, the safest place for a corpse.
I was condemned to death, the judge was unmerciful. Yet honest.
The chair was raping my body, stealing my resources, as I drain of life.
After all this I die, all this hiding and lying.
After all this, I still believe we are all but maggots, eating away the corpse we call earth.
This is my first, unedited draft. And I've never written any fantasy...
Duke, the local bounty hunter, was striding along the dark, cobbled marketplace in the corner of his county, Royland. He believed the market place was a hive for the people he needed to find, the scum of the area all gathered here to do their deals, selling weapons and women. The wind cut through clothes like a buzz saw and rain lashed down hard upon the hooded heads. Duke tucked his long, blond beard into his clock and lifted up his hood. Before long he come to an alley just off of a local clothes stall.
"You bitch!" He heard a man scream in a high voice and a woman choking. Duke naturally grabbed the hilt of his sword, the darkness of the alley engulfed him, all he could see was the mans back and he wasn't letting another innocent prostitute die. Duke sent the sword thundering through the mans spinal chord, the man howled with pain as Duke dragged him out into the main path, passers-by barely looked at him as he pummeled the mans temple with the hilt of his sword, in a place like Royland, this was a daily occurrence. Duke bent down to see who the viscous suspect of his crime was, he looked deep into the dying mans eyes, suddenly he recognized the man, he brought him up, he taught him the ways of a sword, he showed him how to be a bounty hunter, Duke had just killed his own father.
Short, I know, but if you think it is any good I can add more for you.
At 2/20/10 01:48 AM, HollowedPumkinz wrote: Where's the conclusion? I want to know who kills who. Not be left hanging. If you ran out of room that's reasonable however, it seemed like you still had a lot of room left. If this is how it ends I fret for your grade.
My last paper from about 2 weeks ago didnt want a conclusion, I think it ups your grade quite a bit actually; not to have one.
I'll give you all the resources you need, i'm a metal head, and a stoner. Can I get me some tasty sig now?
How did no one think of this? (Oh and sorry all I got is paint)
At 7/29/09 06:17 AM, darkruth wrote: It makes me feel young again. Like when I was 10 and bought on demand porn and didn't know what sex was or what was happening to me. Or why it felt so goooood.
So what about you, Newgrounds?
Do you have any fucked-up things that make you feel young?
So you think about 10 year olds when you cum?
Jesus Christ.
At 7/27/09 06:53 PM, Sneak-a-Toke wrote: IMO, I think thread starter just needs to improve his rolling skills, thats all.
Yeah I am a really shit roller.
And for all you weed lovers, I smoke that too, but not often.
What controversial/popular character would you want to see as a garden gnome?
Gary Coleman.
Duh!
Bitch slap Magaret Thatcher.
Shake hands with Sid Vicious.
Then bone Princess Diana.
At 7/28/09 08:30 PM, HighWayStar365 wrote: roflstashes
Someone needs to add Nick Cave in there.
With his turban lols.
At 7/27/09 06:08 PM, Sneak-a-Toke wrote: O.o
I'm pretty lost here, form my experience you want your substance to be dry when rolling and smoking it.
Dry...Not wet.
But I don't want it crumbly so it will barely make a shape do i?
At 7/27/09 06:04 PM, yurgenburgen wrote:At 7/27/09 06:02 PM, TheZach wrote: Save up five whole dollars and buy a real pack of cigs.He's four years too young, which is why he's resorted to trying to salvage the pack he found lying in a drain somewhere.
I can buy them myself, and I've seen the tramps that do that shit, thats messed up.
