Let me reiterate this:
I love my mom, I would never ask her for more meatsauce loudly. She makes me food and hugs me and I love her so fuck off all you stupid haters. <3
MOMMY MOMMY I LOVE YOU MOMMY MOMMY YES ITS TRUE
MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY GET ME MEATSAUCE MOMMY
If someone dissed america like that I'd...I'd...well, not really do anything because most people I know are like to make fun of the USA, self loathing is in!
CAT DOG, CAT DOG, WORDS I DON'T KNOW LALALA CAT DOOOOOOG.
Thats how.
At 6/7/10 09:11 PM, Arsonist50 wrote:At 6/7/10 09:10 PM, whitebabbit wrote:I like playing spy.At 6/7/10 09:09 PM, Arsonist50 wrote: Why is my dad on chatroullete ?Whats even more concerning is that you can tell its your dad by looking at him jack off
Oh you sly dog
At 6/7/10 09:09 PM, Arsonist50 wrote: Why is my dad on chatroullete ?
Whats even more concerning is that you can tell its your dad by looking at him jack off
Its better than fucking the dog and smearing feces on the bathrom mirrors, amiright?
not that I do those things
My family hates me because I always say inappropriate stuff at the dinner table.
I was eating dinner like 5 minutes ago and my mom's like "Do you want some more spagetti?"
And I'm all like
"PUT SOME MORE MEATSAUCE ON MAH PLATE, WOMAN"
do you do gross things at the dinner table?
On your application to Harvard, just say you skipped out on the SAT, and I'm sure they'll understand
0pardox0-
A superhero THAT DOESN'T EVEN EXIST
.....So yeah, I just got a 1370.
Thats pretty fucking bad. :/
Whaddu get?
Part two
"Son, I am going to say this once; this is the most honest I have ever been with you, and the most honest I will ever be with you, its a boy's right to know his father's life. And it's your time now, 'cus it's a long story to tell. Sit down, this is going to take a while."
At first, son, I did love your mother- always remember that, even through the story I'm going to tell, I never lost faith in her, and she never lost faith in me- half of that was because we were young, around your age- too young to be making major decisions, but nether the less, we did. Me and your mother got married...July 2, 1919, I was 19 years old. Myself at 19 seems a very long time ago, but you know I'm not a normal man, I still remember everything from those years. It has been a curse, as you may have figured. It keeps me awake like the primal sense that can tell you when a stranger is looming over your bed, staring down at you. It is terrible, but your mother makes it almost work it; your mother sticks out in my mind, almost overpowering anything else. Everything else terrifying background static.
Your mother, incase you never knew, was an extraordinary woman. You did not see her in her prime, you saw her when she was old and bitter and tearing herself apart, and she blamed me, you didn't see her when she sung, when her voice melted like the blue base of a fire; it took the social graces, burnt them down Part of me think's she's right- part of me thinks she brought it on herself. But, for now, we'll stick to her when she was beautiful.
God, she was- her hair was a dark red, and her skin was so pale that I swear to god she would burn if she stepped outside for more then twenty minutes. She had a way about her- she was a jazz singer in one of those downtown clubs. You've been to the Grand Hall, right? She sung there- back then, the twenties were in full swing- you had those old, beautiful, classic convertibles rolling in and out of the speak easies at ungodly hours, you had those swinging parties, and the bobs and the jazz music, and if you were lucky you could cop a couple of cigarettes. But, the crux of your night, the high point, the arching moment, when the smoke filtering from cigars clouded your vision in some sophisticated haze and the wine glasses stopped clanging as the single light outlined the figure of the singer- and the singer was your mother. My god, was she beautiful.
She leaned against that piano like only god knows, her red hair streaking down her back, long and flowing, and all was silent as the spotlight followed her across the stage, and she would clutch the primitive microphone and then...she would start signing. Her voice started off low, it always did, as if she was inviting you, god, she was wild when she was on stage- it was like she was making you lean in closer, whispering promises under her breath. And then, when the floodlights came up in a flash, you knew that she was really really blowing up- she knew how to ride a song out to the most emotional point, and just when you thought 'Shit, this is TOO beautiful!' she would expand upon the emotion even more and it would all just implode on itself and it would leave you trembling with goosebumps and shivers, an ecstasy- and with that ecstasy there was a overwhelming sense of forgetting and, until the final chorus and the final note and the final chord, you were one with the music, the moment, and the jazz singer. Your mother was the jazz singer, and son, she was a hard heart to win; but eventually, unexplainable and unpredictably, I won her. The circle was complete when she took both my hands in hers, when her warm touch mixed with my warm skin with a eager love; my love love mixed with her love very willingly, without hesitation, without objection, and most of all, without any second thoughts.
I was working as a criminally active bond salesman in New York- I had blindly moved down from Lewiston, Maine, in the hopes of escaping the back breaking, animalistic labor that had consumed my family- I was born to poor brick layers and masons, and my father took pride in doing the dangerous brick work on the paper mills that polluted the river that cut through the town like black pores. I had received a considerable sum of money from shady business operations with the proprietor of United Mills, and not only did I know that my parents would be more then happy to squander my illigitament, illegal, and truly newfound wealth on such trivialities as liquor and a shallow facade of a true life- I was young, and unlike the rest of my kid I had a destiny, a destiny that could have never been reached laying bricks in Lewiston- and perhaps I should have gotten out sooner. I settled in New York because I thought it would be far enough from Maine that my illegal activities wouldn't haunt me- I was right; it seemed every legitamately rich man had dabbled in, and stuck his toe in illegality to reach his fortune; to track me would mean wading through the tides of grime and moral emptiness.
So with a sense of youthful vigor and wonder, I forged all the nessairy certificates and identifications; I crafted a 22 year old Named Arty Messbuymer, a young jewish man who moved from Boston to New York after inheriting a massive sum of money from his parents, 'reclusive' and obscure corperate partners who reaped of wealth; and Arty, upon arriving bought a nice set of apartments near the Hudson; and young Albert Henry rented an apartment from the generous Arty Messbuymer. I had sucessfully crafted and intricate lie; all debt went to Arty Messbuymer, and with my more notorious associates, Albert Henry did not exist; they were dealing with old Arty. They thought I was Arty, and I guess at that time I also thought I was Arty- and I marveled at how easily I had duped the system and became an entirely different person all together, a person who acted as my sponge and personal mop- when I got on the wrong sides of some of my more easily angered associates, they went looking for Arty, and not for young Albert Henry. I always thought I would have made a grand actor- I was able to be two people in the same life, even if I did it for a short time. Arty did eventually fade away, but he was integral to the success (and the downfalls) I would face later in my life. With Arty and these associations early in my career, I made the foundation of a extremely wealthy life; and I knew everything at that age but what the future would hold, although I could do a rather good job at predicting it.
You mustn't think any less of me, son. My grievous fault in this life has living to long on single dreams; I could never throw away an ambition if it struck me. I have severe tunnel vision- even if I died trying I would use the gift of immeasurably strong intuition to my benefit to get what I wanted, I am in essence, the living example of Mr. Gatsby.
I do not make excuses for what I have done in this life, son, I have been wrong many times and there have been sins for which I will never be forgiven- but those will be addressed much later.
/b/ Didn't like this story at all, but they don't like anything.
Its called the red room, and its really long, so I'm going to spilt it up into a few parts.
The parlor, and everything in the parlor was quite red, like stepping into a room where everything was coated in blood, or, if you don't have a morbid or curious mind, a room some giant used to dump out his cranberry juice in a crimson tidal wave.. The fabric on the sofa was the color of blood- or cranberry juice, if you have a weak constitution- the wallpaper was red with yellow, rather angry looking hawks in a never ending pattern of scolding faces. Even the bookcase (inside which was the entire Sherlock Holmes series and a leather bound book with golden letters down the spine, which read 'FED TO DEATH') which was a cherry wood finish, was a tint of red. The man, illuminated by a single, rather dim oil lamp, was lounging about like a great cherry.
You see, the man was extremely plump, almost to the point that a harsh critic could call him "morbidly obese." As this man lounged on his red claw footed sofa, he rested his eyes- Mr. Henry, his name was, did not do this very often, because, as he saw, his eyes needed a constant exercise, or they became unruly and lazy.
A curious sight would befall the man who looked at Mr. Henry- he too was red. He seemed as if he was in a perpetual state of sunburn, and his nose had a unattractive peel to it no matter what season. Mr. Henry had hair that looked as if it was unnaturally red, as if he had decided to die it, which, in the 18th century, would have probably given him painful lead poisoning. It would have been more logical to assume that Mr. Henry was wearing a wig, but we cannot know for sure. There is much to Mr. Henry we don't know, but, his facial structure was round, but it had the traces of an intense handsomeness that faded away as time had cursed it. His nose was rather large, and would have been an attractive one before it had been broken in a few different places.
Nobody knew Mr. Henry well at all, but Mr. Henry was a...peculiar man. In fact, it would be logical to say that Mr. Henry is downright extraordinary, and it would not be an overstatement if one said 'he was a genius... in his prime!" But, you see, genius never truely goes away- people of superior intellect, unless they go batty, remain of superior intellect until the day they die. It is more of 'falling out of the public's interest' kind of issue, a fate that had long since befallen Mr. Henry.
Mr. Henry had the curious and rather disturbing ability of being able to uncannily read other's body language- a skill that had handed him this enormous wealth. He could tell what people were going to do by the way the twiddled their thumbs or held their bodies, of the mere tone of their voice. he could also predict, nearly spot on, how people would react to what he said, or what he did, a trait that he had applied when he became one of the richest men in London. He could tell how his investors were going to react to proposals, how they were going to react to bad news, and how they were going to react to his successes.
It was like he was a seer of the future, and he proved right on many of his predictions, making him a grand politician- which he became, until he was shamed. After his great disappointment, he retreated to his large manor home, and spoke only to his house maid of 40 years, Beth, and his son, Benard. He had not left the confines of this Red Room for about 5 years, having a secret (and rather large) chamberpot installed in a broom closet, and Beth served him his meals as he sat on the sofa most o the day, scribbling in his leather book entitled "Fed to Death." (which, for your information, was not on the bookcase anymore, it was in his hands.)
The door leading into the red room opened, and Mr. Henry raised his head from his intense workings (he had woken up not but 5 minutes beforehand, but was already slightly sweating) curiously enough, his hand did not stop moving; it was as if his hand was a separate entity.
Into the room stepped Mr. Henry's son, Benard. Benard was a tall, young lad, scrawny, but his cheeks indented slightly giving him the impression that he was slightly stupider then he really was. His blond hair fell to his shoulders- the only thing he really shared with his father was the nose; his nose was too long and broken.
"Father, come outside."
There was silence for a moment, but not because Mr. Henry was taken by surprise, or because he didn't know what to say- he just wanted to give the illilusion that he did not, in fact, know what Benard was going to say before he said it. Finally, Mr. Henry replied with a gentle;
"Son, not today. I have much to do."
This did not satisfy Benard, as Mr. Henry knew it wouldn't- he did not exercise his mouth often, seeing as conversation with yourself was the only possible form of sociality when you were alone, and often, when you don't exercise something, it becomes restless. In other words, Mr. Henry, although he would never admit it to himself, was lonely.
"Father, please, the sunset is beautiful."
"Son, you know that I cannot. I would much enjoy it if I could," he was speaking a lie. "Quite frankly, this large volume will not write itself."
"It can wait five minutes father. Please."
"Son, I am sorry. I cannot." He did knew that this would not be dismissive, and it was not- Benard sat down on the sofa beside his father, his scrawny body contrasting heavily from his father's portly belly.
"Father;" asked Benard gently, "Please do tell me what is in the book."
Mr. Henry knew this was coming, as he knew everything, and he had decided to tell the truth.
Of the Flies, silly. It's a good book/movie. I hate it when piggy dies though.
We gets hit on the head with a rock. D:
Take a highpowered magnet and rub it all over your screen and computer; it'll restore you computer to factory condition.
....kidding.
At 3/21/10 09:26 PM, FUNKbrs wrote: I fail to see how the doctrine of hate leads directly to war. Properly applied, hatred never allows problems to get out of hand in the first place. Economic domination is the goal of hate; a slave is more valuable than a corpse. Lie to a slave with a myth of freedom, and graduate them out so they are so busy fighting amoung themselves to seize control of any real power, and you basically have America as we know it today.
...Properly applied, maybe, but right now? Like in real life? If two countries 'hate each other' you get war. If two groups of people 'hate each other, a human catastrophe (like the Holocaust.)
....or, perhaps, the above point is moot. My above point. Shit, I need coffee.
At 3/21/10 09:17 PM, DraGoN-RaGe-9001 wrote: usually when I have physical ailments the first place I turn to for help and advice is newgrounds...
Dude, what the hel are you talking about? I go to 4chan.
At 3/21/10 03:42 PM, Afromaster wrote:At 3/21/10 03:36 PM, StayingSain wrote: That was interesting, but why does Anonymous want to attack the scientologists? Any personal reasons?Anonymous is an internet group that wants to end Scientology. It is unknown why they attack them but they are viewed basically as the 'good-guys' for anti-Scientologists. Anons do not use violence, but do hold random protests.
However, rumor has it that Scientologists could have created the Anonymous to win more support and sympathy for their cult.
If you want more information just google Anonymous
....
.......
.........
Wow, if anon could hear you say that 'However, rumor has it that Scientologists could have created the Anonymous to win more support and sympathy for their cult' they would....they would....
I don't even know, maybe sick pedo bear on you or something? It would not be good. Not good at all.
At 3/21/10 09:12 PM, Gobblemeister wrote: My balls never really hurt, but they itch like the bastard son of Satan
Can anyone explain that?
Mine ich and hurt. So yeah.
"and we perform sexual acts"
lulz, you could have just said, 'when we fuck each other.'
but you had to be classy.
Some times my balls hurt when I sit on them...thats about as far as I can relate.
i am retarted walking dictonary of memes and general cliches
At 3/21/10 08:42 PM, blue-ice-cube wrote: With out hate theres no way for us to advance.
Yeah, but with hate theres a pretty large chance for us to destroy ourselves. Hate's never never never never going to stop, but hell, when hate leads the Middle East to nuke each other and a nuclear holocaust, I'll sit in my underground bunker, lay low for 30 years, come up and either get promptly mauled by zombies or give your mutated body a great big hug. :D
At 3/21/10 04:03 PM, TheThinWhale wrote: Ya Macs suck and can't play games.
My windows crashed the sims 3 and my mac is like "YEAH BIOTCH."
My windows got all butthurt whed I tried to play spore
and my mac, again, is like 'YEAH BOITCH'
I'm just sort of fooling around with voice acting, but I'd be happy t lend a hand to an animator that may be interested. Just shoot me a PM.
Some examples:
Click to listen.
Click to listen.
Click to listen.
IIIIIIIIIIIIIN
WEST PHILIDELPHIA BORN AND RAISED
ON A PLAYGROUND IS WHERE I SPENT MOST OF MY DAYS
CHILLIN OUT MAXING RELAXIN ALL COOL I WAS SHOOTING SOME B-BALL OUTSIDE THE SKEWL
WHEN A COUPLE OF GUYS WHO WERE UP TO NO GOOD
STARTED MAKING TROUBLE IN MY NEIGHBORHOOD
I GOT IN ONE LITTLE FIGHT AND MY MOM GOT SCARED
SHE SAID YOUR MOVING WITH YOUR AUNTY AND UNCLE TO BEL-AIR
....yeah, i like rap
pics or it didn't happen
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