...and hotter each year, don't they? No wonder there are so many paedos out there.Quote:
Originally Posted by Mzzkc
Printable View
...and hotter each year, don't they? No wonder there are so many paedos out there.Quote:
Originally Posted by Mzzkc
I know, right?
A bike pump would fix it. I know this to be true. I have played video games.
No, uh, Noah's Ark, arcade. Know a stork, okay.Quote:
Originally Posted by Mzzkc
I wrote a sentence in which the subject was considerably shorter than the predicate.
While grammar has always been a friendly and lovable bitch, my nipples are made of glass; the only cure is more cowbell.
INTERJECTION!i
Who are you and what have you done with mark.Quote:
Originally Posted by Mark75
I have a bubble-loving speed-o and the only anti-virus is more jingle bells!Quote:
Originally Posted by Mzzkc
Frolic between the drooping hair-ties of the underage frog and prepare your toothbrushes for the empire's church parades. Don't ask why or else the caterpillar might sigh a thousand cream puff pies, which you know have less miracles than I.
So, go north before the tie dyed gazelles who implanted the sacred Jew and whisper in my uncles nose just why you've swung your fear! If your arm does happen to reach the checkered hills before you, don't get hungry about it and just purchase a pink umbrella. In any case, you'll have your soiled kittens. Be sure to feed them uncle's hopping underwear and brush their whiskers black.
Oh, give me one last tea cup before you go: never forget the henchman's light and always holler "potato shells!" at the side of your molars!
I remember. I remember when the frown faced cows migrated for the winter. The chill from that cold season has stayed with the town ever since then. The flapping butterflies cried their sorrowful tears, making them sparkle in the sunlight. It wasn't until night when we knew our lives were over. We had to begin a new. This is the story of losing cattle.
Nonsense. Everyone knows you can't butter breaded biscuits without first freezing them for forty fortnights. I expected better from you. Disappointment washes over me like gentle, lacy, wafting curtains.
Crown. Crown? Yes, crown. Crown.
I'm new to this foriegn thread.
Can anyone provide the rules for playing?
Don't fondle the broken monkey, please.Quote:
Originally Posted by Jhony
Fine poetry is just like wood, brick and straw.
Nail polish.
Everything is lolrandumb, no exceptions.
While we are having a currently sunny day, I expect expectations will expectedly rise un-expectedly. While we can only hope and pray for prayers and hope, our hope still plummets as we recieve more and more prayers.
Damn TelephonEs.
While
While
Cervantes
Cervantes
My name.
Is not actually Juan.
Spoiler for That's J-U-A-N-S, BIGASS IMAGE:
Basically it is nonsense.Quote:
Originally Posted by Jhony
A good example: Tripping under the roof tops I lost a foot of yarn. It wasn't far before dreams fell from the sky and melted into ice cubes.
Horrific example: Hello everyone. Last night I had some blue cheese with red wine, it was good, oh yeah, btw, PENIS!
Ah si, gracias senior.Quote:
Originally Posted by no-name
Thanks you for the help, but that was actually part of the game.Quote:
Originally Posted by Sandform
You lost the game.
Quote:
Originally Posted by Sandform
Fuck yeah, he chose me. I win, fucker.Quote:
Originally Posted by Jhony
Fuck year.
Fuck yes.
Yes fuck please.
Please fuck yes.
Switching words around does not make you cool.
Unless you're Carousoul, or better yet, Kiza. Everyone fawns over Kiza.
God damn I love you people.
Fuck no, Etc...Quote:
Originally Posted by Jhony
Booya!Quote:
Originally Posted by no-name
:banana:
I am certain that I am uncertain about my certainty.
Whatever consequences must be had, I will accept. In a future so riddled with with tears will this meningitis kill the children? Are we all children? Red boxes pouring out of the gravy boat spilling, filling, and killing hope? Hope, an idea long frittered away. Finite amounts used to their brink, bursting into the dreams of the few real humans left. And when the flawless skin falls, it unsheathes like a mole, I will be sipping on delight, Sunkist, the flavor of contentment. Cyber sex goes to far, but I find it funny when it doesn't go very far at all. I'm a rhinoceros, I put on my robe and wizard hat, yes, this is what sex is made of. A steel pipe in my throat speaks to me in words I don't understand. "Greekum doke soon," it says. I'm not sure what it means, I think it may mean search for the free greens.
What is me? I feel as though I am not, and yet I am. It is odd. I look out and see your face stare, a blank stare, at what can only be death. I want to tell you not to fear what is good, but I fail. Mouth words come to my lips, but they fall on a sea of deaf ears.
I want a juice box. Juice tends to calm my throat like toast does. It will help me in the time to come. You will need help, too. Trust me. . .
I Zo Senslass Soo So Senslass O So Senslass Senslass Senslass
Quicklings of chandeliers long lost, and so many of our clandestine nickels toast to this "glory" automatically. Never again will a prime number'd umbrella spit at you, now that spelunking is taxable. Carry on, into your vector-within-an-array-within-a-lightbulb-without-a-name, this fine bicycle of solitude: yogurt dust.
A challenger leaves? No! It sneezes.
While your efforts are commendable I must blame the tax not on spelunking, but you, good sir and/or madam and/or mermaid.
MY Prodigy, The Prodigy, Prodigy in general, are nothing more than a fluke. A normal human born with an enlarged skill. These, aficionados, or virtuosos, are mutants. They are not human, they are some sub culture of lesser being, and must be rid of.
My opinions aside, I'm pretty sure Blake wants in my pants.