Ashent

I still sing the Quizno’s song occasionally, brilliant marketing if you ask me. I can see why people would either love it or hate it, but it was memorable and that is the main purpose of advertising to begin with, no?

Thank god I archived my favorite copy pasta here, I needed some today.

I think this is a straight up classic meme, not just a youtube video – mostly because “I DEEEED IT” makes me laugh uncontrollably still to this day.

If you think Eli Porter isn’t a meme, then how about:

I did it.
[2 minute pause]

There are a lot better 5pool or 9pool demonstrations available on youtube, the video provided in the summary of this meme is terrible. The split was god awful, the micro with the zerglings was ridiculously bad, and a 5pool beats a 6pool in every way.

Also, ‘keke’ is to Korea as ‘haha’ is to America. Also of note is that a lot of spanish speakers represent laughter online by typing ‘jeje’ and so on.

Anyone got anything else to add to this article? It may get stuck in ‘Researching’ forever if I don’t get some more content for it.

Feels good, man is a catch-all phrase to express joy with a particular action. In my experience, this has been quite successful, even outside of the *chans.

The Picard song was definitely started on ytmnd as one of their biggest and most classic fads ever, rather than due to anonymous.

Hey /b/

So this girl invited me over to her house early one morning. She said she need help with math, and offered to make me breakfast for all my trouble. I figured hell free food and time with a OK looking girl why the hell not. So I get up around 5am to get at her house around 6. It was kinda hard finding the place because it was sorta tucked in back of this big forest. I get to her house and ring the door bell, only half awake. She answers the door in a very small tank top and short shorts. “Oh, hay you made it, come on in.” She said looking tired as well. I couldn’t help but wonder why she would want me to come some early if she wasn’t used to the hour ether? “Sorry about the mess and the time, this is about the only time everyone else is out of the house and I wanted to be alone with you.”

“Alone but why, I thought you needed help on math.” I said then felt instantly stupid. She smiled sweetly and offered me a seat at the table. “I have a big family, and they tend to be very nosy we wouldn’t have gotten anything done had they been here.” I nodded and sat down in doing so I got a very nice look at her ass which was actually very nice. “Do you like?” She asked me and I thought I had been caught, “Wait what?” I asked trying to keep my cool. “Do you like pancakes? I’m told I make some of the best, I even add different kinds of fruit to them. Also, I have some bacon and eggs going as well. Shouldn’t be much longer.” I nodded and she walked back into the kitchen, as the door opened I smelled the most wonderful smell ever.

I couldn’t help but follow her in the the kitchen where I saw some of the best looking pancakes I had ever seen ever. I couldn’t help but smile a big smile as I wondered what they would taste like. “I’m almost done, do you want orange juice or apple juice?” She asked me I told her apple and she poured me some from a chicken shaped kettle on the counter. I took it and drank it happily it was had the right amount of sweetness. “Why don’t you go and take a seat, we can get started after we eat.” I did as she said and sat down at my seat at the table.

Minutes later she appears with a bunch of big plates of food and sets them on the table. Then begins to dish out food for me putting over 9,000 light and fluffy, blueberry filled pancakes on the plate in front of me, and some bacon and eggs on a separate plate. “There you go if you want more when your done with that just ask.” She then started to get some food of her own and I put syrup on my pancakes and took a big bite. It was the best thing I had ever tasted, ever. I hadn’t even realized it but I was making a horrible face despite how awesome they were. “Oh, is something wrong?” She asked me sounding really concerned for me, she got up and started rubbing my back. “No it’s just usually, I only have Reese’s for breakfast.” To which she screamed. “Candy, for breakfast?” “No.” I replied. “Reese’s puff cereal, it’s candy for breakfast!”

9th grade: My first sexual experience that actually involved nudity. While we’re fondling each other, she asks me if I like Diet Coke. Me: It’s alright. Girl: Well, I LOVE it. How ‘bout you go get me a bottle of it? I go downstairs and grab a 20 ounce bottle from the fridge. When I return, she says it’s too cold. Girl: How ‘bout warming it up…by rubbing it on my cunt? So I began to rub her vigorously with the bottle. Soon enough, she asks me to shove it inside of her. She really enjoys it, and so do I because I KNOW that, with this girl, I’m defiantly going to get off. That’s when it gets crazy. She rips out the bottle, opens it, and begins filling her cunt! with Diet Coke. I swear, she nearly empties the volume into her cunt!.I had seriously underestimated this cunt’s liquid retention volume. Girl: YOU LIKE DIET COKE?!?!?!? OH YEAH OH YEAH DRINK IT FROM ME! I was noticeably freaked, but I did want to get off, and I didn’t want my first load-blow to be into 18.7 fluid ounces of a 0-calorie beverage. I began to go down on her, until she said the exact wrong thing. Girl: OH YEAH, DRINK IT FROM ME! I’M THE KOOL-AID MAN! OH YEAH! OH YEAH! I don’t know how she did it with 16-year-old voice, but she sounded exactly like the Kool-Aid man from the commercials. I glanced at the wall, half-expecting him to burst through and over me a fruity beverage. I was extremely turned-off. She could tell, too. As she sat up to see what was wrong, she twisted her body in such a way that Diet Coke shot out of her and all over my face, chest, and groin. And it was at that sticky, low-calorie moment that my parents chose to pull into the driveway.

I just learned about the ED article about Mitchell Henderson from this site:

http://www.trollkingdom.net/forum/showthread.php?t=104368

You are all truly sick and depraved to have caused so much suffering and misery for his parents. OK, laugh about the fact that they spelled “an hero” wrong, but phoning up his parents on the day of the funeral?

Have any of you insensitive fucks ever lost anyone close? Do you know what the feeling of a death in a family is like? Oh yes, many will bombard me with shit like “we do not forgive, we do not forget” but might I remind you with regards to the influx of spamming that’s been happening on your precious little /b/?

You little faggots don’t like that, do you? So in actual fact you’re nothing but hypocritical bastards that, given the chance, would run a fucking mile if it wasn’t for the fact that you have a computer to hide behind.

UTTER FAGGOTS. Cowards who mock dead children are petty and have nothing to be proud about.

Go and fuck yourselves.

Okay, I am fucking sick and fucking tired of these fucking threads about rape! RAPE IS NOT FUCKING FUNNY! Joke about anything else you want, /b/…

Joke about cp, joke about loli, joke about murder, joke about drugs, but DON’T FUCKING JOKE ABOUT RAPE! Rape DESTROYS a woman, it STRIPS HER OF HUMANITY! It is disgusting, inhumane, regressive and insane. RAPE IS OFF THE FUCKING TABLE, /b/, NOT EVEN YOU FUCKING VIRGIN ASSHOLES CAN BE SUCH FUCKHOLES THAT YOU JOKE ABOUT A WOMAN’S WOMANHOOD BEING VIOLATED!

And no, I am not some lesbian dyke cunt, I am a woman. I was raped. My virginity taken from me, I can never give it to a man I love. I was raped again and again and again and again and again by a random stranger when I was 15, And between you and me something amazing happened…and now I can talk to animals! Its really cool! But totally a secret. And you know what? Life’s never been the same.

AT SOME POINT, MY SISTER AND I GOT INTO A SAVAGE FIGHT IN THE BACK YARD OVER THE USE OF THE SLIP-N-SLIDE. THAT IS TO SAY, IT WOULD BE FAIR FOR US TO TAKE TURNS BUT BOTH OF US WANTED TO SIMPLY SLIDE BACK AND FORTH ON IT WITHOUT INTERRUPTION. AS WITH MANY WARS, CONTROL OF NATURAL RESOURCES WAS AT THE HEART OF THIS CONFLICT.

I MANAGED TO GET BEHIND HER, AND TWISTED HER ARM AROUND, RENDERING HER HELPLESS. USING MY ARM-LEVERAGE I FORCED HER OVER TO THE FLOWER BED, AND DEMANDED THAT SHE EAT A HANDFUL OF MUD, OR I WOULD PUNCH HER IN THE FACE. UNHAPPILY SHE COMPLIED, AND THEN RAN INSIDE TO TELL MY PARENTS ABOUT THIS “TREATY OF VERSAILLES”-STYLE ABUSE OF MY VICTORY. MY DAD ANGRILY CALLED OUT TO THE GARDEN FOR ME TO COME INSIDE BECAUSE “WE HAVE SOMETHING TO TALK ABOUT”. MY OTHER SIBLINGS HOWLED “PUNISH HIM”, HOPING FOR A RARE SPANKING. HE TOLD ME THAT WHAT I DID WAS WRONG, AND THAT I WOULD HAVE TO PAY FOR IT.

WHILE I WAITED FEARFULLY, HE PRONOUNCED HIS JUDGEMENT: I WAS TO GO TO MY ROOM FOR HALF AN HOUR. MY SISTER CRIED “WHAT??” IN SHOCK AS I RAN UP THE STAIRS LAUGHING.

TO THIS DAY, SHE CONSIDERS THIS ONE OF THE GREATEST INJUSTICES THE WORLD HAS EVER KNOWN.

I’ll try to sum up a funny story that happened a few years ago: I got a vasectomy. I met a girl soon afterwards. She was nice and attractive but with a selfish streak that raised a big red flag. She was 32 at the time and I could practically HEAR her biological clock ticking. Regardless, she was a good lay, easy on the eyes, and reasonably good company.

I did NOT tell her about my vasectomy and I always used a condom with her to protect against STDs. She assumed, obviously, that the condom was only used for birth control. wacky girl.

We date for a few months. I never made any move towards commitment but she brought it up ocassionally. For me, this was a casual but pleasant relationship. For her – as I was to find out – it was part of life-changing series of events that she was planning very carefully.

Four months into dating, I get the “I’m pregnant” talk. She’s going on and on about how the condom must have broke and now we really need to think about getting married “for the baby”. She’s positively giddy. She has a baby in her and she thinks she’s gonna have a good meal ticket (me) to go along with her new 7lb annuity.

At this point, I’m just as giddy. I get to pull the reverse “oops” on her. I figured that she slept with some bad boy and got knocked up. Good thing I was using condoms! Better still that I have a serious mistrust of women who can’t think beyond their own uteri.

So I wait a couple of days to “think about all this.” I meet her again. I say I don’t want kids and that she should have an abortion. I know where this is going and sure enough it goes there. She goes completely batsh*t insane on me. There were the usual insults about my manhood. There were threats of legal action. It was all very ugly and I was loving every minute of it.

Well, I let her stew for a few days. She leaves me nasty messages on my phone. She sends awful emails. I’m laughing hysterically.

It was time to drop the hammer. While she was stewing I was busy. First I get a notarized copy from the urologist who performed the vasectomy. Next I get a notarized copy of the TWO test results indicating a “negative test result for sperm” to show I’m sterile and shooting blanks. Finally, I get a letter from a shark attorney stating he has seen the other documents and is prepared to litigate against this woman if she continues to communicate with me in such an unpleasant manner. Also, the letter states that we will insist on DNA testing to show that the baby is not mine. I’m ready.

I meet with this woman at her place. I bring flowers and a small bit of jewelry to show I am willing to reconcile and assume my responsibilities as a new father. I also have stuck in my pocket the documents I have prepared.

She’s all giddy again. Her plan is going perfectly – or so she thinks. We talk about our future. We have some pretty good sex. Then, as I am about to walk out the door, I ask her the $64,000 question. “Are you sure that this baby is mine?”

Well, she goes batsh*t insane again. Hell, she ought to. Her plan could completely unravel if there is ANY question about my paternity. Oh, she’s really screaming now. How dare I question her morals. Do I think she’s a slut. I’m just trying to weasel out of my responsibilities… blah, blah, blah, yadda, yadda, yadda.

I’m not really mad. I’m kind of embarrassed for her. But since she won’t shut up and the neighbors can hear all of this, I ask her to step back inside and sit down. She sits on the sofa and calms down a bit. She is glaring at me with all the moral self-righteousness that only a woman can muster up. She thinks she has me trapped. She is 100% convinced her plan has worked. Oh, the tangled web of lies and deceit she has wrought around herself and I am about to hack through them with a few pieces of paper.

I reach into my pocket slowly. I extract the three pieces of paper and unfold them slowly and deliberately.

I tell her simply, “You’re screwed”.

Her look doesn’t change. There is no way she can fathom what I have prepared.

I continue. “I am sterile”

Her look changes just a bit. Something is beginning to sink in. Naturally, she reverts to women’s logic. “You’re full of sh*t. You’re trapped and you know it.”

I hold up the letter and the test results. “Three months before we met, I had a vasectomy. Here is a notarized letter from him stating what I had done. Here are two test results showing that I tested negative for the presence of sperm. Blanks. I am shooting blanks. That baby inside you is simply not mine.”

This woman is not to be swayed by logic and clear documentation. “Bullsh*t, those are fakes.”

I was ready for that. “No, they are real. This last piece of paper is from my attorney. It’s a simple letter to you that states if you pursue any kind of legal action against me for child support that I will insist on a DNA test to prove paternity, that is, to prove that your baby is not mine.”

I give the woman all the documents. She reads them slowly, deliberately. With each passing second she can feel in her soul that she has made a very bad mistake. With denial swept away, she started to cry. It’s a small cry at first. Then it becomes deeper and more painful. By the time she gets to the letter from the lawyer she is sobbing.

I had no sympathy for her. I turned and walked out the door. Even after I closed the door I could still hear her sobbing.

Epilogue -

I never heard directly from this woman again. I did hear through my friends that she did indeed have the baby. I also heard that the real father was some guy in a band she had met. I assumed that after 30, women stopped going after musicians, bikers, criminals, and thugs. wacky me for thinking the best of American women.

The Moral of the Story -

Get a vasectomy but keep it a secret.

/b/ downstairs, my house has a major ant problem. Luckily I reside upstairs. Nevertheless, once every 5 minutes or so an ant comes trotting along my desk. First I place a coin or another object in its path. This confuses the ant, causing it to run off in a different direction, but my finger is waiting. I block its path with my finger. It runs in the opposite direction, but I anticipate this. Soon the ant is encircled by pens and other barriers, and if it attempts to climb them, swift punishment is issued. The ant remains in my arena. Then I take my knife, and nimbly place the tip onto one of its legs, holding it in place, then I press down hard and chop the leg off. The ant does not run, it merely enters a craze moving all around wildly. I allow it to suffer like this for a minute or so, chopping off another leg if it appears not to be in pain. Then comes a decision. Sometimes I will wait for another ant, and place it in the arena to see what it does. Occasionally it will pick up its comrade, and run off, but this is an offense punishable by death. Other times, I will merely watch the ant until it gives up. It will stop moving all but one leg. At this point I give in and slice the ant in two, putting it out of its misery. I save the corpses in a small pile, and once I have a considerable stack, I scatter them in my arena. This is where the real fun begins.

I venture outside to my back yard and find a red ant. This is my gladiator. I return to my room and place him in among the corpses. He wanders, confused. I do not let him leave. I pound the desk near him with my fingers, scaring him. I toughen my gladiator up until another ant comes along. I place the intruder into the arena. The red ant will go after the black ant, and they engage in mortal combat. If the red ant wins, another corpse decorates my arena. If the black ant vanquishes his foe, he wins the prize of life. I carry him in my hands and bring him downstairs and place him among his comrades. If he put up a good fight, I give him a warriors welcome and feed his colony with bread. If he barely defeated the red ant, he receives no food, only the gift of life. This is how i spent my afternoons.

I am presenting you with an autobiographical account of the chain of events that incited a chaotic, topsy-turvy time in my life. I beg of you to remain within a close proximity for but a scant few moments as I recount how I metamorphosed into the heir apparent of the municipality referred to as Bel-Air, California.

Amidst the occident of Philadelphia I had been sprung to life and had been nourished. A lion’s share of my youth and adolescence was consumed by the outdoor entertainment facilities at the park. Carousing with my pals, merrymaking to my maximum ability, and unwinding, I often partook in a friendly match of basketball at the schoolhouse’s arena.

It was during one of these excursions that a pair of rabble-rousing fellows instigated malevolence. I took part in nothing but a single skirmish, yet my mother became immersed in fear, at which point she commanded me to transfer my residence from her dwelling to that of my aunt and uncle in Bel-Air, California.

I proceeded to hail a taxi and, upon its arrival, I made out an inscription on the license plate that read “FRESH” and was intrigued by a pair of dice draped over the rearview mirror. If nothing else, a claim could be made that this particular taxi was atypical; however, I came to the conclusion that recollecting this occasion in the future would be a fruitless venture, so in lieu of attempting to implant this incident within my memory, I implored the chauffeur to transport me to my destination of Bel-Air, California.At approximately the seventh or eighth hour, I disembarked and proceeded to inform the driver that I would inevitably become acquainted with his odor at a later point in time.

At this juncture, I beheld my new abode and came to grips with the fact that my mission to become the heir apparent in Bel-Air, California, had been consummated.

OK, /b/, here’s what happened. I was sitting around the house yesterday, minding my own business, when I heard a knock at the door. I opened it, and there stood a cute little loli (maybe7-8yo)! She’s dressed in this hot short skirt, and some kind of military fetish outfit, called herself a “girl scout”, or something like that. Another word for hooker, as far as I’m concerned. Anyway, after some haggling, I got something you aren’t gonna BELIEVE! She was selling BOXED LOLIS! That’s right! Every box had pictures of some of the most rapeable cake you’ve ever laid eyes on. Some boxes had 5or6 on the cover! Well, hell if I’m gonna pass up an opportunity like this! So I dumped $400, the whole damn supply. Then I slammed the door in her face, stripped, covered my self in cooking oil and ripped those suckers open in a sex-crazed frenzy. What the fuck do I find scattered all over my floor? Helpless lolis screaming for mercy? Children huddling in corners trying futilely to escape my embrace? FUCK NO! A bunch of goddamn COOKIES! I grab my bat, ran outside flinging oil and profanity in every direction, only to find the little cunt making her escape in an unmarked minivan. But she’ll get hers. I’ve heard this story time and time again, by other poor souls who’ve been taken advantage of by these evil bitches. And… I’ve found the location of their secret base. Girl Scouts of the USA 420 Fifth Avenue New York, New York 10018-2798 (800) 478-7248. I’ve got a machete, 3 bottles of vegetable oil, and a raging, throbbing, rock hard sense of burning justice. Are you with me /b/? Help avenge your /b/rothers shattered hopes and dreams! ALL PERSONNEL, REPORT IN! ETA on target @ 23:59:59 tonight!

Hey Faggots,

My name is John, and I hate every single one of you. All of you are fat, retarded, no-lifes who spend every second of their day looking at stupid ass pictures. You are everything bad in the world. Honestly, have any of you ever gotten any pussy? I mean, I guess it’s fun making fun of people because of your own insecurities, but you all take to a whole new level. This is even worse than jerking off to pictures on facebook.

Don’t be a stranger. Just hit me with your best shot. I’m pretty much perfect. I was captain of the football team, and starter on my basketball team. What sports do you play, other than “jack off to naked drawn Japanese people”? I also get straight A’s, and have a banging hot girlfriend (She just blew me; Shit was SO cash). You are all faggots who should just kill yourselves. Thanks for listening.

Pic Related: It’s me and my bitch

Dear /b/, the worst thing has happened just yesterday.

I was sitting there in front of my PC, pants down, fapping to one of the hottest hentai pic I could’ve ever found on my hard disk, when my mother walked in.

Normally, I would’ve just tried to hide my erection by pulling my pants back up and pretending to do something else, preferably the least suspicious possible, but not then.

As I was nearing the end of my masturbatory session and couldn’t hold it back anymore, I closed my eyes and let myself overwhelm to the orgasm just at the same moment she opened that damned door. I knew I should’ve locked it, but I believed nobody would’ve ever bothered entering without asking beforehand.

Thus, being unable to see anything for all the time I enjoyed the, let’s say, “warm feeling”, I couldn’t have noticed she was here since the beginning.

So, yeah, my mother saw me ejaculating till the last drop of semen, and in the lewdest way possible, even.

It was only when I was finally done and did a swift peek to see if I had done any mess on the floor, that I realized her presence.

My heart went right down my stomach at her sight: she was just standing there, staring at me with dismay, then left the room without saying anything. I’m not lying if I admit that, then as now, I just wanted to die due to the huge embarrassment that followed.

About a day has passed since the incident, and she hasn’t spoke a word to me yet. She hasn’t made it evident, but I strongly sense that the good old days have abruptly come to an end for me.

Women are not actually attracted to men. There is a vague idea of what a man is physically, and some are better than others aesthetically speaking, but the purely physical appearance of a man is almost inconsequential unless he is horribly ugly or outrageously attractive.

Women are attracted to status, money, how much a man smiles and laughs, how many friends and resources a man has, how full a man’s life is--how many “cool,” “exciting” and prestigious things he is doing or connected to.

They are interested in how other people view him--how many people want to be around him, how other people interact with him and whether their interactions convey that he is special and amazing. They want him to be extremely outgoing and aggressive, they want him to demonstrate his status over other people by dominating them in various non-violent ways.

A woman’s attraction to a man is a function of her jealousy at the thought of another woman having that man. She doesn’t care who he actually is or EXACTLY what he looks like physically, she only cares about the VALUE of the life he has constructed around himself.

A woman basically is a greedy materialistic prostitute. Although that sounds vulgar, it’s true. She trades her physical self to buy into the success a man has created for himself.