Joined Jul 07, 2009 at 01:08PM EDT
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.
Uploaded an image to Balls Are Touching.
Uploaded an image to Balls Are Touching.
Uploaded an image to Balls Are Touching.
Uploaded an image to Balls Are Touching.
Created a meme entry for Balls Are Touching.
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.
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:
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.
/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!
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.
Due to extensive research done by the University of Pittsburgh, diamond has been confirmed as the hardest metal known to man. The research is as follows. Pocket-protected scientists built a wall of iron and crashed a diamond car into it at 400 miles per hour, and the car was unharmed. They then built a wall out of diamond and crashed a car made of iron moving at 400 miles an hour into the wall, and the wall came out fine. They then crashed a diamond car made of 400 miles per hour into a wall, and there were no survivors. They crashed 400 miles per hour into a diamond traveling at iron car. Western New York was powerless for hours. They rammed a wall of metal into a 400 mile per hour made of diamond, and the resulting explosion shifted the earth’s orbit 400 million miles away from the sun, saving the earth from a meteor the size of a small Washington suburb that was hurtling towards mid-western Prussia at 400 billion miles per hour. They shot a diamond made of iron at a car moving at 400 walls per hour, and as a result caused two wayward airplanes to lose track of their bearings, and make a fatal crash with two buildings in downtown New York. They spun 400 miles at diamond into iron per wall. The results were inconclusive. Finally, they placed 400 diamonds per hour in front of a car made of wall traveling at miles per iron, and the result proved without a doubt that diamonds were the hardest metal of all time, if not just the hardest metal known to man.
Whenever I get a package of plain M&Ms, I make it my duty to continue the strength and robustness of the candy as a species. To this end, I hold M&M duels.
Taking two candies between my thumb and forefinger, I apply pressure, squeezing them together until one of them breaks and splinters. That is the “loser,” and I eat the inferior one immediately. The winner gets to go another round.
I have found that, in general, the brown and red M&Ms are tougher, and the newer blue ones are genetically inferior. I have hypothesized that the blue M&Ms as a race cannot survive long in the intense theater of competition that is the modern candy and snack-food world.
Occasionally I will get a mutation, a candy that is misshapen, or pointier, or flatter than the rest. Almost invariably this proves to be a weakness, but on very rare occasions it gives the candy extra strength. In this way, the species continues to adapt to its environment.
When I reach the end of the pack, I am left with one M&M, the strongest of the herd. Since it would make no sense to eat this one as well, I pack it neatly in an envelope and send it to M&M Mars, A Division of Mars, Inc., Hackettstown, NJ 17840-1503 U.S.A., along with a 3×5 card reading, “Please use this M&M for breeding purposes.”
This week they wrote back to thank me, and sent me a coupon for a free 1/2 pound bag of plain M&Ms. I consider this “grant money.” I have set aside the weekend for a grand tournament. From a field of hundreds, we will discover the True Champion.
There can be only one.