WAYWT shit talking thread

[Sammy You]

[supertard]

HGB, you mean this?

Hey ya Andrew the badass aka Paean.

A sad moment in life viewing a picture of you. Hehe.

andrew dun mess with me

love jerrified

HAHAHAH YOU'VE BEEN SO FUCKED I CAN'T STOP LAUGHING!!!!!

[Paean]

relentless effort .

[geekbonchic]

HAHAHAH YOU'VE BEEN SO FUCKED I CAN'T STOP LAUGHING!!!!!

Lamest hate you could've culled. Can the real shit-talkers please stand up?

[denimdestroyedmylife]

your food looks kinda not so good!!!

YOU LOOK LIKE YOU DON'T ENJOY IT SO MUCH!

maybe it gives you INDIGESTION!!!

you should change your name to PEE-ON the dyspeptic gourmand!

i bet you BURNED your tongue!!!!!!!!!!!

hating ain't easy

[Guest sullenarmor]

i have no idea what kind of fucking look you were going for here dude, but the whole goth ninja jacket with grandpa-colored pants and gay tap dancer shoes is not working in the least.

[Fookums]

that's a kinda boring fit but your shit-talking is fucking terrible.

1. It's not a goth ninja jacket

2. How the hell is gray a "grandpa color"

3. The shoes are nondescript as fuck, nothing obviously shitty about 'em. Gay tap dancer shoes?? What the hell.

[Guest jmatsu]

^that shit looks fine...although standard stuff, shit is pretty haterproof. in your opinion how could he improve?

[sidneylo]

For starters…not wear that jacket.

[Guest jmatsu]

For starters…not wear that jacket.

what wrong with it? u no like peasant status?

[headcoat]

I like his shoes.

But a grown man shouldnt be wearing Uniqlo outerwear unless he's still working at Burger King.

[sidneylo]

what wrong with it? u no like peasant status?

Eh, I've seen it look alright on people before…probably the bad or lack of posture in conjunction with the zipper lines make it look a bit sad and depressing.

[Guest sullenarmor]

that's a kinda boring fit but your shit-talking is fucking terrible.

1. It's not a goth ninja jacket

2. How the hell is gray a "grandpa color"

3. The shoes are nondescript as fuck, nothing obviously shitty about 'em. Gay tap dancer shoes?? What the hell.

i was under the impression that any black, retarded looking jacket qualified as "goth ninja steez," my bad. gray is a grandpa color when it is that boring and sad looking a shade, and white lace-ups like those are the gayest shit possible.

you are beyond hope if you think that outfit is anything but laughable.

[chronoaug]

Ok. White laceups make you like men, no grey clothes unless they're a happy shade, and black jackets with stuff on them are for retarded people. Anything else while i'm writing these down?

[Guest sullenarmor]

you will just have to wait for future sullenarmor critiques, because i am not about to divulge all of the secrets to looking good in my fifth sufu post.

[Fookums]

i was under the impression that any black, retarded looking jacket qualified as "goth ninja steez," my bad. gray is a grandpa color when it is that boring and sad looking a shade, and white lace-ups like those are the gayest shit possible.

you are beyond hope if you think that outfit is anything but laughable.

you will just have to wait for future sullenarmor critiques, because i am not about to divulge all of the secrets to looking good in my fifth sufu post.

Oh God please please help me - He slumped farther in spite of the pain. His fingers brushed the pin but succeeded only in pushing it a quarter of an inch away. Paul slid down in the chair, still slumped to the right, and screamed again at the pain in his lower legs. His eyes were bulging, his mouth was open, his tongue straight down between his teeth like the pull on a window-shade. Little drops of spittle ran from its tip and spatted on the floor. He pinched the bobby-pin between his fingers . . . tweezed it . . . almost lost it . . . and then it was locked in his fist. Straightening up brought a fresh slough of pain, and when the act was accomplished he could do no more than sit and pant for awhile, his head tilted as far as the unc Compromising back of the wheelchair would allow, the bobby-pin lying on the board across the chair's arms. For awhile he was quite sure he was going to puke, but that passed. What are you doing? part of his mind scolded wearily after awhile. Are you waiting for the pain to go away? It won't. She's always quoting her mother, but your own mother had a few sayings, too, didn't she? Yes. She had. Sitting there, head thrown back, face shiny with sweat, hair plastered to his forehead, Paul spoke one of them aloud now, almost as an incantation: "There may be fairies, there may be elves, but God helps those who help themselves." Yeah. So stop waiting, Paulie - the only elf that's going to show up here is that all-time heavyweight, Annie Wilkes. He got moving again, rolling the wheelchair slowly across to the door. She had locked it, but he believed he might be able to unlock it. Tony Bonasaro, who was now only so many blackened flakes of ash, had been a car-thief. As part of his preparation for writing Fast Cars, Paul had studied the mechanics of car-thievery with a tough old ex-cop named Tom Twyford. Tom had shown him how to hot-wire an ignition, how to use the thin and limber strip of metal car-thieves called Slim Jims to yank the lock on a car door, how to short out a car burglar alarm. Or, Tom had said on a spring day in New York some two and a half years ago, let's say you don't want to steal a car at all. You got a car, but you're a little low on gas. You got a hose, but the car you pick for the free donation has got a locking gas-cap. Is this a problem? Not if you know what you're doing, because most gas-cap locks are strictly Mickey Mouse. All you really need is a bobby-pin. It took Paul five endless minutes of backing and filling to get the wheelchair exactly where he wanted it, with the left wheel almost touching the door. The keyhole was the old-fashioned sort, reminding Paul of John Tenniel's Alice in Wonderland drawings, set in the middle of a tarnished keyplate. He slid down a bit in the wheelchair - giving out a single barking groan - and looked through it. He could see a short hallway leading down to what was clearly the parlor: a dark-red rug on the floor, an old-fashioned divan upholstered in similar material, a lamp with tassels hanging from its shade. To his left, halfway down the hallway, was a door which stood ajar. Paul's pulsebeat quickened. That was almost surely the downstairs bathroom - he had heard her running enough water in there (including the time she had filled the floor-bucket from which he had enthusiastically drunk), and wasn't it also the place she always came from before giving him his medicine? He thought it was. He grasped the bobby-pin. It spilled out of his fingers onto the board and then skittered toward the edge. "No!" he cried hoarsely, and clapped a hand over it just before it could fall. He clasped it in one fist and then grayed out again. Although he had no way of telling for sure, he thought he was out longer this second time. The pain - except for the excruciating agony of his left knee - seemed to have abated a tiny bit. The bobby-pin was on the board across the arms of the wheelchair. This time he flexed the fingers of his right hand several times before picking it up. Now, he thought, unbending it and holding it in his right hand. You will not shake. Hold that thought. YOU WILL NOT SHAKE.

[neptunecitylocal]

??????????????????????

:confused::confused::confused:

[LiberationFrequency]

ditto

10 chars

[Fookums]

exactly. 10char.

[U MAD]

Oh God please please help me - He slumped farther in spite of the pain. His fingers brushed the pin but succeeded only in pushing it a quarter of an inch away. Paul slid down in the chair, still slumped to the right, and screamed again at the pain in his lower legs. His eyes were bulging, his mouth was open, his tongue straight down between his teeth like the pull on a window-shade. Little drops of spittle ran from its tip and spatted on the floor. He pinched the bobby-pin between his fingers . . . tweezed it . . . almost lost it . . . and then it was locked in his fist. Straightening up brought a fresh slough of pain, and when the act was accomplished he could do no more than sit and pant for awhile, his head tilted as far as the unc Compromising back of the wheelchair would allow, the bobby-pin lying on the board across the chair's arms. For awhile he was quite sure he was going to puke, but that passed. What are you doing? part of his mind scolded wearily after awhile. Are you waiting for the pain to go away? It won't. She's always quoting her mother, but your own mother had a few sayings, too, didn't she? Yes. She had. Sitting there, head thrown back, face shiny with sweat, hair plastered to his forehead, Paul spoke one of them aloud now, almost as an incantation: "There may be fairies, there may be elves, but God helps those who help themselves." Yeah. So stop waiting, Paulie - the only elf that's going to show up here is that all-time heavyweight, Annie Wilkes. He got moving again, rolling the wheelchair slowly across to the door. She had locked it, but he believed he might be able to unlock it. Tony Bonasaro, who was now only so many blackened flakes of ash, had been a car-thief. As part of his preparation for writing Fast Cars, Paul had studied the mechanics of car-thievery with a tough old ex-cop named Tom Twyford. Tom had shown him how to hot-wire an ignition, how to use the thin and limber strip of metal car-thieves called Slim Jims to yank the lock on a car door, how to short out a car burglar alarm. Or, Tom had said on a spring day in New York some two and a half years ago, let's say you don't want to steal a car at all. You got a car, but you're a little low on gas. You got a hose, but the car you pick for the free donation has got a locking gas-cap. Is this a problem? Not if you know what you're doing, because most gas-cap locks are strictly Mickey Mouse. All you really need is a bobby-pin. It took Paul five endless minutes of backing and filling to get the wheelchair exactly where he wanted it, with the left wheel almost touching the door. The keyhole was the old-fashioned sort, reminding Paul of John Tenniel's Alice in Wonderland drawings, set in the middle of a tarnished keyplate. He slid down a bit in the wheelchair - giving out a single barking groan - and looked through it. He could see a short hallway leading down to what was clearly the parlor: a dark-red rug on the floor, an old-fashioned divan upholstered in similar material, a lamp with tassels hanging from its shade. To his left, halfway down the hallway, was a door which stood ajar. Paul's pulsebeat quickened. That was almost surely the downstairs bathroom - he had heard her running enough water in there (including the time she had filled the floor-bucket from which he had enthusiastically drunk), and wasn't it also the place she always came from before giving him his medicine? He thought it was. He grasped the bobby-pin. It spilled out of his fingers onto the board and then skittered toward the edge. "No!" he cried hoarsely, and clapped a hand over it just before it could fall. He clasped it in one fist and then grayed out again. Although he had no way of telling for sure, he thought he was out longer this second time. The pain - except for the excruciating agony of his left knee - seemed to have abated a tiny bit. The bobby-pin was on the board across the arms of the wheelchair. This time he flexed the fingers of his right hand several times before picking it up. Now, he thought, unbending it and holding it in his right hand. You will not shake. Hold that thought. YOU WILL NOT SHAKE.

1234567890

[Guest jmatsu]

you will just have to wait for future sullenarmor critiques, because i am not about to divulge all of the secrets to looking good in my fifth sufu post.

[Guest jmatsu]

you would be clever jmatsu if your shit wasn't so tired and boring. u bring shame to all the other great haters on the internet, fag.

great haters? never heard of you.

[branespload]

u no like peasant status?

pretty off topic but I registered "peasant status" as an AIM screenname. woo!

[julzkind]

Misery......?

Oh God please please help me - He slumped farther in spite of the pain. His fingers brushed the pin but succeeded only in pushing it a quarter of an inch away. Paul slid down in the chair, still slumped to the right, and screamed again at the pain in his lower legs. His eyes were bulging, his mouth was open, his tongue straight down between his teeth like the pull on a window-shade. Little drops of spittle ran from its tip and spatted on the floor. He pinched the bobby-pin between his fingers . . . tweezed it . . . almost lost it . . . and then it was locked in his fist. Straightening up brought a fresh slough of pain, and when the act was accomplished he could do no more than sit and pant for awhile, his head tilted as far as the unc Compromising back of the wheelchair would allow, the bobby-pin lying on the board across the chair's arms. For awhile he was quite sure he was going to puke, but that passed. What are you doing? part of his mind scolded wearily after awhile. Are you waiting for the pain to go away? It won't. She's always quoting her mother, but your own mother had a few sayings, too, didn't she? Yes. She had. Sitting there, head thrown back, face shiny with sweat, hair plastered to his forehead, Paul spoke one of them aloud now, almost as an incantation: "There may be fairies, there may be elves, but God helps those who help themselves." Yeah. So stop waiting, Paulie - the only elf that's going to show up here is that all-time heavyweight, Annie Wilkes. He got moving again, rolling the wheelchair slowly across to the door. She had locked it, but he believed he might be able to unlock it. Tony Bonasaro, who was now only so many blackened flakes of ash, had been a car-thief. As part of his preparation for writing Fast Cars, Paul had studied the mechanics of car-thievery with a tough old ex-cop named Tom Twyford. Tom had shown him how to hot-wire an ignition, how to use the thin and limber strip of metal car-thieves called Slim Jims to yank the lock on a car door, how to short out a car burglar alarm. Or, Tom had said on a spring day in New York some two and a half years ago, let's say you don't want to steal a car at all. You got a car, but you're a little low on gas. You got a hose, but the car you pick for the free donation has got a locking gas-cap. Is this a problem? Not if you know what you're doing, because most gas-cap locks are strictly Mickey Mouse. All you really need is a bobby-pin. It took Paul five endless minutes of backing and filling to get the wheelchair exactly where he wanted it, with the left wheel almost touching the door. The keyhole was the old-fashioned sort, reminding Paul of John Tenniel's Alice in Wonderland drawings, set in the middle of a tarnished keyplate. He slid down a bit in the wheelchair - giving out a single barking groan - and looked through it. He could see a short hallway leading down to what was clearly the parlor: a dark-red rug on the floor, an old-fashioned divan upholstered in similar material, a lamp with tassels hanging from its shade. To his left, halfway down the hallway, was a door which stood ajar. Paul's pulsebeat quickened. That was almost surely the downstairs bathroom - he had heard her running enough water in there (including the time she had filled the floor-bucket from which he had enthusiastically drunk), and wasn't it also the place she always came from before giving him his medicine? He thought it was. He grasped the bobby-pin. It spilled out of his fingers onto the board and then skittered toward the edge. "No!" he cried hoarsely, and clapped a hand over it just before it could fall. He clasped it in one fist and then grayed out again. Although he had no way of telling for sure, he thought he was out longer this second time. The pain - except for the excruciating agony of his left knee - seemed to have abated a tiny bit. The bobby-pin was on the board across the arms of the wheelchair. This time he flexed the fingers of his right hand several times before picking it up. Now, he thought, unbending it and holding it in his right hand. You will not shake. Hold that thought. YOU WILL NOT SHAKE.

[Fookums]

haha. Is it? It's from the tl;dr article on ED.

It's up along with Gatsby, some Tolstoy excerpts, etc.

edit: aw, I feel guilty now since someone repped me cuz it was a quote from that. Shoulda just pasted the Gatsby section since at least I've read that (along with every other post-HS'er)

[julzkind]

yeah, pretty sure it is...

[dismalfuture]

pretty off topic but I registered "peasant status" as an AIM screenname. woo!

can you give that to me?

[branespload]

can you give that to me?

^ it doesn't suit you. unless you buy it off of me with all your money and jawnz..

[JERRIED-]

roaring start to your first post ! size down on your berms pls and if you could, lose that asian hypebeast cap of yours .

Paean: would look into my fit. thanks for th comments. and nop. no where near hypebeast. i wear whats decent for my eyes.

myusername1: erm. show more effort in impersonating me. im actually jerried not jerrified.

[Guest sullenarmor]

ok dude, i totally get it. you are hot shit on an online forum which praises dressing like a goofball, but you can not be serious with this outfit... can you? please tell me where on earth you can go wearing a bondage sweater, strange and drapey hood, skinny pants and haunted-house shoes without being laughed out of the room by every sensible person surrounding you.