[Kyle]

Okay people, listen up. I want this to become the biggest thread in the history of this message board. I want more replies, more views and a complete and total lack of order in this thread. And then once it has eclipsed the Rush mark, we are going after the rest of the net.

The key here is irreverance.

Post whatever the fuck you want. A story about your dog. Pictures of black midgets. I don't care. I just want a huge, and completely insane thread, and I want it here on Rush.

This is my 1000th post, and I am determined to start of something great with it. I hope I can count on every member of the forum to contribute some sort of drivel to this monstrous pile of crap that is my celebration.

Now, let's begin....

[Smackdaddy]

[Z-Man]

Originally posted by Kyle
Post whatever the fuck you want. A story about your dog.

You asked for it...

Barking Dogs

Paul was always in a fog immediately after awakening, so it took him a few minutes to realize that something was amiss. He noticed first that it wasn’t morning; there was no sunlight streaming in between the Hefty Steel-Saks that lined the windows of his new tract house. Paul had come to like having black trash bags on the windows. He had put them there himself as a stop-gap bid for privacy and darkness until the new curtains arrived. His wife, Sandy, did not like them.

“It looks like Al Jourgensen did our interior design!” she sniffed and promptly called the store to get yet another promise, undoubtedly fictional, on when the real thing would be delivered.

Sandy was not beside him in the king-size bed, he realized next. Nor, when he raised himself up on one elbow and looked, was she in the bathroom, the other logical place to find an extremely pregnant woman at 3:00 am. Paul listened for some sign of her wandering the house - with her added weight, the seismic tremors made her easy to keep track of - but all he could hear was the ceaseless barking of the neighborhood dogs.

“The attack of the killer barking dogs continues,” he said to himself, finally getting out of bed.

The dogs had been a problem ever since the first night. There were three of them and he had spent at least part of every night listening to both the sounds of the barking dogs and Sandy complain, often working herself into “hot spells”, as she called them. When they started dating, Paul thought it odd that someone in the 90’s, particularly an attractive, extremely bright 24-year-old, would get “hot spells”. But Sandy did - not often, but often enough. Once, he caught her using an old-fashioned folding fan, just like Scarlett O’Hara would use. Later, he got used to her spells and, in time, like so many of her idiosyncrasies, they began to seem normal.

He went downstairs and found Sandy in the kitchen, obviously upset.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she said. “It’s the dogs.”

“They are loud,” Paul agreed. “There must be some kid of acoustical weirdness living in the cul-de-sac.”

He put his arm around her and watched her drill four tiny holes in a pork chop with a veggie peeler. It wasn’t a new pork chop but one left over from dinner retrieved from one of the Steel-Saks not currently residing in the windows. Paul knew it wasn’t normal to drill holes in pork chops at 3:00 a.m., but he also knew when to keep his mouth shut.

Sandy opened a bottle of Valium.

“Those are my Valiums,” Paul pointed out, watching closely.

“I know.”

“You’re putting them into a left-over pork chop,” he said.

“I know,” she answered.

“I’m sure there’s a good reason for this, but I’m almost afraid to ask,” he said, taking a few steps back and sitting on a barstool. “There _is_ a reason, isn’t there?”

“Of course,” she said matter-of-factly. “I haven’t slept since we’ve moved here, so I’m going to drug the dog next door so it stops it’s damn barking.” She paused slightly for effect... “I’m pregnant,” she reminded him. “I need my sleep.”

Paul pondered taking a Valium himself or maybe smoking a joint. He would have, too, but he was due at work in not too many hours. He briefly considered giving a Valium - or maybe a joint or two - to Sandy, except that she was pregnant and it would make him feel a little like Jack Kevorkian.

“Isn’t that a little extreme?” he countered. “I mean, you can’t just go around drugging all the neighborhood dogs every night. What if you get caught? What if you end up killing one?”

Paul knew that these were stupid questions. In Sandy’s neurotic universe, sleep was high enough on the list of priorities to outrank Paul himself. And now, of course, she was sleeping for two. Certainly a dog that died so that Sandy and the baby-to-be could sleep would not have died in vain. Over the three years of their marriage, Paul had not only been charmed by such logic, he had come to accept it as having a certain, albeit twisted, legitimacy. After all, a happy Sandy was a joy to live with; an unhappy one was not.

“It won’t die,” she said in mid yawn. “I’m only giving it twenty milligrams. It’s a big dog, it’s right next door, and it’s _loud_.” She picked up the pork chop, looked at it, admiring her handiwork, and started for the door.

“I really don’t think you should do that,” Paul said. “We barely know our neighbors. They might not take kindly to someone drugging their dog.”

It was then that Sandy gave him “the look”. It was a look of sadness and vulnerability that had once caused him to shoplift a pair of socks for her from a store that wouldn’t accept any of their credit cards. Another time, she gave him that look at a Jethro Tull concert, and he promptly told three burly Mexicans in the next row to sit down and stop dancing so that his wife could see the show. It was a look that said, “If you don’t take care of me, I’ll never be happy again.”

Paul took the chop and reluctantly went outside. He hurled it over the green chain link fence to the golden retriever next door and waited. Twenty seconds later, it was on it’s way down the dogs throat, and twenty minutes later, the dog stopped barking, rolled over onto it’s back, and began snoring peacefully.

When Paul returned to bed, Sandy was still awake. “Well?” she asked.

“He seems to like pork,” Paul snapped. “Right now he’s snoring away, exposing his genitalia to passing aircraft.

“Good,” said Sandy. “I’ll sleep better.”

“No, not good,” he said. “It was stupid and I can’t believe you pouted me into it.”

“You did it for me, silly,“ she said, adjusting her uncomfortable frame in the bed. “I wish we could do something about the other dogs.” The two remaining offenders continued their chorus as Sandy finally drifted off to sleep.

The next night was not a good one, nor were the two after that. The dogs were making Sandy miserable. Her eyes were surrounded by sad, dark circles, and one day, she even called in sick at her job at the bank. Before, when she talked of their child, whom they had temporarily named Toren, she had brimmed with joy and anticipation. Now it was if little Toren would be better off in Beirut than here in a supposedly quiet suburban cul-de-sac, surrounded by picturesque woods, near convenient shopping and, of course, fine schools. They had searched for six months, throughout almost every neighborhood in the city, looking at dozens of houses, before they found this one. They had thought of it as a dream house. But now, Sandy’s only dream was of moving away from those “damned barking dogs”.

Paul tried the Valium trick once more, this time using bread instead of meat - it was all he could find - but it only seemed to make the retriever slur its barks.

“You didn’t give it enough Valium,” complained Sandy, as she was trying to arrange pillows to support her stomach in bed that night. “A golden retriever is a big dog. You should have given it an adult dose.”

“Those are _my_ Valiums, “ Paul reminded her in a less-than-friendly tone. “I have to call the doctor every time I’m out, and he always makes me feel like I’m two steps away from the Betty Ford clinic. I’m not going to waste my Valium on a dog when you’re giving me a nervous breakdown as it is.”

“I’m pregnant,” she replied sharply, counting off her problems on her swollen fingers. “I have trash bags in my windows and we’re having a housewarming party in four days. I’ve complained to the neighbors about the dogs for weeks and they do nothing. I feel like shit, I look like shit, the house is a disaster, and I can’t sleep.” She turned away from Paul. “I hope this isn’t affecting the baby,” she said softly, placing her hand on her stomach. “I worry about that. I really do.”

Paul stared at the Steel-Saks as he searched his mind for a neutral topic. “Any chance the curtains will be here in time for the party?” he finally asked.

“That’s the least of our problems, isn’t it?” She answered. Paul said nothing. He counted dog barks to himself. It occurred to him that the dogs were barking at one another, one bark sparking the next, in some sort of vicious cycle. A big, heaving bark on the right, followed by a high-pitched, piercing yap from the little dog in the back yard to the left, which seemed to trigger a bark from the old German shepherd at the end of the cul-de-sac. Back and forth, back and forth - the repetitiveness of it was almost as unbearable as the sound itself. Paul kept counting, or at least he thought he was counting, well into the triple digits, until he awoke and noticed Sandy was no longer in bed.

Downstairs in the kitchen, he found her staring blankly at an array of kitchen supplies she had lined up on the counter. Comet. Clorox. An economy-sized bottle of Drano. Some silver polish. And a large mound of ground beef.

“I read this in a mystery novel once,” she said. “I think some combination of these is poisonous.”

Paul actually began to feel sick to his stomach. The idea that he was married to a woman who would actually kill a dog did not make him happy. It made him feel that something was terribly wrong.

“Please,” he begged. “Don’t make me think that you’re crazy.”

She walked to him very slowly and put her head to his shoulder. “I’m not crazy,” she said. “I’m just desperate.”

He kissed her lightly on the forehead. “Go upstairs,” he said. “I’ll put everything away.”

Sandy had obviously been crying when he returned to bed after his chore. Paul pretended not to notice. “Are you talking to the caterer tomorrow… I mean today?” he asked.

She nodded.

“Do you think he knows how to make Dranoburgers? I’m sure our guests would love to try this smashing new recipe.”

Sandy laughed for once - although just as sarcastic as Paul’s comment - and as they held hands under the covers, Paul could feel her tense up with each bark. He watched her moist green eyes but never saw them close. When he awoke the next morning, he doubted that she had even blinked.

Early the next morning, Paul took a quick stroll around the cul-de-sac. The dogs were barking - apparently, like Sandy, they never slept - and he found it impossible to believe that his neighbors, even if vampires, could sleep through all the constant noise.

The big, mangy German shepherd at the last house had a raspy old bark. The owner had bragged that Shep, the dog’s woefully unoriginal name, was 14 years old. “That’s ninety-eight in human years,” the woman had added by rote. Paul had taken heart in that number.

Soon, he told Sandy, Shep would be dead. “There will still be two others,” she answered.

Shep did not take to kindly to Paul’s presence. He hurled his aged body against the chain link gate by the driveway in protest. Maybe if I stand here long enough the dog will knock itself unconscious, thought Paul. The more the dog bounced against the fence, the more Paul hated it. It was a mean, ugly, _noisy_ dog, and was making his wife - his _pregnant_ wife - very unhappy. Paul used to like dogs. Now he wanted all dogs to just die. Especially this one.

He walked back to his house and got into his car, an act that seemed to further infuriate Shep. With one more push, the dog knocked open the gate and ran to Paul’s car, circling and snapping as nighttime turned to day. Paul started the engine and slowly backed out of his driveway, allowing the dog plenty of time to get out of the way. He might hate Shep, but even he couldn’t knowingly run over an animal in the shadow of its owner’s house. He swung the car around and headed down to the corner, with the old dog in pursuit. Even within the safety of his car, there was something creepy about an angry German shepherd that made Paul feel threatened. It made him want to speed up; to watch the dog disappear in his rearview mirror. Instead, he inched along, giving him plenty of time to keep up.

He turned the corner and drove for about two more blocks, stopping a few extra seconds at each STOP sign, keeping a watchful eye on the mirror, and the old dog. Shep definitely had determination. He was still on his tail.

Finally, Paul stopped and the dog, tired and panting, gently stood up and looked into the passenger window. Paul rolled down the window a crack to see how angry Shep still was; he responded by attempting to deliver a sloppy kiss to his hand through the sliver in the window. He opened the door and the dog jumped in.

“I wish Sandy were here,” Paul told the dog. “She reads Doyle novels. She’d know what to do with you.” He put his head on the steering wheel to think, and Shep sat quietly – for the first time in their brief acquaintance – in the passenger seat of the car.

“I could let you go in the woods here,” Paul continued. “We could see how well you get along with the coyotes. I could sell you to someone either very stupid or desperate. Or maybe the Mafia has junior-grade hit men who are willing to train on dogs…” His voice trailed off as he pondered his options.

He felt like a primitive computer, testing his options against an unrelenting board of code, rules, opinions, moreys, and solutions, as Shep sat peacefully, unknowingly unaware that his fate was now being decided. One idea that kept popping up, and no matter how many ways he looked at it, he saw very few flaws and the best possible outcome. It seemed stupid, but since the dog was right here in the car and no one knew any better, it didn’t make any sense not to try.

Paul drove to a veterinarian’s office in the shopping centre he passed every morning on his way to work.

“This is my dog,” he told the woman in the white uniform. “He’s very old, and I’m moving into a small condo at the end of the month. I’ve tried to find a home for him, but…”

The woman listened sympathetically. “He _is_ old,” she said. “And he’s much too large to live in a condominium.

“Paul nodded. “This isn’t very easy for me. I’ve had him since I was a teenager.”

“I understand,” said the woman. “You’re only being fair to the dog.”

“I don’t have to stay, do I?” Paul asked.

“No,” said the woman, handing the bewildered old dog to a young male assistant. “Will this be cash or charge?”

“Paul envisioned his monthly statement: ONE (1) MURDER - $150. Thank God for credit cards, he thought as he drove to the car wash, where it was scrubbed inside and out. He felt jumpy and nervous; not at all sure that his crime was as perfect as it seemed. It might be best to tell no one, he decided, not even Sandy.

“Your car looks nice,” Sandy said as the valet pulled it up in front of the restaurant. “I didn’t even notice it earlier. Did you get it washed?”

“Yes,” Paul answered, wanting very much to change the subject. “How are things going with the caterer?”

“We talked about decorations today. We’re having red, yellow, and green helium balloons all over the back yard - don’t ask me why; he just sort of talked me into it - and he’ll be stringing hanging lights from the deck to the big oak tree in back.”

“Sounds OK,” Paul answered absently. He still felt vaguely unsettled. He’d never been involved in a hit on a dog before. For that matter, he’d never even heard of one.

“You know,” said Sandy, “when we’re away from the house, I feel happy. I almost forgot how miserable I was there.” They’d been spending less and less time at the house lately, eating out virtually every night and visiting people they didn’t even like on weekends.

“It’s not the house, it’s those damned barking dogs,” he said. “Without them, you’d be happy.”

She nodded and reached out to squeeze his hand. “I know I’ve been hard to live with,” she said. “It’s just that I’m so tired and so concerned about the baby. You know that I love you.”

It was Paul’s turn to nod as they pulled into the driveway, past fliers reading LOST DOG that were taped to every available surface. Sandy didn’t seem to notice, but she did hear the two remaining dogs barking. She was still complaining when they turned out the lights.

“It seems a little quieter to me,” said Paul.

“I still can’t sleep,” said Sandy.

Paul got up, went to the bathroom, and got the Valium. He went downstairs and searched through the fridge for some appropriate cut of meat. He found one old steak in the freezer, frozen as hard as Formica. Maybe I’ll just beat the dog to death, he thought, and then eat the murder weapon tomorrow for lunch. He tapped the counter a few times with the steak to get the feel of it. He imagined headlines in the local papers: “STEAK SLAYER STALKS SUBURBS”; “COPS BAFFLED BY GRISLY T-BONE MURDERS”; “BEEF COUNCIL DENIES RED MEAT-VIOLENCE LINK.”

He put the steak in the microwave and hit the defrost button. Then he counted out 12 Valiums. “An adult sized dose for an adult sized bark,” he said, looking out the window into the moonlit night.

The caterer was mincing about wildly when Paul came home the next evening. “This is a disaster,” he moaned, looking at Paul. “Are you Mr. Balloonman?”

“No,” said Paul, “I’m Mr. Host.”

“Sorry,” he said crisply. “Everything is late and I so want _your_ party to be perfect.”

“I’ll settle for a B plus,” said Paul. “Have you seen my wife?”

“She said she was going upstairs to get dressed,” answered the caterer. “If you hear gunshots, it’s just me killing myself. There are no balloons and we’re missing two cases of white wine.”

“I’m sure you’ll think of something,” Paul said, heading for the bedroom.

“Your friend downstairs seems to be in a bit of a tizzy,” he told Sandy as she put on her make-up in the bathroom.

“I know. The balloons are late, but they’re supposed to be here by seven, and the liquor store shorted us on a couple of cases of white wine and a case of Samuel Adams. They said they’d bring it over before the party.”

“If it’s left over, can we return it? I have a feeling people are going to leave early, if they show up at all.”

“You always say that,” Sandy said, making a wide blue arc around one eye. “Besides, I invited the neighbors.”

“That’s a staggering bit of news,” Paul said, genuinely stunned. “I though you hated them and their dogs.”

“I do,” she replied quite logically, “but I knew they’d hear the party and it seemed impolite not to. Anyway, if we make a good impression, maybe they’ll put their dogs to sleep.”

Paul winced and turned away. He heard the doorbell ring. “Who is it?” he yelled to the caterer.

“It’s the liquor store,” came the reply.

“Thank God,” said Paul to Sandy as he headed towards the bar to get himself a nice stiff drink.

The guest list was unusually large by their standards, mixing several groups of people: his co-workers from the ad agency, hers from the bank, his parents, her parents, a few old friends from college, some neighbors from the old apartment, and, apparently, some of their new neighbors.

A few guests had already arrived when Mr. Balloonman and his hyperactive helium team showed up. Paul greeted the guests and watched with amazement at the number of balloons that were festooned in his back yard. Either helium balloons are very cheap, he thought, or I’m spending an enormous amount of money on inert gas.

His back stiffened when the couple from next door appeared. There’s nothing like drugging your neighbors’ golden retriever to make you feel ill at ease, he thought.

“I’m glad you could come,” said Paul. “How are you?”

“Actually, we’re a little sad,” answered the wife. “Our dog died today.”

“I’m very sorry,” said Paul, who was already light-headed from his drink. “What happened?”

“He must have had a virus,” said the husband. “He’d been moping around for the past few days, not being himself at all. We just didn’t think he was that sick.”

“This morning he never woke up,” continued the wife. “He had been vomiting, but we didn’t know it. I feel so guilty for not paying attention.”

“You shouldn’t blame yourself,” said Paul in his most consoling voice. “I heard him barking last night, and he sounded fine to me.”

“It’s a very sad day for Mrs. Carson, too,” the wife said, pointing in the direction of the last house, Shep’s house, at the end of the cul-de-sac. “Her dog got out the other day and just never came back. She’s going crazy looking for him.”

“I’m sure he’ll turn up,” said Paul.

“He’s a very old dog,” offered the husband. “You just never know what will happen next. Like they say, bad news seems to come in threes.”

“Paul excused himself and quickly scanned the crowd for Sandy. He dragged her aside and - without mentioning his own complicity in either case - told her that one dog was dead and the other missing.

“There _is_ a God!” she answered then urged him not to drink too much, a warning that had come a few Sammy’s too late and would be ignored, anyway. Then, she bounced happily back into the fray, smiling brightly, as if she had just received the best news of her life.

“Did I have a good time?” Paul asked later that night after all the guests had left.

“Too good, I’d say,” replied Sandy as she got out of bed. “I hope you enjoyed it, because when the baby comes, you’re not going to have many evenings like that. You’ll be totally useless tomorrow.”

“Did _you_ have a good time?” he asked, finally sitting up on one elbow.

“Yes, I did. I think everyone did.”

“Everyone human,” added Paul. “Two down, one to go.” He put his finger up to his lips. “Shhhhhh…”

In the background was the yippy little bark of the small dog behind them towards the left.

“Almost perfect?” he asked.

“Almost,” she replied groggily. “Almost livable.”

“Were the owners of that little shit at the party? I don’t remember seeing them.”

“They’re away for the weekend,” she answered. “And you were too drunk to see much of anything…”

“At least you’ll sleep tonight,” Paul said.

“I will if you either get in bed or leave,” she said.

“I’m going downstairs to survey the damage, then I’ll be up.”

[Z-Man]

It was nearly two A.M., and the caterer was long gone, taking with him the lights that he had hung over the yard. There were two bottles of white wine on ice behind the bar and, of course, an unopened case of Sam Adams. Paul grabbed a few bottles and went out to sit on the redwood deck, choosing the chair with the best view of the electric bug zapper. He sat and watched as the occasional mosquito or gnat head straight for the ultraviolet light, only to be fried with a pleasant sounding buzz on the grid that surrounded the long, glowing blue tube. Sometimes, Paul noticed, a hearty moth would be drawn towards the zapper, tricked onto the grid and then jolted senseless, but not killed. The moth would try again for the light, get stunned once more and fall, only to try again and again until one last shock sent it falling into the tray with all the other dead bugs.

Besides the buzz of doomed insects, Paul listened to the barking of the last dog. The bark had a lonely quality, as if the dog wondered what had happened to the other voices that used to answer back. Paul had drunk two Sammy’s when he decided to finally approach the last dog.

He wasn’t sure what type of dog it was. The small breeds always seemed to confuse and disgust him. It was sort of fluffy and, as he discovered when he reached over that quaint white-picket fence, lighter than he had expected.

“I could mail you to Guam for sixty cents,” he told the dog. It replied by almost snapping Paul’s nose off with another one of its annoying yips.

“You won’t ever have the chance to do that to my wife or my child you little bastard,” he said, as he dropped it the full four feet into its own back yard.

Paul lay down on the grass, looking at the moon, watching the dozens, almost hundreds, of balloons - their almost Rasta-like colors changed by the ultraviolet glow of the bug zapper - sway in the gentle night breeze. He drank a little more while the dog continued its incessant yipping through the fence.

He thought about the dogs that had died already and about Sandy and the embryonic little Toren, but he was already too drunk to come up with any conclusions. Besides, who could think with that damn non-stop barking?!?

Suddenly and unexpectedly, Paul had an idea, and without giving it more that a millisecond’s consideration, he sprang up from his chair and went into action. Within what seemed like only seconds, he had collected all the balloons and tied them together. He carefully grabbed the fluffy little yip dog from next dog over it’s four foot prison and tied the Rasta balloons to its harness. Then, by the eerie light of the bug zapper, he let it go.

The dog rose slowly at first, as if it were a cartoon dog, slowly being inflated by one of its nemeses. Then, the balloons finally caught the breeze and the dog, yipping frantically, was carried out over its house, over the streetlights, and toward, it seemed, the moon itself.

“Sorry dog,” Paul said. “Bad news seems to come in threes.”

In his drunkenness, Paul thought that the sight of a furry little yip dog held aloft by dozens of brightly colored balloons silhouetted against the full red moon was the prettiest thing he’d ever seen. He wanted to wake Sandy up to show her, but that, of course, would defeat his purpose. He watched until the dog disappeared over the woods a few miles away. Even after the balloons had dropped past the skyline, Paul still thought he heard barking. Then, it was finally quiet.

He went upstairs and undressed. Sandy was finally sleeping soundly and barely stirred when he slipped beneath the covers. The room was spinning, and Paul felt strange.

His wife reached out to touch him. “It’s so nice and quiet now,” she said groggily. “I feel like everything’s going to be OK.”

Paul immediately felt better and promptly joined his wife in the deepest sleep he’d had in weeks.

the end...

[Z-Man]

Let's dance!

[Z-Man]

Woohoo!

[Chris Cheung]

bleh

[Blackmoxa]

Here's some random insanity to throw on the pile. I have no clue what's goin' on....




Ever see those stupid people at school who really hate everybody before even giving others a chance to prove themselves worthy of the stupid person's so much important exisitance? Well I know someone... na a few actually... but the King of them all would have to be this one guy named 'King of the Nazi smurfs' (not his real name) he's one of them guys whose gonna end up on Jerry Springer throwing chairs at his girlfriend for licking his dick the wrong way. Anyway.... 'King of the Nazi smurfs' hangs around with my old friends 'Skipper' and 'Lucas' (not their real names). These 2 girls are mean and are the kind that you call scunt cabs because they make fun of people constantly over stupid things...... oh and his 'Bleach blond trailer park trash' girlfriend (I really have nothing against her or her hair its just a good insult, and she doesn't live in a trailer park but shes that type.)And hes also friends with this guy named 'Alien' (not real name) who is really nice and he has an obsession with the good ol' Mary Jane. The only reason why people hang around with these people is because of the orgies they throw and the drugs the sell. Anyway back to why I hate this 'King of the Nazi smurfs' ... I never hated him when I first saw him... I never even thought anything bad of him... then he started poking fun at my friend 'Rainbow Brite' BECAUSE shes basically a hippie (plain and simple) this was at lunch one day in the cafeteria and it kinda made me uncomfortable because me being an innocent and naive person (hehe) didn't quiet catch onto what he was doing.... but I mean most people wouldn't have caught on or just wouldn't belive what he was saying if you knew 'Rainbow Brite' cause its impossible to hate her, shes a sun child and hates no one (literally). I didn't realize what was going on till he started making fun of 'Radio Active Super Goth Man'... 'Radio Active Super Goth Man' is my boy toy and very good at...umm never mind ... he dresses in black and wears black makeup and sometimes wears a black skirt of his friend's... What he basicly said was "I'm better than him because he worships the devil and likes to wear black." which is really fuckin bright there 'King of the Nazi smurfs'! because 'Radio Active Super Goth Man' doesn't worship the devil...and he can wear what ever he damn well pleases. "Do you have to defend your religion when people make fun of it?" 'King of the Nazi smurfs' says chuckling to himself like the idiot who jerks off to the Oscar Mayer Wiener commercials because the song has a good beat and he is jealous of the meaty content in those wieners which he can only dream about having."Peace!" He says trying to make 'Rainbow Brite' look stupid which is infernally and utterly impossible. At this point '40 year old trapped in a 16 year old's body' ( not her real name but is a good friend of mine) jumps in and says "what makes you think your better than him?" ("him" meaning 'Radio Active Super Goth Man') and the bloody bastard couldn't come up with a fucking answer that made any sense and backed up his stupid ignorance!... I being the little wimp that I am sat there staring in horror at 'King of the Nazi smurfs' guy then he realized I was staring at him and made a stupid face at me trying to imitate my confused expression... then I looked over at 'Alien' who was laughing!!!!('Alien' later appologised for doing this). This incident made this 'King of the Nazi smurfs' guy look stupid... even though he may have thought he looked too cool to for even his smart self to comprehend. (ARGH THE SPICE GIRLS VIDEO JUST CAME ON TV! PUKE *gag!* BARF! melting melting! ahhh maybe its a sign to stop bitching about these people?) anyway... People like 'King of the Nazi smurfs' can suck my mothers ass because if I had the chance Id puke on their shoes....

[Kyle]

That is perfect people, now keep it coming!!!

[Kyle]

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