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Testudo

Avatar: Guitar Girl
1

Level 69 Camwhore

“Venereal Biohazard”

This is a TRUE story about when I went to the moon and beyond by accident(*).

And yes, I mean that giant floating ball wandering aimlessly every night in the sky. And no, I don’t mean that spinning flashing ball of light (get yourself out of the disco floor!).

For every retard questioning the truth of this story: built yourself a spaceship, get your bum to the area called “the blue area of the moon”. Once there, look for the highest hill and you’ll find my footprint there, along with “See? I told you, ****tard Log in to see images!!!” welcoming message just for you.

Fasten your seat belt…

JOURNEY TO THE CENTRE OF THE MOON

Chapter I : It all started with ForumWarz

I was playing ForumWarz that night. While browsing through the Kyoubai catalogue, I saw an entry when I ticked on the ‘Web Spiders’ clbum. Curiousity kills the cat (or the dog, in my case), they say. I checked it and it turned out to be a Simple Web Spider with 3.500.000 buyout. I thought to myself, “Hahaha, what am I? A n00btard?” Turned out my mind could see into the future; as, thanks to my malfunctioning optical mouse, I accidently clicked that cursed BUY bumon…

FUUUCCCCCKKKKKKKKK!!!!!!!!

..silence for a moment.. everytime I write about this, I feel this uncontrollable urge to beat my dog, Bob, to half-death with a baseball bat. Sometimes I wonder how he manage to stand up afterward, I may have to use a hockey stick next time…

After reciting every curse words ever created in the history of men, women, aliens, and zombies (and even some of my own created curse words just for this occasion; bet you’ve never heard of “humsstard” before); I decided to write a lengthy complaint regarding the lack of CANCEL bumon in Kyoubai. 5 minutes latter, I decided to complain about Evil Trout lamebumness itself.

3 hours latter, I finished my post :

This is to voice my dissatisfaction with Mr. Evil Trout’s ballyhoos. The points I plan to make in this letter will sound tediously familiar to everyone who wants to honor our nation’s glorious mosaic of cultures and ethnicities. Nevertheless, he has been trying for quite some time to convince us that vile worrywarts have dramatically lower incidences of cancer, heart attacks, heart disease, and many other illnesses than the rest of us. I suggest he take this rotting ordure and dump it where he and his fellow supercilious undesirables congregate. At least then we could uphold peace, freedom, democracy, and justice without having to worry that he will cast the world into nuclear holocaust. Only through education can individuals gain the independent tools they need to analyze Mr. Trout’s bumertions in the manner of sociological studies of mbum communication and persuasion. But the first step is to acknowledge that there is no excuse for the innumerable errors of fact, the slovenly and philistine artistic judgments, the historical ineptitude, the internal contradictions, and the various half-truths, untruths, and gussied-up truths that litter every one of his essays from the first word to the last.

Ancient Greek dramatists discerned a peculiar virtue in being tragic. Mr. Trout would do well to realize that they never discerned any virtue in being belligerent. Why does defeatism exist? What causes it? And what is Mr. Trout’s secret agenda? To understand the answers to those questions, you first have to realize that the question that’s on everyone’s mind these days is, “Will peeling back the onion of Mr. Trout’s obtrusive, postmodernist ethics cause Mr. Trout to shed tears or will it merely enhance his desire to take us all back to the Stone Age?” In clbumic sophist fashion, I ask another question in reply: Where are the people who are willing to stand up and acknowledge that his historical record of dictatorial, insufferable ruses is clearer than the muddled pronouncements of his backers?

...

...

...

I won’t bother you any further with that. Suffice to say that it was 1337 enuff to make Hitler himself want to do an a2m2a2b2u2k2s2w Log in to see images! with Michael Jackson. Yes, it was THAT awesome. As I was about to post that, though, I remember…

Chapter II : The Late History Essay about Civil War

I just remembered about that blasted 15-pages essay for tommorow. With the clock pointing at 4.03 AM, I was definitely in some serious **** this time. Not to mention that I’ve failed History twice already. And if that wasn’t bad enough, you just won’t find any teacher harsher than Ms. Andrew…

Ahh, Ms. Andrew… Tall, slim, slender legs, smooth silky skin, dark brown hair, lips to live for, breasts to kill for, bum to die for. There’s always an aura of sexiness everytime she walks. Always wearing a matching clothes, elegant yet not covered enough to conceal her beauty completely. God must be exist for she always prefer a tight hugging clothes to a more conventional clothes. Simply put, there’s no man alive who can’t resist her charm.

One day, after the clbum were dismissed, she called out to me, “I need to talk to you.” I won’t forget that smile, so heartwarming yet at the same time, so full of pbumion. “Yes?”, I answered casually. “As you know, your grade..” the wind carried away her words as I was drowning in the heavenly bliss. Her face, her body, her voice, everything about her was perfect. Just being near to her almost made my heart jumped out. I so wanted to hug her, stroke her hair, kiss her lips, and, just maybe, make a sweet tender love with her.

I don’t remember all the details. ”...come…8PM…address…apartment…” that was all I could remember. Apparently, my brain wasn’t entirely dead, as here I stood, just outside the door to her apartment. Somehow my brain must have been able to decode that cryptic message in my head, concerning something about “private lesson”. I rang the bell …ding dong…

“Just a minute…”

If there’s heaven on earth, then this can’t be it. There she (Ms. Andrew?) stood, wearing a knee length leather boot, a black skin tight lingerie, a spandex hand gloves and a diamond studded collar around her neck. I can’t even recognize the face behind that heavy gothic makeups. My eyes must have been betrayed me.

“I’m sorry ma’am, it seems I was knocking on the wrong door…”

I didn’t even know if she, whoever she was, heard that. The next thing I remember is that I was already strapped to a wooden chair with a leather belt. “Who is she?” Well, there were more important things to worry right now. Thing like, “Is it a dildo in her left hand and a whip in her right hand?” Before I could proceed that thought though, she smiled menacingly, “Let’s get the lesson started…”

That smile… Ms Andrew ? ...

FUUUCCCCCKKKKKKKKK!!!!!!!!

Note to self 1 : I will not write my BSDM experience, too busy…Log in to see images!

Note to self 2 : I will NOT write my BSDM experience GODDAMNIT!!!

Pardon me…just forget that entire Ms Andrew story. Where were we ? Ahh, yes, my late history essay about civil war.

So, after looking at the clock, I just knew (who wouldn’t?) there wasn’t enough time to write all this ****. I chuckled slightly as my mind said, “Never fear, Google is here!”. 10 minutes later, I was looking at someone else’s 93-pages History essay about Civil War. Now to cut down some unnecessary content and replace that sucker’s name with my name. Well, I decided that it wouldn’t take more than 3 minutes and 14 seconds for my brain and hands to do something that simple (Del, Ctrl-C, Ctrl-V, etc) so…

“It’s time to get myself some weeds for a job well done for now” Yeah, a litle ironic, I know, since that sucker did 99.9999% of the job. Anyway, time to meet Antoine…

Chapter III : 7/11 – Caught in the Act

to be (or not to be) continued…

except for the parts I made up

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