Duroth's Flamebate Posts

Possible Veado E-Peen Bug

Cheaters ALWAYS win.

We, who like to take shortcuts, salute you.

WEG0TLAID - Bigger is better.

Talking about bum cirgreat timesference, man.

Poetry

If you want to **** at ease.

Place your elbows on your knees.

A little grunt, A little squeeze.

And out they come

Like rotten cheese.

Poetry

The toilet brush is an amazing tool

It’s long and bushy and sits by the stool,

To be used by those who don’t have a mind;

Who often seem to be quite blind

To those messy skids and deposits

Left in the once clean toilet faucet,

Ignored for other people to come and see

Just how selfish and unclean someone can be!

Poetry

What is a fart, but a natural thing.

Just something to make, your derriere sing

Yes it is true, some do smell a lot.

Like something had died, and started to rot.

Some are too wet, and come with a prize.

When there’s too much gravy, on that order of fries.

Then there are silent ones, the deadliest of all.

They can sneak up on you, if you’re not on the ball.

With an odor so bad, you’ll drop to the floor.

A stench that’s so rotten, you’ll head for the door.

But I won’t hold back, and I’ll fart every time.

Because it’s all natural, and I’m feeling just fine.

Poetry

A poem about potties by a literature major

Would be an affront, to their truest of nature

A respectable author would never sink so low

To write about farts and how they can blow

They crone about sunsets so beautifully bright

Never some movement you had that same night

All must conform to what the learned half thinks

To smell their own crap, would just prove that it stinks

They believe in the subject, not how well it’s displayed

They should ponder of silk, or how it is made

No matter the dressings, we all do the same dance

And even an artist, can mess his own pants

Poetry

Here in the solitude, of this metal sided box

Water is a tidal wave, when you drop in huge rocks

It gets you all wet, and drenches your seat

Then drips down your leg, all the way to your feet

I can feel the tremors, with everyone dropped

But this disembowelment, just can not be stopped

Now they’re shooting out, like a thousand machine guns

I’d swear there was smoke, coming out of my buns

Then there’s the smell, of the dead you might think

Enough to kill the witnesses, just by the stink

And when I’m all done, I’ll have a frown on my face

Because I was the one, that stayed put in his place

Poetry

When it hits you, you won’t control it

You’d better run, but don’t you blow it

Try to squeeze, and you just might slow it

Now start to look, for some washroom signs

The ones they hide, at those desperate times

And you’d better pray, there are no lines

You’re almost there, but what is this

You’re leg is wet, but it’s not ****

Pieces of peanuts, you just can’t miss

Here it comes, like a dam that’s split

Or a plug for a tub, that just won’t fit

A thick watery grave, that’s full of ****

So now you’re there, but it’s too late

This horrible thing, must be your fate

Designers of malls, are the ones to hate

They purposely build them, at the end of long halls

So no one can make it, when they feel natures calls

Someone should kick them, right square in the balls

Just make sure you go, before you visit the malls

Poetry

The service station trade was slow.

The owner sat around,

With sharpened knife and cedar stick.

Piled shavings on the ground.

No modern facilities had they,

The log across the rill

Led to a shack, marked His and Hers

That sat against the hill.

“Where is the ladies restroom, sir?”

The owner leaning back,

Said not a word but whittled on,

And nodded toward the shack.

With quickened step she entered there

But only stayed a minute,

Until she screamed, just like a snake

Or spider might be in it.

With startled look and beet red face

She bounded through the door,

And headed quickly for the car.

Just like three gals before.

She missed the foot log — jumped the stream

The owner gave a shout,

As her silk stockings, down at her knees

Caught on a sbumafras sprout.

She tripped and fell — got up,

And then In obvious disgust,

Ran to the car, stepped on the gas,

And faded in the dust.

Of course we all desired to know

What made the gals all do

The things they did, and then we found

The whittling owner knew.

A speaking system he’d devised

To make the thing complete,

He tied a speaker on the wall

Beneath the toilet seat.

He’d wait until the gals got set

And then the devilish guy

Would stop his whittling long enough,

To speak into the mike.

And as she sat, a voice below

Struck terror, fright and fear

“Will you please use the other hole,

We’re painting under here.

Poetry

I am woman, here me roar,

I can’t take this, any more,

This stall lock, just won’t work,

Must be built, by some male jerk,

Now I have to, improvise,

To sit like this, is not too wise,

‘Cause if I pee, it hits the floor,

When my feet, must hold the door.