I'm here for the science.
I can tell, you're all method.
What's that?
malakas!?
"Dud Simperer. The sound of the discordant hemispheres of your brain rattling in dubious unison begs only one question, however the question is as multi-faceted as your grasp of the scientific method..*yawn*, i.e not at all.
I liked the addition of the *yawn*.
It gives you that air on indestructibility as you spout off declarations of your own failures.
Let's see, I skimmed through it and I didn't find any substance.
Dancing like a little boy, in tights, to catch my eye, will not get your ass fucked.
What I'm about to propose but seem to to have predisposed by mere act of presumptuous preposition is...Ahh fuck, I forgot but never mind, I'll just spout some more spittle loosely disguised as philosophical, pheremonally, phrighteningly phucking philosophically(did I mention phellatio?..never mind you heaving mass of intellectually insufficient, insubordinate fruitcakes, yes, now I'm getting to my point, blah, blah, blah!)
There you go again, dancing and pirouetting and flaunting yourself, until you get all tangled up in your own emptiness.
(The blah, blah blah is your point)
FOR FUCK'S Sake does not a single one of you bar Greatnapkin even go close to remotely understanding a phreaking word of this?
Ballerina, you don't want anyone to understand. That'll expose how bankrupt you are.
You just enjoy giving off the impression that the mound protruding from your tights is your manhood, when you've stuffed it with a potato.
Line your scrawny or fat asses (arses..sic{Spud}) up over here, I'm of a mind to screw you all into oblivion ( although you'll all be oblivious, such is the level of your obvious oral obfuscation).
you are powerful. The smell itself.
That means dear fuck knuckles, If you'd shut up for more than half a second, you'd realise just whose knuckles you've been fucking...etc, etc..pass the balaclava.
How does it feel to punch a mirror and then pretend that the cracks across your reflection this other's blood?
I like you.
This joint needs some entertainment.
Now pretend you're my puppet-master and I'm your dummy.
Cloud it in a obfuscating smokescreen of verbal vomit.
Then declare yourself King.