QuikSsurfer Is teh Ghey

[SLAG]

QuickSsurfer is teh gehyst Planet member.

Its Confirmed.

Also confirmed is Mings Chineese Restaraunt Called... they want their main course back quckie they call it the Salem Special

[chagrin]

Originally Posted by CHENZ A!

That is an Eazy E sample that the DJ for Sublime cut in.

Oh the irony

[Halfcan]

bumb

[SLAG]

Hey Tuwntboy

[Rausch]

Originally Posted by Ultra Peanut

This thread needs more uuuughhahalahalguah.

Like I don't have enough trouble sleeping.

You EVER post that picture again I'll kill your family and seal them in those cool plastic infomercial vaccum bags...

[Jenny Gump]

Originally Posted by Rausch

Like I don't have enough trouble sleeping.

You EVER post that picture again I'll kill your family and seal them in those cool plastic infomercial vaccum bags...

Ahhhh...that's the Brad I love.

[SLAG]

Originally Posted by Rausch

Like I don't have enough trouble sleeping.

You EVER post that picture again I'll kill your family and seal them in those cool plastic infomercial vaccum bags...

[Ultra Peanut]

Pork-chop gets me a job at the Honker burger, and then he’s pushing a gun in my mouth, telling me the first step to eternal life is that you have to die. For a long time, Pork-chop and I were best friends. People were always asking me about my dog.

The gun presses harder into the roof of my mouth, wet now from the stew of saliva and sweat leaking around in my orifice. “Arf arf arf, arf arf arf.” he hisses.

“No Pork-chop,” I say, “You’re thinking of vampires.” The words are dulled into nothingness by the gun.

As Pork-chop removes the barrel, I realize that all of this - the Honker burger, Mr. Dink, the revolution - has something to do with a girl named Patty Mayonnaise.

Patty. I’d chased that bitch since junior high, running after her on a mix of testosterone and pure stupidity. It took some changes for me to realize that nirvana didn’t sprawl shining between her legs. It took Pork-chop.

Pork-chop had been my dog as long as I could remember. Most of the time, he was inoffensive. Cute even, with his barely audible barks and strangely anthropomorphic characterization. Things changed when I got to high school. Pork-chop changed.

I was scrawling in my journal that night. I don’t remember what about, but I’m sure it was just more bitching about Patty. Those days seem far off now, from this cluttered principal’s office. Everything in life looks distant from atop 5 barrels of timer set nitro-glycerin.

Pork-chop seemed strangely quiet sophomore year. Worse, he seemed uninterested in my piddling personal problems. He was all I had. The silence broke that night I was writing in my journal. As I’d done for what seemed like a lifetime, I reached for the light switch. A small gray hand intercepted my arm.

“What is it Pork-chop?”

“Arf Arf Arf Ar Arf Ar Ar Arf Ar Arf Arf” he asked.

“What?”

“Arf Arf Arf Ar Arf Ar Ar Arf Ar Arf Arf.” he repeated.

“What, why?”

“Arf Arf Arf Ar A Arf?”

“No, but that’s a good thing.”

“Arf, arf. Arf Arf Arf Arf Arf Arf-arf ar Arf Arf Ar Arf?”

“Jesus, man, I don’t know.” I put the journal down.

“Arf Arf Ar, Arf Arf Arf Arf Ar Arf.”

So I did it. I hit him as hard as I could. Pork-chop’s tiny frame flew across the room, smashing into my trophy case. Grade school victories were stained by his dark red doggie blood.

“Jesus, Pork-chop, I’m sorry...”

He just growled something approving, and charged back at me.

That was my first real fight. I got deep bruises that night. Cuts so severe that they bled real blood. These were not the pin pricks of childhood. This was something new. Something I wanted more of.

Little did I know that It’d leave me here. In Mr. Bone's abandoned office, a gun violating my mouth, while the grimy timer in the basement counts down from sixteen hours. Then this whole school will be so much undifferentiated rubble. This second floor will just be a point in space. An invisible dot in the air, where my journal really ends.

[Ultra Peanut]

Mr. Dink.

Mr. Dink had bitch tits.

Huge monstrous breasts, hanging from his chest like gelatin filled balloons. Swaying rhythmically as he waddled towards me. Those awkward little steps. His glasses drooping down his purple gherkin nose, eyes straining to hold back tears.

I’m motionless as he hugs me. Arms draped with middle age flab. “How you doin’, Douglas?” He sobbed.

“I’m fine, Mr. Dink.” I said. I put my arms around him, but the whole time I’m thinking about last night when Pork-chop landed a kick square across my jaw. I’m thinking about the ice water jolt of pain in my skull. The Novocain feeling still running through it as it heals. “I’m better than fine, Mr. Dink.” I add.

He unwraps his arms from around me, stepping back and motioning to his indescribably large rack. “It was an invention, Douglas,” he spat through a leaking veil of tears, “An experimental helicopter lawnmower. It blew up, some of the radioactive fuel splashed on my chest...” his eyes jerked about in teary convulsions.

Mr. Dink charged me again, burying his flabby purple head in my shoulder. His tears soak into my shirt like blood from last night’s fight. I think about Pork-chop, and his hard kick. The rest comes naturally.

“But I’m still a man, Douglas...”

“Mr. Dink?”

He sniffs, raising his face out of my shoulder. “Yes?”

“There’s a club meeting at my house tonight. I think you’d like it.”

The next time I see Mr. Dink, he’s charging at me drenched in sweat and mainlining adrenaline. He’s slow. I land a good chop along his nose. Blood rolls down purple skin, reminding me of his tears that afternoon. As he grabs my hair, ramming my head into the concrete wall again and again, I look him in the eyes. I see the same thing I saw in myself that first night with Pork-chop. My head hits the concrete again, making a sound like raw meat. Through blood soaked eyes I see Pork-chop smiling at the edge of the basement.

[Abba-Dabba]

Typing 'teh ghey' is pretty damn gay in itself.

Oh... shi...

[Ultra Peanut]

Pork-chop pulls the gun out of my mouth, its barrel soaked from the stay. “Arf arf arf arf ar arf?” He barks.

“I can’t think of anything, Pork-chop.” I spit. Blood is caked around my head. Memories are sizzling inside it like eggs on a Texas sidewalk. Mr. Dink’s brain spilling out onto the floor of my parent’s kitchen. The chanting that followed, all about him, his name. “His name was Bud Dink,” they said. Masturbating into mayonnaise at the Honker Burger. Shoving a gun to the back of Phoebe’s skull, telling her that if she doesn’t get on the way to being a doctor in 24 hours she’s going to die. Good times.

Old times.

Everything is old now. It’s old because it’s dark in Mr. Bone’s office. It’s old because of the sixteen minutes I have until the nitro goes up. It’s old because my alternate personality is a tiny gray dog that communicates only in vaguely understandable barks. I think that means I’m a furry.

It also means that he can’t hold a gun. The gun has to be... in my hand.

I recognize the weight in my hand, the sexy curve of the metal grip, even though it’s been there the whole time. Pork-chop lights up a cigarette, eyeing me coolly from across the room. “Arf arf. Arf arf arf arf.”

“No, Pork-chop,” I stand up. Cold sweat runs down my brow like anti-freeze. “It ends here.” I jam the gun between my gums again.

Pork-chop raises an eyebrow. He knows I don’t have the guts to do it. I’m just a kid, writing in my journal about my obsession of the day. Living half my life in powerful fantasies about spies and superheroes. I can’t do it. I’m frozen by own inadequacy. Impotent.

I close my eyes, and pull the trigger.

My jaw is torn off in a Chinese dragon smile as the bullet hurtles through the bone and meat that was my face. I hit the ground, the yodeling equipment strewn around the office swirling in my eyes.

---

In my father’s house are many mansions.

When I pulled the trigger, I hit the floor as meat. Dead. An object devoid of thought and energy.

Liar.

I went to heaven. Where god sits behind a big oak desk and tells me we’re all beautiful and unique snowflakes. No, I say. That’s wrong. We aren’t unique and beautiful, but we aren’t crap or trash either. We just are.

God says that’s wrong. And god writes about me in his journal as the angels lead me out of the room. I can almost see god click off his light, and whistle in the darkness.