Sentinel (finishing up drying dishes): This is where I leave you.
Sgt. Earth: Well, thank you muchly.
Sentinel: That’s not a word.
Sgt. Earth: What?
Sentinel: “Muchly.” That’s not a word.
Sgt. Earth: It’s wordish.
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Googling my screen name produced this gem from back in 2005. I have no idea about the context of this info, only that some group of teen aged girls thought it was funny as hell. I’ve separated out the actual conversation from her conversation about the conversation for your convenience. lime margar iiTa: HAHAHA lime margar iiTa: who talks like that?!
Mayweather Syndrome is a debilitating condition that results in audience apathy. Onset of symptoms occurs whenever Travis Mayweather opens his mouth. Shortly thereafter, the cancer of his atrocious acting metastasizes to the other cast members, eventually killing the appeal of the show. There is no known cure for Mayweather Syndrome. So I’ve been sharing my room with this guy for a few months. Wanna know how that went? Dope as shit, man, dope as shit. Seriously, this guy is balls awesome, I’d definitely take his cock in my mouth in some mad respect fellatio. Seriously, if he was a chick, I’d superman that ho. Here’s why he’s the shit. I’m getting ready to start a lab when I realize that I don’t have any ethanol to wipe down my lab bench with. I am now faced with a choice: I can borrow ethanol from the guy to my left or the attractive girl behind me. Tough choice. The first option is definitely safer. I wouldn’t have to worry about my voice cracking, my shoe laces suddenly being tied together or my pants spontaneously falling down as the universe’s way of getting even with me. At the same time I would not have the opportunity to begin a dialogue with the girl that I spend most of the lectures staring at. Tough choice… tough choice. I could… tough choice. No wait… damn… tough choice. Well, let it not be said that I am a coward. nervestaple is now online. Between a friend and me in my car: “If you rape a hooker, is that theft of services?”  Heralded by a deafening roar of thunder, a deluge of flames poured from the skies. The streets and rivers ran with blood. Grotesque beasts sprang up from vast chasms carved in the Earth’s surface leading straight to the depths of the underworld. And four skeletal riders appeared on the horizon, arriving to bring about the destruction of mankind.
7/17/49 Today I found PFC Wilson sleeping in a broken garbage disposal unit. He said he had thought it was his bed. When I asked him how long he had been sleeping there, his saddened reaction indicated that he had been using it as his bunk since we launched from Detria Station six months ago. This puzzled me, because the disposal unit had been operational until two weeks ago. He said that sleeping in an operational garbage disposal unit was difficult, but not impossible; that he would roll out of it every hour to avoid getting crushed and salvage what bedding he could, though he frequently lost pillowcases and sheets to its hungry maw, but he had also wondered why people always threw garbage at him. |
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