Nazi Germany
Zubeer Adolf Hipster - KVAZAR MOLOCH
- Joined
- Aug 15, 2024
- Posts
- 1,342
- Reputation
- 3,879
Every night, it’s the same ritual: I walk up to the porcelain demon like it’s my daily confession, and it’s not just a piss anymore—it’s a fucking performance. My toilet’s not some dumb fixture; no, it’s got an agenda. Every time I let go, I can hear the whispers crawling up through the pipes, like it’s got exclusive dirt on my whole life. Every night, I stand there, dick in hand, and it’s not just piss—it’s a conversation. The toilet’s been whispering shit back at me, telling me things I didn’t ask to know. Like, who the fuck asked a toilet for life advice? But here we are, and now I’m stuck decoding piss messages like some urine prophet. The worst part? It’s always right.
My piss hits the water, and suddenly the whispers start. It’s mumbling about lost futures, like I’m flushing away what’s left of my genetic potential. The toilet knows I’m rotting—it sees it. It feels it. Every drop’s a reminder that I’m just another piss-stained loser, swirling around in the human equivalent of a flesh toilet.And I’m just standing there, dick out, while the toilet tells me my future like it’s some piss-soaked crystal ball.
It's not subtle either. Oh no, this bowl bastard likes to get personal. The second my piss hits the water, it starts murmuring—but it’s not some mystical shit. No, it’s like your drunk uncle at Christmas: “You’re flushing away your last bit of hope, dumbass. Enjoy it while it lasts.”
The toilet doesn’t just take the piss; it’s practically holding court, spitting out insults as my future swirls away. And me? I’m just standing there, knowing it’s not wrong. Sometimes it throws in life advice, like it’s my toilet therapist, because clearly I need therapy from a place where people drop their shit. It’ll say stuff like, “You ever think maybe you were meant to rot?
It’s almost like the piss is the last shred of dignity I have, and this asshole toilet knows it. Every drop’s a reminder that I’m just another piece of human trash, pissing away whatever’s left of my worth. And the toilet? It enjoys it. I swear, I hear it laughing as it swallows what’s left of my pride. It doesn’t even have to say much anymore—it’s like it knows, I know, we all know—this is it. This is my life: me, the toilet, and a future that flushes itself every night.
And you know what? The more I stand there, listening to this piss prophet whisper about how I’ve managed to fuck up every opportunity, the more I think, maybe it’s right. Maybe I’m just a biological piss stain, leaking through the fabric of existence, and this toilet’s just keeping me in check. It’s like, what’s left? Flush after flush, I’m just pissing away whatever false hope people keep telling me I should hold onto. Meanwhile, the toilet’s down there, collecting the data, knowing it’ll outlast me.
I get it, toilet. I know. Life’s a piss stream, and I’m circling the bowl. But the toilet’s a dick about it, always whispering about how I’m wasting my existence, like it’s keeping score. I don’t need the lecture. I’m already watching my future flush away every night while this porcelain bastard acts like my piss counselor.
My piss hits the water, and suddenly the whispers start. It’s mumbling about lost futures, like I’m flushing away what’s left of my genetic potential. The toilet knows I’m rotting—it sees it. It feels it. Every drop’s a reminder that I’m just another piss-stained loser, swirling around in the human equivalent of a flesh toilet.And I’m just standing there, dick out, while the toilet tells me my future like it’s some piss-soaked crystal ball.
It's not subtle either. Oh no, this bowl bastard likes to get personal. The second my piss hits the water, it starts murmuring—but it’s not some mystical shit. No, it’s like your drunk uncle at Christmas: “You’re flushing away your last bit of hope, dumbass. Enjoy it while it lasts.”
The toilet doesn’t just take the piss; it’s practically holding court, spitting out insults as my future swirls away. And me? I’m just standing there, knowing it’s not wrong. Sometimes it throws in life advice, like it’s my toilet therapist, because clearly I need therapy from a place where people drop their shit. It’ll say stuff like, “You ever think maybe you were meant to rot? It’s almost like the piss is the last shred of dignity I have, and this asshole toilet knows it. Every drop’s a reminder that I’m just another piece of human trash, pissing away whatever’s left of my worth. And the toilet? It enjoys it. I swear, I hear it laughing as it swallows what’s left of my pride. It doesn’t even have to say much anymore—it’s like it knows, I know, we all know—this is it. This is my life: me, the toilet, and a future that flushes itself every night.
And you know what? The more I stand there, listening to this piss prophet whisper about how I’ve managed to fuck up every opportunity, the more I think, maybe it’s right. Maybe I’m just a biological piss stain, leaking through the fabric of existence, and this toilet’s just keeping me in check. It’s like, what’s left? Flush after flush, I’m just pissing away whatever false hope people keep telling me I should hold onto. Meanwhile, the toilet’s down there, collecting the data, knowing it’ll outlast me.
I get it, toilet. I know. Life’s a piss stream, and I’m circling the bowl. But the toilet’s a dick about it, always whispering about how I’m wasting my existence, like it’s keeping score. I don’t need the lecture. I’m already watching my future flush away every night while this porcelain bastard acts like my piss counselor.
@_MVP_ @BigJimsWornOutTires @Vermilioncore @MoggerGaston @TsarTsar444
