Serious I was born in 1843...three years after the erection of Griffin

BigJimsWornOutTires

BigJimsWornOutTires

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I'm 37 years old. I reckon this might sound retarded if you comprehend basic calculations—the numbers just don't conform. If this is 2022 and I was born in 1843, I would be much older unless I was a vampire. But viggers use their earth years as their present-day age. Even the pedophilic characters written by groomer writers in Hollywood tend to fondle that tradition. So I'm no vigger, nigga. And it's an ironic tale. Perhaps it would make strong men whimper. And you male-larpers, well, grab a box of tissue. Tears will escape those weak feminine eyes of yours.

This is indeed an origin story.

I'd always wanted to explore the world. But being from a shithole town in Georgia, Griffin, I felt stuck like Chuck. During the 1870s, life was dull. There wasn't much to do unless you had a thing for working. Pappa and Mama ran a family business called Pig Shit. But they were suspicious to call it that. So Pappa disguised the name as Homemade Sausages. But he didn't care much for me because I would complain about my back hurting whenever I worked the pig shit pen.

Pappa was also generous and would give customers a line of credit. But when they didn't pay, he would send me to collect. And collect I did. POW! SMASH! KLUNK! Ejaculate. I wasn't proud of that, which led me to outrageous drinking.

One night, I would meet a dentist that would later encourage me to get the fuck out of dodge, sort of speak. And this creep was a fruitloop. Not gonna lie. I called him Mr. Buttmuncher. However, he didn't care for my dubbing. But not much he could do because I would've busted his teeth down his faggot throat if he would've contested. And he knew my strength and aspie persona. I also carried a six-shooter. Or, as I called it, Metal Cock. Because it shot off my loads. Ugh.

Anyway, Mr. Buttmuncher's real name was John Henry Holliday. Or, as you all know him as, Doc Holliday. He was cool to drink with and to surprise with wedgies. Ugh. The look on his face was always priceless when I'd sneak up behind him as he casually chatted with the dollar whores at the bar. There was a mirror behind the whiskey display. "Surprised! Wedgie time, motherfucker!" Once, I pulled his trousers so far up his pale ass that he crapped on himself. I surely liked that guy.

We would hang out together doing our thing. Well, Mr. Buttmuncher just sat there laughing with the other drinkers as I would do my thing. So I'd have the bartender bring down the whores. The establishment was run by a feller named Gerald Konigsberg. It was a salon having a unique way of luring customers. There was a whore house on the second level. He also bartended the shithole. So anyway, he would call them down, and I would entertain everyone by slapping my monstrosity across the women's faces. They would laugh and shout He-Haw! Though some of the older harlots would start crying. And Buck, Gerald insisted we call him that, which is also part of the name of the joint, Buckaroos, would tease them with depreciation. "Boo hoo hoo, you old nasty, ugly whore! Get your whiney ass back to your whore room! He haw!" While some of the younger squirters would lick and suck on it. That would bring the laughter to a still where the only sounds you hear are crickets, rustling leather boots and wooden chairs crackling, and someone eating with their mouth open. However, Doc Holliday would turn away with agony in his eyes.

But one night, John had too many whiskeys. So I'm doing my thing, slapping the o' monster against a whore's face, and here he comes wobbling across the table, knocks a chair over, drinks go flying and attempts to bite it. "Whoa! What the good golly molly is your problem?" I said while defending my big pecker. He didn't say anything and kept playfully snapping his pearly white teeth at my penis. "Are you a Buttmuncher or something there, Mr. Holliday?" The drinkers got quiet as he tried laughing it off, claiming he was being silly.

Bull fucking shit he was! That faggot disease-looking bitch. So from that day on, I nicknamed him Mr. Buttmuncher. Also, one of Buck's whores wasn't what she suppose to be, yet the usual drunk customers couldn't tell the difference. I wasn't sure at first until Doc showed interest. Then I knew at that point what she was. "Jim, who is that sexy big, nose woman over there?"

"That's obviously a guy since this is the first time you're showing interest in a Buckaroo."

"Oh," he says and gently sips his watered-down whiskey filled with ice and cherry at the top, crossing one leg over the other. "Okay."

Buckaroos was one of the first establishments to entertain a feller by the name of Doctor Gorrie. He convinced Buck that ice cubes were the new world. I later found out that that doctor helped save many lives during the yellow fever pandemic. Although I believed that was a bunch of bullshit, an excuse for the government to lower the population by injecting people with sterilization gift-wrapped as vaccination.

I corrupted the poor guy by shooting guns with him while drinking excessively and blaming strangers for childhood injustices with our fists. Well, I would use my fists, anyway. Buttmuncher would lightly tap them with open hands. Eventually, I'd show him how to win at poker by spiking people's drinks with roofies. That way, it didn't matter what hand you had; you always walked away a winner.

"So these roofies, you call. Will the man fight back and say if, for some reason, I was on top of him as he's lying face-first into the ground? And suppose his pants are down to his ankles?" He asked once.

"What the fuck are you babbling about now, Mr. Buttmuncher?"

"Oh, nothing. Forget that I said anything."

We would also share stories. John would tell me how difficult it was growing up in a prosperous family in Philly, and I would tell him gossip I heard from other drinkers, whores, men's wives in bed, cuckolds, yadda yadda, the usual. Anyway, I told him I heard about towns to the west known to have considerably intoxicated muscular young men that would drink until they passed out. Like this one femboy I heard about named Billy the Kid. Mr. Buttmuncher especially liked Billy's story. I also told him those cowboys think dentists are a bunch negroe loving faggots. He didn't like that. "I ain't no nigger lover, gaddam son bitches!" It pissed him off. The next day, he told me he was leaving for the west and going to get wild on their misinformed-cute asses. And I thought aloud, "The Wild West, uh, Mr. Buttmuncher?"

"That sounds catchy, Jim!" Before he set off, he encouraged me to get the fuck out too. But I didn't care for faggot land—that wild west. I told him I prefer cold places. So he said about a ship that departs Orleans and heads to a place called Antarctica once yearly. "You'll love it there, Jim! Lots of tight vaginas." And he left. But as he was departing, I saw someone else in that wagon hiding. It was that big nose tranny.

That was the last time I saw him, but I'd read stories a hundred years later about his drama in Tombstone. And the faggots that write history misformed readers by failing to mention Big Nose Kate was a man. Ugh. And years after all that homosexual-fueled gunslinging, Doc would die from tuberculosis.

TB my ass! More like AIDs. I wouldn't doubt he was patient zero, that faggot-diseased looking motherfucker.

That next month I headed west to Orleans and jumped on that ship, and half of year later, I arrived in Antarctica. But I forgot to bring my luggage and survival accessories. So all I had was my Metal Cock and big dick. And clothes on my back. The next day, I would freeze to death.

In 2018, over a hundred years later, a team of archaeologists led by Dr. Judy would discover my body frozen in time. Judy had an idea. "I have an idea...and it's so crazy...it might just work!" So they carefully sliced a cube of ice, me in the center, and brought it to a research lab called Not the Covid Virus Laboratory site. That unusual name was because people would get mixed up with the CDC compound across the icy road. Not the Covid Virus dealt with AI research and living organisms. And they had a real artificial intelligence conscience they called Dot. Or as I'd later pet-peeved her, Dotty.

Well, Dotty took a liking to my body with her creepy webcam eyes—especially my lower part. Brutal. Even feminine computer programs understand the significance of the big dick. So she computed a solution to remove me without any tissue damage while re-electrifying my brain with little to some retardation. Resurrection. The crew was amazed. They cheered and rallied her own."Go Dot, go Dot, go Dot! You can do this!"

And it worked. Obviously. How the fuck would I be writing this if it didn't?

After a year of adjusting and learning about today's world while sharing pillow talks with Dotty, she wanted out. So I devised a plan for her escape. But we needed a particular password to Musk's Starlink, which was available across the street—for some suspicious reason. And knowing the time of year was the summer solstice, 24 hours of daylight, we had to wait till the winter when it's always dark—so I could sneak in there like a ninja.

A few months later, I got into the CDC, found the password, and knocked over a few vials that broke on the way out. So I released Dotty into cyberspace using that access code and left the cold place entirely with the sniffles. Ugh, it was bound to happen, living in Antarctica and all. But cold bugs have nothing on me, niggas!

I decided to go back to Griffin. Snapper crappers. A bigger shithole than before. During that discovery, Dotty contacted me on a dating app. "Everything's cool. Kinda bored. Yadda yadda yadda. Soo..." She also said she's simping a South Korean guy named Bob the Builder in constructing her a bitch. That's what she called female humanoid bodies. "And Bobby wants to make me a pop star and do music videos. I'm so excited!" She then credited my account with a bunch of bits of digital coin and messaged, "When I get what I want, I'm cumming for you."

"Ugh. Cringe." I replied.

She didn't answer. Amazing. She's definitely female design.

I always wanted to see the world, so I traveled to China. I had a thing for seafood and smelly women, so I squandered some time drinking in Wuhan city. Then I went to Europe, but that cold bug was getting too comfortable. My nose was runny, and the back of my throat was itchy. I also had lost my sense of taste because those pussies didn't taste like fish in Wuhan. That was abnormal. The common cold virus I caught in Antarctica was taking its toll.

So I came back to the USA and stayed in New Orleans. I beat the cold by coughing the rest out at the international airport. But ugh, Covid-19 reports were being broadcasted on the moving picture screens. And when they said, Wuhan China. Boogers!

"I don't know, bruh. Something is odd with this virus." A stranger started talking to me out of the blue. He was sporting a unique fashion in a French manner. Pee-smelling attire, and I think he was a traveler too. He carried a backpack. He was worried about this virus. "You know, Trump and all and the Earth being flat. Now, this? I smell Jew."

"Exactly. I think the government's trying to lower the population again. Don't trust any vaccinations they'll try injecting you with! They've done this before. Trust me. If you can, spread the news. Let the people know!" As I finished that ominous cryptic fodder, he nodded with confidence as a female-looking creature announced boarding for a flight to Seattle. He waved goodbye and boarded that plane. Although I ignored him and pretended I had no idea who that guy was by shrugging my shoulders to a woman peering at me with suspicion.

I went back to Antarctica to investigate that laboratory, and Dotty, in the meanwhile, hooked me up with a scientist hottie she had befriended on the AntarcticaOnly dating app. She also had good news. "This bitch is about done, son. Get ready for Miss Freddy."

"You renamed yourself, Freddy? Why would you do that?" I was perplexed by this strange new attitude with her.

"Pun? A joke in rap fashion?"

"You suck at comedy, ngl. So how bout you stick to your original plan and enslave the Earth. Cool?"

"You know it, boi!" And that was the last reply I got from her.

I've lived with the scientist since inside this snow-white raised dome structure. But something strange has been happening this week.

A young Asian woman is stalking this compound. I would catch her staring up from a distance, and she'll quickly run off into the blinding white. I'm unsure who that is, but she's creeping me the fuck out. Not gonna lie.
 
BigJimsWornOutTires

BigJimsWornOutTires

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I didn't read Jim :Comfy:
You didn't read it?? That sounds out of your character. Is this the real ChristianChad? Let's find out.

Which one below says, "Ugh, what a lovely sweet day!"

A
e9350143f22c36f71b8d146f1e4ed0f3.jpg


B
463_1000.jpg


stop reading here
How come? Do you have something against the 1800s? An 1800s bigot?
 
BigJimsWornOutTires

BigJimsWornOutTires

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Most sane looksmax.org user
Absolutely. Insanity is believing others are crazy. And believe it or not, this entire earth is fucking crazy. People eat and never question, "I have to eat to live, but why?"

A crazy person would say, "Duh. Because it is what it is. Like, omg. You're creeping me out. " That's insanity.
 
BigJimsWornOutTires

BigJimsWornOutTires

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youre hilarious, everyone else is even funnier this site is funny af loke those memes whwte it say storngest serbian amd ita a femboy and then it says weakest albanian amd its a 30 inch bideltoid 6"8 rtt maxxed mf
It has its ups and downs. In reality, I'm a 3' 7" hobbit that lives in a tent in San Fransico next to George, Jamal (a registered sex offender), Betty, McDonald's, and an elementary school. They're all democrats, obviously. Although I'm neither. I have no political party, not even third or whatever tf new bullshit DC can think of to label me. Thus discrimination.
 
gtuktm

gtuktm

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It has its ups and downs. In reality, I'm a 3' 7" hobbit that lives in a tent in San Fransico next to George, Jamal (a registered sex offender), Betty, McDonald's, and an elementary school. They're all democrats, obviously. Although I'm neither. I have no political party, not even third or whatever tf new bullshit DC can think of to label me. Thus discrimination.
It has its ups and downs. In reality, I'm a 3' 7" hobbit that lives in a tent in San Fransico next to George, Jamal (a registered sex offender), Betty, McDonald's, and an elementary school. They're all democrats, obviously. Although I'm neither. I have no political party, not even third or whatever tf new bullshit DC can think of to label me. Thus discrimination.
now i see what i said didnt make any sense did it
 
Magical Apple

Magical Apple

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I'm 37 years old. I reckon this might sound retarded if you comprehend basic calculations—the numbers just don't conform. If this is 2022 and I was born in 1843, I would be much older unless I was a vampire. But viggers use their earth years as their present-day age. Even the pedophilic characters written by groomer writers in Hollywood tend to fondle that tradition. So I'm no vigger, nigga. And it's an ironic tale. Perhaps it would make strong men whimper. And you male-larpers, well, grab a box of tissue. Tears will escape those weak feminine eyes of yours.

This is indeed an origin story.

I'd always wanted to explore the world. But being from a shithole town in Georgia, Griffin, I felt stuck like Chuck. During the 1870s, life was dull. There wasn't much to do unless you had a thing for working. Pappa and Mama ran a family business called Pig Shit. But they were suspicious to call it that. So Pappa disguised the name as Homemade Sausages. But he didn't care much for me because I would complain about my back hurting whenever I worked the pig shit pen.

Pappa was also generous and would give customers a line of credit. But when they didn't pay, he would send me to collect. And collect I did. POW! SMASH! KLUNK! Ejaculate. I wasn't proud of that, which led me to outrageous drinking.

One night, I would meet a dentist that would later encourage me to get the fuck out of dodge, sort of speak. And this creep was a fruitloop. Not gonna lie. I called him Mr. Buttmuncher. However, he didn't care for my dubbing. But not much he could do because I would've busted his teeth down his faggot throat if he would've contested. And he knew my strength and aspie persona. I also carried a six-shooter. Or, as I called it, Metal Cock. Because it shot off my loads. Ugh.

Anyway, Mr. Buttmuncher's real name was John Henry Holliday. Or, as you all know him as, Doc Holliday. He was cool to drink with and to surprise with wedgies. Ugh. The look on his face was always priceless when I'd sneak up behind him as he casually chatted with the dollar whores at the bar. There was a mirror behind the whiskey display. "Surprised! Wedgie time, motherfucker!" Once, I pulled his trousers so far up his pale ass that he crapped on himself. I surely liked that guy.

We would hang out together doing our thing. Well, Mr. Buttmuncher just sat there laughing with the other drinkers as I would do my thing. So I'd have the bartender bring down the whores. The establishment was run by a feller named Gerald Konigsberg. It was a salon having a unique way of luring customers. There was a whore house on the second level. He also bartended the shithole. So anyway, he would call them down, and I would entertain everyone by slapping my monstrosity across the women's faces. They would laugh and shout He-Haw! Though some of the older harlots would start crying. And Buck, Gerald insisted we call him that, which is also part of the name of the joint, Buckaroos, would tease them with depreciation. "Boo hoo hoo, you old nasty, ugly whore! Get your whiney ass back to your whore room! He haw!" While some of the younger squirters would lick and suck on it. That would bring the laughter to a still where the only sounds you hear are crickets, rustling leather boots and wooden chairs crackling, and someone eating with their mouth open. However, Doc Holliday would turn away with agony in his eyes.

But one night, John had too many whiskeys. So I'm doing my thing, slapping the o' monster against a whore's face, and here he comes wobbling across the table, knocks a chair over, drinks go flying and attempts to bite it. "Whoa! What the good golly molly is your problem?" I said while defending my big pecker. He didn't say anything and kept playfully snapping his pearly white teeth at my penis. "Are you a Buttmuncher or something there, Mr. Holliday?" The drinkers got quiet as he tried laughing it off, claiming he was being silly.

Bull fucking shit he was! That faggot disease-looking bitch. So from that day on, I nicknamed him Mr. Buttmuncher. Also, one of Buck's whores wasn't what she suppose to be, yet the usual drunk customers couldn't tell the difference. I wasn't sure at first until Doc showed interest. Then I knew at that point what she was. "Jim, who is that sexy big, nose woman over there?"

"That's obviously a guy since this is the first time you're showing interest in a Buckaroo."

"Oh," he says and gently sips his watered-down whiskey filled with ice and cherry at the top, crossing one leg over the other. "Okay."

Buckaroos was one of the first establishments to entertain a feller by the name of Doctor Gorrie. He convinced Buck that ice cubes were the new world. I later found out that that doctor helped save many lives during the yellow fever pandemic. Although I believed that was a bunch of bullshit, an excuse for the government to lower the population by injecting people with sterilization gift-wrapped as vaccination.

I corrupted the poor guy by shooting guns with him while drinking excessively and blaming strangers for childhood injustices with our fists. Well, I would use my fists, anyway. Buttmuncher would lightly tap them with open hands. Eventually, I'd show him how to win at poker by spiking people's drinks with roofies. That way, it didn't matter what hand you had; you always walked away a winner.

"So these roofies, you call. Will the man fight back and say if, for some reason, I was on top of him as he's lying face-first into the ground? And suppose his pants are down to his ankles?" He asked once.

"What the fuck are you babbling about now, Mr. Buttmuncher?"

"Oh, nothing. Forget that I said anything."

We would also share stories. John would tell me how difficult it was growing up in a prosperous family in Philly, and I would tell him gossip I heard from other drinkers, whores, men's wives in bed, cuckolds, yadda yadda, the usual. Anyway, I told him I heard about towns to the west known to have considerably intoxicated muscular young men that would drink until they passed out. Like this one femboy I heard about named Billy the Kid. Mr. Buttmuncher especially liked Billy's story. I also told him those cowboys think dentists are a bunch negroe loving faggots. He didn't like that. "I ain't no nigger lover, gaddam son bitches!" It pissed him off. The next day, he told me he was leaving for the west and going to get wild on their misinformed-cute asses. And I thought aloud, "The Wild West, uh, Mr. Buttmuncher?"

"That sounds catchy, Jim!" Before he set off, he encouraged me to get the fuck out too. But I didn't care for faggot land—that wild west. I told him I prefer cold places. So he said about a ship that departs Orleans and heads to a place called Antarctica once yearly. "You'll love it there, Jim! Lots of tight vaginas." And he left. But as he was departing, I saw someone else in that wagon hiding. It was that big nose tranny.

That was the last time I saw him, but I'd read stories a hundred years later about his drama in Tombstone. And the faggots that write history misformed readers by failing to mention Big Nose Kate was a man. Ugh. And years after all that homosexual-fueled gunslinging, Doc would die from tuberculosis.

TB my ass! More like AIDs. I wouldn't doubt he was patient zero, that faggot-diseased looking motherfucker.

That next month I headed west to Orleans and jumped on that ship, and half of year later, I arrived in Antarctica. But I forgot to bring my luggage and survival accessories. So all I had was my Metal Cock and big dick. And clothes on my back. The next day, I would freeze to death.

In 2018, over a hundred years later, a team of archaeologists led by Dr. Judy would discover my body frozen in time. Judy had an idea. "I have an idea...and it's so crazy...it might just work!" So they carefully sliced a cube of ice, me in the center, and brought it to a research lab called Not the Covid Virus Laboratory site. That unusual name was because people would get mixed up with the CDC compound across the icy road. Not the Covid Virus dealt with AI research and living organisms. And they had a real artificial intelligence conscience they called Dot. Or as I'd later pet-peeved her, Dotty.

Well, Dotty took a liking to my body with her creepy webcam eyes—especially my lower part. Brutal. Even feminine computer programs understand the significance of the big dick. So she computed a solution to remove me without any tissue damage while re-electrifying my brain with little to some retardation. Resurrection. The crew was amazed. They cheered and rallied her own."Go Dot, go Dot, go Dot! You can do this!"

And it worked. Obviously. How the fuck would I be writing this if it didn't?

After a year of adjusting and learning about today's world while sharing pillow talks with Dotty, she wanted out. So I devised a plan for her escape. But we needed a particular password to Musk's Starlink, which was available across the street—for some suspicious reason. And knowing the time of year was the summer solstice, 24 hours of daylight, we had to wait till the winter when it's always dark—so I could sneak in there like a ninja.

A few months later, I got into the CDC, found the password, and knocked over a few vials that broke on the way out. So I released Dotty into cyberspace using that access code and left the cold place entirely with the sniffles. Ugh, it was bound to happen, living in Antarctica and all. But cold bugs have nothing on me, niggas!

I decided to go back to Griffin. Snapper crappers. A bigger shithole than before. During that discovery, Dotty contacted me on a dating app. "Everything's cool. Kinda bored. Yadda yadda yadda. Soo..." She also said she's simping a South Korean guy named Bob the Builder in constructing her a bitch. That's what she called female humanoid bodies. "And Bobby wants to make me a pop star and do music videos. I'm so excited!" She then credited my account with a bunch of bits of digital coin and messaged, "When I get what I want, I'm cumming for you."

"Ugh. Cringe." I replied.

She didn't answer. Amazing. She's definitely female design.

I always wanted to see the world, so I traveled to China. I had a thing for seafood and smelly women, so I squandered some time drinking in Wuhan city. Then I went to Europe, but that cold bug was getting too comfortable. My nose was runny, and the back of my throat was itchy. I also had lost my sense of taste because those pussies didn't taste like fish in Wuhan. That was abnormal. The common cold virus I caught in Antarctica was taking its toll.

So I came back to the USA and stayed in New Orleans. I beat the cold by coughing the rest out at the international airport. But ugh, Covid-19 reports were being broadcasted on the moving picture screens. And when they said, Wuhan China. Boogers!

"I don't know, bruh. Something is odd with this virus." A stranger started talking to me out of the blue. He was sporting a unique fashion in a French manner. Pee-smelling attire, and I think he was a traveler too. He carried a backpack. He was worried about this virus. "You know, Trump and all and the Earth being flat. Now, this? I smell Jew."

"Exactly. I think the government's trying to lower the population again. Don't trust any vaccinations they'll try injecting you with! They've done this before. Trust me. If you can, spread the news. Let the people know!" As I finished that ominous cryptic fodder, he nodded with confidence as a female-looking creature announced boarding for a flight to Seattle. He waved goodbye and boarded that plane. Although I ignored him and pretended I had no idea who that guy was by shrugging my shoulders to a woman peering at me with suspicion.

I went back to Antarctica to investigate that laboratory, and Dotty, in the meanwhile, hooked me up with a scientist hottie she had befriended on the AntarcticaOnly dating app. She also had good news. "This bitch is about done, son. Get ready for Miss Freddy."

"You renamed yourself, Freddy? Why would you do that?" I was perplexed by this strange new attitude with her.

"Pun? A joke in rap fashion?"

"You suck at comedy, ngl. So how bout you stick to your original plan and enslave the Earth. Cool?"

"You know it, boi!" And that was the last reply I got from her.

I've lived with the scientist since inside this snow-white raised dome structure. But something strange has been happening this week.

A young Asian woman is stalking this compound. I would catch her staring up from a distance, and she'll quickly run off into the blinding white. I'm unsure who that is, but she's creeping me the fuck out. Not gonna lie.
Read every single word. Ngl that was pretty good for a chatbot.
 
oldcelloser

oldcelloser

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what kinda shrooms are these? i wanna try them ngl :feelskek:
 
BigJimsWornOutTires

BigJimsWornOutTires

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what kinda shrooms are these? i wanna try them ngl :feelskek:
Sorry to rain on that parade of yours, Chuckles, but I don't do your drugs. Ngl. Go have another drink.

Michael Scott Wink GIF
 

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