BigJimsWornOutTires
Kraken
- Joined
- Feb 6, 2021
- Posts
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An Incel today is that dedicated arrogant gamer. He lives on the gaming network while video streaming his hideousness. He has a group of gaming buddies, and together they mock the cute guys on Twitch and fap to the hot girls emulating eating noises. At one time, he had besties. And even succeeded in turning a muscular hunter eyes into a fattie with his witty pizza challenges. "The one that can't eat two cheese lovers' pizzas with extra crust within an hour has to pay the group's Battle Pass for one month!"
But as time progressed, his friends connected with girls. Some even got married. Some had children. But not Mr. Pampered Incel. Ugh. Confusion fondled his self-conceited superiority. "Why girls won't accept me??"
He discovered THE BLACKPILL, learned about Chads and Stacies, and blamed them for his shortcomings and impudence. He learned about lookism and accused his family's genetics. His dating app experience was even more troubling. The only girls that swiped right were poor Philippine men conning Americans with pictures of their sisters and mothers who, in reality, wouldn't touch the Incel with a ten-foot pole. Brutality teased the pussyless eyesore.
He'd tried an escort once, but it ended with a six foot six inched Tyrone pistol-whipping him because he disrespected his hoe's feelings when he attempted to shove his creepy finger inside her butthole after she'd warned him not to.
The Pampered Incel wearing week-old tighty whities sat behind his cluttered gaming desk, spurting contention on IncelMax. One night, he devised a clever scheme. "What if I turn my asshole into a money maker? That way, I can make enough crispy cash to pay for surgeries and become that Chad!" Ugh. Truth panged as he grabbed a belly fold and sighed. "Uh, poopers. What am I gonna do about this?" He pondered throughout the late hours while playing Grand Theft Auto: Pornhub Mod. Finally, a solution presented itself. "I got it! I'll get the most expensive gym membership and go one time and lose this weight!" Tiss-tiss-tiss.
The Pampered Incel failed to grasp the reality of a gym. The regulars are short-fused brutes and steroid-fueled raging bulls. And the girls, only Chads can view them. Ugh, boogers.
He paid for the platinum membership that got him a free t-shirt, water bottle, and a month's supply of whey protein. He entered the gym, chest pressed out, gazing at a 95-pound Stacy in tights. Her evident camel toe captured his attention. But he didn't understand that it wasn't for him to see. When she noticed this hideous overweight atrocity staring at her pussy, she rushed to Tank—a white six-foot-three guy covered in tattoos and hair. His eyes were bloodshot from iron annihilation. She whimpered about the Incel violating her reserved-for-Chad intimate area. Ugh. He was pissed! He hurried to the Incel, grabbed him by his shirt collar, dragged him out of the gym, and pushed him onto the dirty pavement. "If you ever step back into my realm and look at any girl, I will rip the intestines out from your belly and shove them up your faggot ass!"
Ugh. The Pampered Incel finally accepted his existence. Later that evening, he climbed into bed with his 70-year-old mother. But snapper crappers! She didn't move. She was cold and stiff. Ouchie-kamouchie! She had passed away. Oh, no. He depended on her retirement and social security funds. Then, thinking quickly, something he had learned from all those years of gaming, an idea unfurled. "The deep freezer!" Uh, creepy.
And so he dragged his loving mother into the utility room and packed her into that dark, cold crypt. But damn, it seemed Nature had other things on her mind. A severe thunderstorm had developed, alerting the community of a tornado warning. It was gonna be a doozy of a night.
The power went out. For the next hour, whistling, eerie sounds of gusty winds and metal clanging frightened the Pampered Incel as he took shelter inside a closet. He tried crawling under the bed, but ugh, that belly was too plumped. Then, suddenly, a crashing sound exploded from above. The closet rattled for a moment.
The following morning, he would discover a tree had fallen on the house and taken out half of that utility room. Also, a tornado devastated the power grid, and residents were told the electricity would be out for a while. He stepped to the wrecked utility room entrance and smelled a faint odor. "Two weeks, no electricity? Oh, fuck me." He panicked and grabbed every penny and piece of mom's jewelry, a bag of dirty clothes, and of course, his Playstation, TV, and gaming PC, and packed it into his Hyundai. He returned inside, retrieved his mother's debit and credit cards, and took off like a bat out of hell—final destination: Mexico.
A week later, he crossed the border, drove forty miles into that massive shithole, and found a suitable town to call home. "I heard the bitches here will treat an American like a keeng! I got the money, and their broke asses will do anything!" And so he thought. But little did he know, typical Incel flaw, he didn't consider other Americans had felt the same. So he got a room next store to more American Incels. And for some odd reason, they all looked alike. Chubby, receding hairlines, prescription eyeglasses, pale skin, polo shirts over beach shorts. And they were all wearing flip-flops.
The next night, he goes out on the town, less than a block away at a dive. A group of shady Hispanics conversing in their language gathered around a pool table, watching him waving those crispy bills sitting at the bar. A familiar tune fired up. The Pampered Incel knew the song very well. He stands and syncs with the melody of Macarena. Ugh. He's a failure at everything in life except that particular classic jiggle. He nailed it!
A girl no younger than 18 joined him. His intoxicated arrogance fueled liquid courage as he grabbed her waist. Immediately, she resisted and puked. That group became agitated watching this sad excuse of a man act brave. They later followed him out of the bar and kidnapped him. They'd figured he had money.
The Pampered Incel would be tortured and beaten for the next few days. He wouldn't tell them his mother's phone number because he had her phone and she was unavailable. Duh. They then asked about his father, but he had never met the man before. He was a stealthy conception. So they reminded him they needed ransom or they'll beat him to death but not before cutting his penis and balls off and shoving them down his faggot throat.
Finally, the Pampered Incel couldn't take any more. He cried like a big whiney bitch about injustices. He told them his whole life story of how difficult it was being privileged and getting everything he wanted except intimate love. He told them about his mother's death and how he stuffed her into a freezer so he could collect her monthly checks. He told them about that storm that compelled him to Meheco. Ugh. The Mexicans were shocked.
They happened to be good guys, after all. So they kept him tied up, stuffed him into their trunk, and drove to the border. They turned him over to authorities and conveyed the knowledge he told them.
Today, he's in prison, sharing a cell with three other inmates. He sleeps on the gray, cold hard floor when they're not beating and raping him.
The End.
But as time progressed, his friends connected with girls. Some even got married. Some had children. But not Mr. Pampered Incel. Ugh. Confusion fondled his self-conceited superiority. "Why girls won't accept me??"
He discovered THE BLACKPILL, learned about Chads and Stacies, and blamed them for his shortcomings and impudence. He learned about lookism and accused his family's genetics. His dating app experience was even more troubling. The only girls that swiped right were poor Philippine men conning Americans with pictures of their sisters and mothers who, in reality, wouldn't touch the Incel with a ten-foot pole. Brutality teased the pussyless eyesore.
He'd tried an escort once, but it ended with a six foot six inched Tyrone pistol-whipping him because he disrespected his hoe's feelings when he attempted to shove his creepy finger inside her butthole after she'd warned him not to.
The Pampered Incel wearing week-old tighty whities sat behind his cluttered gaming desk, spurting contention on IncelMax. One night, he devised a clever scheme. "What if I turn my asshole into a money maker? That way, I can make enough crispy cash to pay for surgeries and become that Chad!" Ugh. Truth panged as he grabbed a belly fold and sighed. "Uh, poopers. What am I gonna do about this?" He pondered throughout the late hours while playing Grand Theft Auto: Pornhub Mod. Finally, a solution presented itself. "I got it! I'll get the most expensive gym membership and go one time and lose this weight!" Tiss-tiss-tiss.
The Pampered Incel failed to grasp the reality of a gym. The regulars are short-fused brutes and steroid-fueled raging bulls. And the girls, only Chads can view them. Ugh, boogers.
He paid for the platinum membership that got him a free t-shirt, water bottle, and a month's supply of whey protein. He entered the gym, chest pressed out, gazing at a 95-pound Stacy in tights. Her evident camel toe captured his attention. But he didn't understand that it wasn't for him to see. When she noticed this hideous overweight atrocity staring at her pussy, she rushed to Tank—a white six-foot-three guy covered in tattoos and hair. His eyes were bloodshot from iron annihilation. She whimpered about the Incel violating her reserved-for-Chad intimate area. Ugh. He was pissed! He hurried to the Incel, grabbed him by his shirt collar, dragged him out of the gym, and pushed him onto the dirty pavement. "If you ever step back into my realm and look at any girl, I will rip the intestines out from your belly and shove them up your faggot ass!"
Ugh. The Pampered Incel finally accepted his existence. Later that evening, he climbed into bed with his 70-year-old mother. But snapper crappers! She didn't move. She was cold and stiff. Ouchie-kamouchie! She had passed away. Oh, no. He depended on her retirement and social security funds. Then, thinking quickly, something he had learned from all those years of gaming, an idea unfurled. "The deep freezer!" Uh, creepy.
And so he dragged his loving mother into the utility room and packed her into that dark, cold crypt. But damn, it seemed Nature had other things on her mind. A severe thunderstorm had developed, alerting the community of a tornado warning. It was gonna be a doozy of a night.
The power went out. For the next hour, whistling, eerie sounds of gusty winds and metal clanging frightened the Pampered Incel as he took shelter inside a closet. He tried crawling under the bed, but ugh, that belly was too plumped. Then, suddenly, a crashing sound exploded from above. The closet rattled for a moment.
The following morning, he would discover a tree had fallen on the house and taken out half of that utility room. Also, a tornado devastated the power grid, and residents were told the electricity would be out for a while. He stepped to the wrecked utility room entrance and smelled a faint odor. "Two weeks, no electricity? Oh, fuck me." He panicked and grabbed every penny and piece of mom's jewelry, a bag of dirty clothes, and of course, his Playstation, TV, and gaming PC, and packed it into his Hyundai. He returned inside, retrieved his mother's debit and credit cards, and took off like a bat out of hell—final destination: Mexico.
A week later, he crossed the border, drove forty miles into that massive shithole, and found a suitable town to call home. "I heard the bitches here will treat an American like a keeng! I got the money, and their broke asses will do anything!" And so he thought. But little did he know, typical Incel flaw, he didn't consider other Americans had felt the same. So he got a room next store to more American Incels. And for some odd reason, they all looked alike. Chubby, receding hairlines, prescription eyeglasses, pale skin, polo shirts over beach shorts. And they were all wearing flip-flops.
The next night, he goes out on the town, less than a block away at a dive. A group of shady Hispanics conversing in their language gathered around a pool table, watching him waving those crispy bills sitting at the bar. A familiar tune fired up. The Pampered Incel knew the song very well. He stands and syncs with the melody of Macarena. Ugh. He's a failure at everything in life except that particular classic jiggle. He nailed it!
A girl no younger than 18 joined him. His intoxicated arrogance fueled liquid courage as he grabbed her waist. Immediately, she resisted and puked. That group became agitated watching this sad excuse of a man act brave. They later followed him out of the bar and kidnapped him. They'd figured he had money.
The Pampered Incel would be tortured and beaten for the next few days. He wouldn't tell them his mother's phone number because he had her phone and she was unavailable. Duh. They then asked about his father, but he had never met the man before. He was a stealthy conception. So they reminded him they needed ransom or they'll beat him to death but not before cutting his penis and balls off and shoving them down his faggot throat.
Finally, the Pampered Incel couldn't take any more. He cried like a big whiney bitch about injustices. He told them his whole life story of how difficult it was being privileged and getting everything he wanted except intimate love. He told them about his mother's death and how he stuffed her into a freezer so he could collect her monthly checks. He told them about that storm that compelled him to Meheco. Ugh. The Mexicans were shocked.
They happened to be good guys, after all. So they kept him tied up, stuffed him into their trunk, and drove to the border. They turned him over to authorities and conveyed the knowledge he told them.
Today, he's in prison, sharing a cell with three other inmates. He sleeps on the gray, cold hard floor when they're not beating and raping him.
The End.
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