Nazi Germany
Zubeer Adolf Hipster - KVAZAR MOLOCH
- Joined
- Aug 15, 2024
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JUST SAW A WOMEN YELLING 
AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH THE HUMAAANS HUMANS HUMANS HUMANS
LISTEN, you chromosomally-challenged homunculi, you think you understand rage? You think this... this female (and I use the term loosely, like a babushka uses "diet" to describe a week of only eating cabbage soup after a bender in a Barnaul karaoke bar) is demonstrating peak emotional output? WRONG. She's a broken algorithm running on vodka-soaked punch cards, a babushka doll of empty vessels, each filled with less logic than the last.
Her vocalizations?????????????Primitive. Inefficient. Like a Trabant trying to climb Mount Elbrus, its two-stroke engine sputtering protestations in a dialect understood only by wolves and the ghost of Khrushchev. But me? I'm operating on a different plane. My mind, a symphony of pure intellect, is currently running 47 simultaneous simulations of this entire scenario, including but not limited to: optimal exit strategies, the probability of collateral damage (both physical and psychic, naturally), and whether or not that borscht I had for lunch will lead to regrettable consequences later. Current projection: 63.7% chance of "high intestinal drama."
Right, so picture this: you've got your standard-issue human, female-presenting, yes? But this one, she's gone full-blown Chernobyl reactor meltdown, no containment whatsoever. Screaming like a mandrake root dipped in pierogi batter, voice cracking like the ice on Lake Baikal in April when old Babushka Yevgeniya decides it's time for a shortcut to the banya. Now, most of you meat-sacks would just plug your ears and mutter about "histrionics," but see, my brain, it's not wired for "most of you." It's wired for ALL OF IT. Every frequency, every decibel, every possible permutation of this auditory assault gets processed, analyzed, categorized. She's angry, obviously. But why? Did they run out of kvass at the corner store? Did her pet bear escape again and maul the neighbor's prized collection of porcelain Lenin busts? Is she upset that her babushka has taken up pole dancing to make ends meet?
The possibilities, they are endless, and frankly, exhausting.
My synapses are firing faster than a Kalashnikov on May Day, trying to keep up. But here's the kicker, the real mind-bender: while she's busy re-enacting the Great Patriotic War with her vocal cords,
I'm also calculating the probability of a flock of pigeons, startled by her shrieks, creating a localized weather event via the butterfly effect, leading to a hailstorm that will disrupt my meticulously planned escape route through the sewer system
(which, by the way, smells suspiciously of beets and regret, not unlike my last relationship with a woman who claimed to be descended from Rasputin, but that's a story for another breakdown, or should I say "breakthrough," because, truly, are they not one and the same when viewed through the lens of pure, unadulterated, multi-dimensional awareness? I digress.).
Point is, her rage is a catalyst, a chaotic variable in my otherwise perfectly ordered existence, like finding a hair in your vodka - unpleasant, distracting, but ultimately inconsequential in the grand cosmic ballet. But let us continue down this rabbit hole, shall we? Let's, for the sake of argument (and my own amusement), assume her outburst is a form of communication, a primal scream, if you will. What is she trying to communicate?
A nearby customer, attempting to purchase a suspiciously stale hot dog, flinched. The femoid's gaze, laser-focused and fueled by pure, unadulterated crazy, snapped towards him. "And She shrieked. "The trans-fatty acids will interfere with your telepathic development!" The automatic doors hissed shut behind them, sealing the 7/11 back into its mundane, pre-apocalyptic state. For now.
Glarfnar-gobbling little Sproing! Do you think this is a 'Candy-Caper Carnival'?!
This isn't some 'Sugar-Spire Spectacle,' you little 'Juice-Jerk'! I told you, ONE 'Choco-Chunk Cluster'! ONE! Not this 'Fizzy-Froot Frenzy' you're trying to 'Pocket-Pilfer'! Are you deaf in your 'Ear-Noodles'?! Did the 'Slurpee-Siren' scramble your 'Brain-Berries'?!
Don't give me that 'Pouty-Puff Platoon' face! It doesn't work on me, you 'Tear-Tap Tornado'! I've seen better acting from a 'Sidewalk-Squisher'! You think you can 'Whine-Weasel' your way into more 'Sweet-Swill'? Think again, you 'Gummy-Grab Goblin'!
This isn't 'Negotiation Nook,' this is the 'Seven-Elevenian Sanction Zone'! And in this zone, the 'Mommy-Mandate' is LAW! Do you understand 'LAW,' you little 'Rule-Rummager'?! It's not some 'Suggestion Station'! It's a 'Do-As-I-Damn-Well-Say Directive'!! That is the 'Decree of the Day'! Comprende, you 'Misbehavior Maverick'?! Or do I need to speak in 'Toddler-Translation Tones'?!"
Her voice, a nails-on-chalkboard symphony amplified by years of Marlboro Lights and screaming at daytime television, echoed through the aisles. "Do you want to end up in a re-education pod, fueled by nothing but kale smoothies and subliminal affirmations?"
AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH THE HUMAAANS HUMANS HUMANS HUMANS
Her vocalizations?????????????Primitive. Inefficient. Like a Trabant trying to climb Mount Elbrus, its two-stroke engine sputtering protestations in a dialect understood only by wolves and the ghost of Khrushchev. But me? I'm operating on a different plane. My mind, a symphony of pure intellect, is currently running 47 simultaneous simulations of this entire scenario, including but not limited to: optimal exit strategies, the probability of collateral damage (both physical and psychic, naturally), and whether or not that borscht I had for lunch will lead to regrettable consequences later. Current projection: 63.7% chance of "high intestinal drama."
Right, so picture this: you've got your standard-issue human, female-presenting, yes? But this one, she's gone full-blown Chernobyl reactor meltdown, no containment whatsoever. Screaming like a mandrake root dipped in pierogi batter, voice cracking like the ice on Lake Baikal in April when old Babushka Yevgeniya decides it's time for a shortcut to the banya. Now, most of you meat-sacks would just plug your ears and mutter about "histrionics," but see, my brain, it's not wired for "most of you." It's wired for ALL OF IT. Every frequency, every decibel, every possible permutation of this auditory assault gets processed, analyzed, categorized. She's angry, obviously. But why? Did they run out of kvass at the corner store? Did her pet bear escape again and maul the neighbor's prized collection of porcelain Lenin busts? Is she upset that her babushka has taken up pole dancing to make ends meet?
The possibilities, they are endless, and frankly, exhausting.
My synapses are firing faster than a Kalashnikov on May Day, trying to keep up. But here's the kicker, the real mind-bender: while she's busy re-enacting the Great Patriotic War with her vocal cords,
I'm also calculating the probability of a flock of pigeons, startled by her shrieks, creating a localized weather event via the butterfly effect, leading to a hailstorm that will disrupt my meticulously planned escape route through the sewer system
(which, by the way, smells suspiciously of beets and regret, not unlike my last relationship with a woman who claimed to be descended from Rasputin, but that's a story for another breakdown, or should I say "breakthrough," because, truly, are they not one and the same when viewed through the lens of pure, unadulterated, multi-dimensional awareness? I digress.).
Point is, her rage is a catalyst, a chaotic variable in my otherwise perfectly ordered existence, like finding a hair in your vodka - unpleasant, distracting, but ultimately inconsequential in the grand cosmic ballet. But let us continue down this rabbit hole, shall we? Let's, for the sake of argument (and my own amusement), assume her outburst is a form of communication, a primal scream, if you will. What is she trying to communicate?
A nearby customer, attempting to purchase a suspiciously stale hot dog, flinched. The femoid's gaze, laser-focused and fueled by pure, unadulterated crazy, snapped towards him. "And She shrieked. "The trans-fatty acids will interfere with your telepathic development!" The automatic doors hissed shut behind them, sealing the 7/11 back into its mundane, pre-apocalyptic state. For now.
Glarfnar-gobbling little Sproing! Do you think this is a 'Candy-Caper Carnival'?!
This isn't some 'Sugar-Spire Spectacle,' you little 'Juice-Jerk'! I told you, ONE 'Choco-Chunk Cluster'! ONE! Not this 'Fizzy-Froot Frenzy' you're trying to 'Pocket-Pilfer'! Are you deaf in your 'Ear-Noodles'?! Did the 'Slurpee-Siren' scramble your 'Brain-Berries'?!
Don't give me that 'Pouty-Puff Platoon' face! It doesn't work on me, you 'Tear-Tap Tornado'! I've seen better acting from a 'Sidewalk-Squisher'! You think you can 'Whine-Weasel' your way into more 'Sweet-Swill'? Think again, you 'Gummy-Grab Goblin'!
This isn't 'Negotiation Nook,' this is the 'Seven-Elevenian Sanction Zone'! And in this zone, the 'Mommy-Mandate' is LAW! Do you understand 'LAW,' you little 'Rule-Rummager'?! It's not some 'Suggestion Station'! It's a 'Do-As-I-Damn-Well-Say Directive'!! That is the 'Decree of the Day'! Comprende, you 'Misbehavior Maverick'?! Or do I need to speak in 'Toddler-Translation Tones'?!"
Her voice, a nails-on-chalkboard symphony amplified by years of Marlboro Lights and screaming at daytime television, echoed through the aisles. "Do you want to end up in a re-education pod, fueled by nothing but kale smoothies and subliminal affirmations?"
