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I am here to make a difference, isn't that why we're all here?

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Damaged Bads

2015-03-25 18:27:04 by nietzlawe

DAMAGED BADS

An automasturbatron living in a robotic cottage made out of Freshly Laid Fromage. Da lawn was made in China by an English Hairy Biker. We hope it rains this Friday, and lie awake at night worrying it wont. Another dry day is on the horiz... did we leave the mic... A punchline we need to write ..e. Write cheque, 1, 2. Its crunch time, listening to Timecrunch, while crunching up a Daim bar we didn't get from Steinbart's. We'd sooner drink nine pints of limeade, we should have saved for Live Aid, to try and save, the nine AIDS-ridden kids, that still smile, and play football despite pain. Stay up all night and write, right through to the morning light, sight tarnished when these eyes don't open wide, and see the bigger picture. I'm essentially the Amish. Ha Ha Ha its, the funniest thing I've heard all day, and I've spent it trapped inside the cage of life... But that's UFC for you, never stops. Its like the sport that never sleeps, not unless you get knocked the fuck out and left to languish for 10 long seconds in a prone position. Leg comically twitching like Ustream.tv. Useewhatwe.did there? Not me, I was too busy writing the gag to feel the reflex. A pretext to redress, the issues, that we press, and reject, so we get, this complex. The context, is not set, the concepts, they wont get, but he's content, that progress, has been made. He's engaged, he's dead set, in his ways. The mind is a minefield. A Tsar Bomba that I wield, I'll harm you with my yield. This is my space, my field, my place to write spiel. To peel back layers of truth or piss off the soothsayers. To soothe the surveyors with smooth talk and a few beers. Metaphorae speakling. Whet a whistle, launch a thet a missile. But bonding souls instead of blinding them. Then you snap back to reality, eyestrain and bad posture... Its been a while since we stepped in the squared circle, and donned some boxing gloves, then knocked out Don Scott. One punch was all it took, a hook in fact. Don was fucked. Lights out. Then we woke from a slumber, screaming. It had all been a dream. And there was semen stains in my boxers, it seemed. Frightening indeed, or out of deed, it didn't have to be confined to the Deed Cage. A 2 x 4 cm cell large enough to house a small population. Somehow. I did say a 'small' population. Bitesite midgets, fit em in yer goddamn pocket with room to spare. But if you had a spare room, why did they need to sleep in the cage? Are you saying that you have houses for the homeless but are reluctant to use them? Give them shelters man! Give them Shelton Benjamin's Intercontinental title! Give them Ben Elton's award for best comic writ... On second thoughts that doesn't exist. And neither do the hands of Nietz which are just figments of your imagination. Overactive. What happened to just a good old-fashioned staying on track type of story? I mean who is Don Scott for fuck sake! Do you think your readers give a shit!! Did you just say readers, as in with an S on the end? I'll be fucking lucky. The only people reading this are committed. Committed in psychiatric units that is! Oh, and the NSA. Nosy Sadistic Arseholes. What with their thought cameras. You roll up Eric Schmidt and put him in yer pocket! Come on Nie, you're talking an awful lot about pockets. What gives? Shut up, there is no cause for concern, my deeply unsettling fascination with pockets is totally innocent. Mr. Spock has got John Locke's locket in his sock drawer. What for? Nobody knows, its a big mystery, like that time at College when that girl would read Joke of the Day on the Internet and laugh out loud to herself. We would check out robbscelebs, My God Its Full Of Stars! Genie ass. Back in the day when websites looked ugly, but were technical and magical. Like black holes of wonderment, maybe it was the 56k modems that made navigation slower, so that every click meant something. Maybe its the salt bubbles in the air, or the Arc of Doves that is making me feel nostalgic and reflective. Or the high heel Arches of Medes stamping on your ballsacs with all that anger. Angie's not an angel no more. We've seen her in a new light, from a different angle, underneath her sexy feet and ankles. Her ample breasts a million miles away like a scintillating constellation. The only thing she's offering are her toes as compensation. We can already taste the sweat and condensation as they subject the nose to eternal condemnation. But its all part of the hypnotic effect that has me in a daze and a trance for days, pants down and these hands will stray from the task in mind. And the Mammoth Collection of Tusks get cast aside, like the entire cast of Martin Demise's latest film, a remake of the Neverending Story. But its a version which does end. One little argument and people are getting fired, out of cannons while filmed on Canon cameras by James anonymous Cameron and Lenin for commercial purposes. An anonymous man whose name you know? That's a first. And he's not even wearing a Geezer Fawkes mask. But he is freezing his bollocks off on one of these marches. At least he's not wearing high heels like Medes or listening to Feeder songs or talking about how much he wants to kill paedophiles. Vee must see the files. What files? The files you use to trim your nails? Why would you trim nails? They wont keep the picture frame on the wall or hang the gallon of notes that will make your haven look like an asylum. I don't care, its my slum to write some crazy shit you might like if you read it with an open mind. Or closed like closed-circuit television. This circus is open to ze pub lickers who like to give oral sex at any given time of day, morning, noon or night. 24/7 mouth resuscitation of the loins. A permanent fixture responsible for causing her esophageal strictures. Damn these fucking sick scriptures need to be ripped up or subjected to stringent censors. "Censored you say old chap?" We want to go on and on interminably until we're 900 years... young, with a far-flung brain like Carl Yung. Eating Zongzi, but holding the chopsticks wrongly. "you don't have any chopsticks Niety." Shh! Quiet in the house while we read WE by Yevgeny Zamyatin for shits and giggles. Actually neither diarrhoea or laughter occured during the reading of this story. In fact we didn't even fucking read it. Too much waffle man, like Brave New World. I'd rather be At Home With the Braithwaites than live in a slave state filled with Soma. So what if the aroma is amazing, the coma is too placating. This false happiness is taking the piss... to Bear Grylls! To drink on a rare expedition to Sawdust City. Its very difficult to stay alive in Sawdust City, even though there is actually no dust in that city. Its the fucking 2001 Maniacs who live there that will kill you. Hogtied over an open fire, slowly rotating on a spit, being roasted alive by none other than Alvin Sawdust. There's no trust there at all, its like going to the House of Saud and spotting George Bush. Suddenly the realisation hits home!! ...... how fucking crap Netflix is. I'd rather see sweaty brides falling off stages in a comical fashion, dragging the wedding cake with them. But how can you laugh at other people's shame and misery? I don't, I'm horrified by all the terrible things as much as the next man... Its just a tragedy that the next man doesn't give a fuck. Nobody is perfect, we're all twisted and isn't that a state of equality right there? Nowadays its all about creating a word ending in ism, but the less we can hurt each other verbally, the softer our skin will become until we are frail and ready to have our cosy lives derailed and shown in the goriest detail by the Mail on Sunday.  But fuck it, who cares? If everyone is hurt and feels stupid at the same time, then nobody has an advantage over another. And a 100 years from now, very few of us will still be here, will it really matter who we were and how we were treated? History is just a photo book of random events. Good or bad, the bones still pile up regardless. And that's just the chicken Santas meal we had the other day! *drum roll, Clive* Clive is back and doing his thang, he's Raw, Live and Unscripted. Unchained... Off the Cuff. Out of cuffs. Nobody can prove he poisoned Alice, or put that RFID CHip inside the head of Ellis D. It was the twist that nobody saw cumming, like a Hermit porn star with muscular dystrophy. Hiding in the dark, eating Cookie Dough Ben and Jerrys while trying to figure a way out of that damn figure-four leg lock that Ric Flair had so expertly applied. WOOOOOO!! WOOOOOOOOO!! *Even louder WOO* Like the appreciation of a John Woo film, but which one? Hard Target? Or a Tom Hardy film where Bane can't speak clearly. Pardon me, Bane? Did you just say you were my real father? Or just whispering sweet nothings into thine ear again? Bane, Bruce Wayne, Bruce Banner, Tanner from Driver. Pfft! John Tanner wasn't a superhero, he needed special regular counselling sessions just to get him to leave his car unaided. He preferred to drive down back alleyways knocking down stacks of cardboard boxes. "Did it for teh lulz," he once said. But there were homeless people sleeping in those boxes. A lot of unnecessary deaths, and some necessary to be fair. *long awkward silence* That silence wasn't awkward, it was the minute silence out of damn respect for those Haribo eating Hobos whose hope had disintegrated like my own when I walked to Suicide Village. It took 6.56 months just to get there riding on the back of a Tortoise shell, alongside John Turturro. We Did the Right Thing by stopping off at the O.K. Garage for a refuel, then we somehow developed Jungle Fever and met Karl Popper who found us some tapeworms to eat, then we sat around a Camp Fire and told heterosexual tales long into the night... Karl popped his clogs that night. Said they needed some air releasing or something... That Cestoda must have addled your brain Karl, as well as the adder that had crawled into the tent hissing while we pissed in the wind, then the scene became fucked up and looked like something out of Dyatlov Pass. Bodies strewn everywhere, mass orgies, radiation, shrapnel, rap stars and random breathalyser tests... What could possibly be happenai? Nothing makes sense anymore, not even these songs we've uploaded... Centenced to eating Cestoda's for 25 Centuries and 1 Day... Sounds random, but we've got it all worked out in the head, the whole scheme... The only thing that baffles this old timer is the SIGN UP / LOGIN button, its like its fucking shouting at you. SIGN UP / LOGIN NOW YOU CUNT!!!!!! Preferably using Facefuck or Google Eyed Cherry... Tom must have been very high when he sold his soul to that giant chimera. Sold the soles of his feet for a few extra K's... *totes cigar* That kid sold us all down the river. Still haven't heard an apology in well over 30 years. *totes more cigar* Rang the changes without consulting the goddamn Sultan man. A man made of raisins surrounded by chaste sailors all putting their voting slips in Ballot Boxes... Bollocks to those boxing gloves that we used to knock out Don Scott. Beam him up, then knock the fucker out! Then watch him fall like a block of flats, what a match it was, lit up the crowd like a pack of England's Glory... Lit up my cock like Monica Lewinsky giving a speech on shame. That's Youtube's fault for pushing the video to the front page...  Too much pushing and shoving man, just wait until the mushroom clouds erupt, that will put things into context and my boxing match into Dontext. Strong winds, gale force, we're ready for the Pale Horse to change the course of history. Put an end to the long-awaited mysteries of life, such as who commissioned a new series of the Big Bang Theory? He must not be able to hear me when I say cancel this piece of dreary shit. Fall on deaf ears like trying to get BrenTheMan to represent the Pupil Peoples... Or PsychoGoldfish to not jump the PsychoShark. The message is stark "you fucks are stuck with this hard-line approach and outargue patriarchy." The way we see NG, is like a ship in the middle of the ocean. We encounter difficulties, high waves, so we send out a distress call. Ships arrive, but the pirates are not here to help us, they are here for the pieces of eight. Facebook and G+ wearing superman capes to appear charming and trustworthy. Then it turns into Dead Calm... out comes the fucking harpoon. but we have no arrows left. The last one got used by accident when it shot me in the eye, and that explains the eye patch... The Illuminati eye patch BETA v1.00 download from Cnet where there is no fucking Spyware. You lied! Now it is everywhere! Cnet.Cnuts! Ah fuck it, time to mellow out and sit in this rocking chair cock in hand, froth in mouth, rocking out to Brian Eno and let these Sonic sounds knock me out. Fluffy clouds lovely. Blow my mind snugly. Its put us on a higher plane, flying while the lightning plays. The sky is bright and shining grey. Hard to say if its night or day.

I want to be able to say... I thought. Therefore I was.


Walker Mitty Ambient Song
The Allure of Istra Cinematic Song
Intensity Riff #1 Experimental Song
TOS - Entering the Magnum Cinematic Song

Recent Game Medals

Illuminice! 50 Points Play the game between 1st December and 5th January Medal Stats.
Getting good at this 5 Points Reach Level 10 Medal Stats.
SECRET MEDAL 5 Points Unlock this medal to see it's details. Medal Stats.
QualityX 5 Points Won Best Photoshop Thread with 'Photoshop Patrick Star'. Medal Stats.
exudaz 5 Points Won Best Thread with 'Let's Play the DeviantArt Gamer'. Medal Stats.
supergandhi64 X3 5 Points Biggest Spammer Medal Stats.
supergandhi64 X4 5 Points Most Overrated Medal Stats.
Sense-Offender 5 Points Most Underrated Medal Stats.
poxpower 5 Points Worst Moderator Medal Stats.
stafffighter 5 Points Best Moderator Medal Stats.


Total Medals Earned: 79 (From 24 different games.)