In which we spam II
This is the trash heap of the TV Tropes forum.
The only rules are:
This was unnecessary if you ask me.
I don't get it
The idea is that we can get our shitposting out here. A spam thread, basically, so that people won't spam other threads
I agree with Norn on this, though.
edited 20th Mar '10 6:21:59 PM by LuckyRevenant
That's stupid. The fun of shitposting is doing it in a thread that was trying to be serious.
...
*shrug* Well, this isn't that long.
...This is gonna get real big real fast.
The only rules are:
- Thou shalt not discard too many pieces of trash at one time. A good rule of thumb is to discard two or three at most, if you really feel the urge to do so, but generally stick to one.
- Thou shalt not discard excessively large trash items here. Generally speaking, Supreme Court decisions, novellas, political and religious tracts, and charters of government institutions are also not trash. However, even if it is trash, such as a miserable large pile of adenines, disposing them here makes the higher-ups angry. And when higher-ups get angry, we can no longer enjoy nice things, such as having a place to discard our trash.
This was unnecessary if you ask me.
I don't get it
The idea is that we can get our shitposting out here. A spam thread, basically, so that people won't spam other threads
I agree with Norn on this, though.
edited 20th Mar '10 6:21:59 PM by LuckyRevenant
That's stupid. The fun of shitposting is doing it in a thread that was trying to be serious.
...
*shrug* Well, this isn't that long.
edited 20th Mar '10 6:24:16 PM by Tzetze<Data Transfer from Leela>
Host <39.59.19.21>
<Transfer Durandal>
<Error Unknown>
<Transfer Durandal>
<Error Unknown>
<Interior Error>
***MESSAGE RECEIVED***
Gheritt White had been floating six feet off the floor for three weeks. His feet and hands tingled, and his eyes burned with the flames of a dying fire. He had last heard someone speak to him as the cell door slammed shut. He didn't remember what the uniformed man had said. The words had bounced off the bars of the cell and rang through Gheritt's ears. Gheritt had been talking to himself for the last few minutes, something about getting caught, but then his ears began to tingle just like his hands.
He looked at his hands, but the fire in his eyes made him blink. Tears came, and when he opened his eyes again, his hands had been melted into fleshy pancakes that wafted in the ripples flowing over the fire in his eyes.
"Damn cell, " he heard someone say. "Last time I had a good meal was three days ago. The food they feed you in here could kill a lab rat."
Rats. He had remembered something about rats. But his ears began to ring again and the voice speaking to him faded off into the background of his mind. In its place, there was a new sound, the clapping of hands together. He blinked hard to made out his hands again. They had disappeared; his arms connected at the wrists.
He thought back to the time he went ice skating on a pond. He remembered the sound of his skates on ice, a gentle scrapping. Scrapping away now inside his ears, trying to tear down his thoughts. There had been a woman with a white fur tube over her hands. Her wrists were like his now. The wrists of someone who had tried too many times to clap his hands. He had been applauding everyone else in life, but never himself. The hands, like himself, had been put into prison, and he didn't know why.
"Can't sleep in here, if the smell of this musty bedroll doesn't make you sick, then the sound of the rats chewing inside the walls will keep you up. You'll wake up from your dreams to their little chomping. Sometimes I think that they are chewing me..." The voice was coming from inside the cell, but Gheritt couldn't see anyone.
Gheritt hadn't always been alone, he could vaguely recall from somewhere inside his broken mind that there had been friends, lovers, murderers.
He recalled a theory he had come up with after a bloody schoolhouse brawl. The theory was simple. At some point in time, everyone was a murderer. Whether or not they ever felt remorse, they had all wanted someone dead. Hatred. Everyone knew the feeling of hatred. Gheritt had known hatred on that schoolyard. His beater had laughed at their bloody faces, a laugh which now echoed through his ears, rhythmically blocking out the other voice in the cell.
The schoolyard was usually a place where Gheritt and his friends would play football or foursquare or something, but today, there was an edge. Maybe everyone had eaten cereal with milk that was about to go bad, or maybe there was too much smoke in the air from the wheeling hubcap factory. Football had been extremely rough. Gheritt had gone to play foursquare after he got tackled by five boys who weren't his friends. But today, even foursquare had an evil twist. The top square today had become habituated to making fun of the first square. Gheritt had decided that it was an evil day. When his beater started to push him around, he exploded. Hatred flowed from his eyes, his hands and feet began to tingle. All of his coordination left him, and his face was beaten to a bloody mess. The schoolyard disciplinarian had been slow to notice the ensuing carnage, and she didn't really care anyway.
Gheritt would have killed him if he could have. He would have torn out the eyes of his beater. He would have made him pay for his abuses. But his hands had begun to tingle. He couldn't feel his feet and he had begun to float off the ground.
Everyone was a murderer, but Gheritt couldn't remember his reason for why that was so. He thought it was something about hands, the passion for justice. His hands and feet had begun to tingle, and he was floating farther off the floor. He looked up from his hands, and he saw the bars of the cell, moving left and right, opening wide and then closing shut like the surf coming up a beach. Every time that he thought he would be safe, the bars crested up, the opening closing, the wave rising, crashing. The result would be the same, he would never escape. The bars would crush him, break his back.
He could feel the roughness of the sand under his palms, for all the motion of the waves around him, his hands had come to rest serenely upon the ocean floor. His body tossed and flipped, pivoting about his hands under which he could feel the safe, coarse sand. The wave crashed one final time, he landed upside down, his hands thrown clear from the sandy bottom, the rush of the water filling his ears, his nose, his mouth, the sound of crashing water cascading down from his feet to his head- penetrating his mind to tear down thoughts. Like the sand castle he had built to withstand the tide, his thoughts came down around him.
Gheritt had a good life, so much time, so much time. He had loved swimming, turning, beating. He had loved the tingle in his hands and feet, his inability to kill his nemesis. Once he had fallen down the stairs, and just for a moment, his hands came to rest on the carpet of the stairs. In that instant, his body had frozen, floating over the stairs, safe from falling, but the moment didn't last. The ocean crashed about him, his hands torn free from the sandy bottom, his body flipping, falling.
But now he levitated farther up, his hands still tingling. He began to float through the bars, he expected the instant of safety as his hands found footing, but that moment did not come, the bars squeezed his body. His chest tingled. As he fell through his cage, his legs tingled. The fire in his eyes had become a cold wind, he blinked away tears. He tumbled through the bars, spinning and turning, he could see a man. In his hand he saw a small white rat. A pounding, the crashing waves in his ears became rhythmical, hard. The man was beating the rat against the floor. Pounding, pounding. Blood covered his hands, the man's hands tingled. He had broken them on the floor of the cell. Disciplinarian, lover, murderer. Gheritt looked back into the cell. He saw himself, disciplinarian, lover, murderer. He had killed his nemesis. The rat lay dead in his bloody hands. At last, he held the throat of his beater.
He escaped into the waves.
The waves.
***END MESSAGE***
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<Reply Unknown>
...This is gonna get real big real fast.
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Comments
I like soda.
*noms on trash*
nomnomnom
I can't think of what type of decor to have in a restaurant in the middle of the forest. I mean, the obvious answer would be orange, but I'm not sure that's right in terms of color theory, since the brown of the wood is more orange-y than purple-y, and when you're surrounded by redwoods, there's a lot more brown than green.
Maybe I'd just have to change colors seasonally, so that things don't get stale or unharmonized?
This is exactly why people like me don't like it. Is that so hard to understand?
No, I understand perfectly. As a great man once said, "Just because I don't care doesn't mean I don't understand."
That seems, at best, grossly impolite.
Assassin poems, Poems that shoot
guns. Poems that wrestle cops into alleys
and take their weapons leaving them dead
it dsai I oelv uoy, sgenid, osnyoanum frndie
trusn uto (hse OR she)'s trseram nath I thtoghu (seh RO hes) (was RO swa)
(ehs OR she) skwon I (oterw OR woert) ti, (own RO won RO wno) hte hlwoe scasl dsoe oto
dna I'm lla olane drinug plcoeu estka
ewhn (seh RO hes) skesta by thiw msoe ugy (no RO no) rhe arm
ubt I nkwo that I'll rfgteo eth oolk of iytp in erh cfea
hnew I'm ingvli in ym olsar mdoe (on RO no) a fapltrom ni pesac
'cusea it's nnoag be eht etuurf osno
dna I (nwo OR now RO now)'t sawyla eb isth ayw
nhwe teh ntishg ttha emak me (weak RO kewa) nda tregsan gte edreneigne yawa
ti's nngoa eb het ueuftr onos
I'ev revne enes it (eqiut OR tqeui) os rleca
dan hwen my (tahre OR erhta) is eirgknab I acn eclos my ysee dna ti's ryleada hree
I'll olpbarby eb osme nkdi fo icsnitets
ibndligu iotsiennnv ni my csaep alb in speca
I'll end orldw ungerh, I'll aekm pnlshodi sekap
kwro hgourth eht emydati, psdne my tnhsgi nda ndeesekw
Rneitegpcf ym arworir oobtr (aecr OR erca)
ldniuibg ethm neo easrl ugn at a (temi RO itme)
I lwil do ym stbe to (techa OR cetah) thme
uatbo (eifl OR feli) nad (wtah OR htwa) it's (wtrho OR wrtoh)
I tusj oehp atht I nca peek mthe (omrf RO form) dtynieorgs het (rehat OR terha)
'sacue ti's naong eb het feuurt osno
dna I (own OR now OR own)'t yaawsl be hsit way
ewhn teh gnhsit htta mkae me (eawk RO ewka) adn restagn teg enregnedei aawy
it's agnno be teh ueutfr noos
I'ev veren nsee ti (iuqet RO euqit) so acerl
dna when ym (athre RO herat) si nerkaibg I nac cloes my esey nad ti's aleardy
hree (no RO on) (etarh RO etrah) hyet'll nerodw
sa I ecepi by iecep rapeelc lfmsey
dna hte letse and isuctcri will keam em hlowe
utb I'll stlli (leef RO feel) so lnoae
nliut Rluaa lalsc me oehm
I'll see her ntgadisn yb het onmailro
(she RO she)'ll loko het ames (cpexet RO txepce) rfo inobci eyes
(seh RO esh) (slto OR sotl) the earl (sneo OR onse) ni het obort awrs
I'll asy I'm rysro, (esh RO esh)'ll say ti's nto uyro atulf
ro is ti?
(hse OR ehs)'ll eey me slispcsuiuoy
grineah het hiwr of teh sorves idinse
nda (esh OR she)'ll cresma and rty to urn
btu (three OR ether)'s noerhwe (esh RO seh) acn dihe
enwh a zryca yrbogc twnas to make yuo ihs tboor idrbe
lewl it's ongan be teh feruut osno
nda I (wno RO own RO now)'t alywsa be siht awy
nwhe the itgshn ahtt amek em (wake OR awke) dan ntserag gte ngeeeinerd ayaw
it's nagon be eht fruetu onso
I've rnvee ense ti (teuqi RO utqie) so ecalr
nda wehn ym (ahtre OR rteah) si airnbgek I anc loces ym esye dan ti's ylaedra rhee
But at risk of making this a serious thread, I will declare that I'm just waiting for Smokie to get here to spam this place up with Ami references.
In the meantime: WTF MAN
edited 20th Mar '10 6:48:05 PM by GlennMagusHarvey
Shitposting in serious threads is idiotic, but I don't see anything wrong with shitposting in a thread that already was shit to begin with. (i.e. derails of shit threads).
SUGOI!!!!!!!!!!
ITS ONE OF THE DEMONS OF THE PIT Oh wait its just Al Gore...OH shi...
*caramelldances*
~joins in caramelldancing~
-Accidentally knocks over a canister of 2-4-5 Trioxin into the thread-
OH SHI-
This thread lacks Candle Jack, I think that should be remed
I leave for five hours and this is what happens? BAD GLENN! *hits Glenn with a rolled-up newspaper*
☭
B̤̺͍̰͕̺̠̕u҉̖͙̝̮͕̲ͅm̟̼̦̠̹̙p͡s̹͖ ̻T́h̗̫͈̙̩r̮e̴̩̺̖̠̭̜ͅa̛̪̟͍̣͎͖̺d͉̦͠s͕̞͚̲͍ ̲̬̹̤Y̻̤̱o̭͠u̥͉̥̜͡ ̴̥̪D̳̲̳̤o̴͙̘͓̤̟̗͇n̰̗̞̼̳͙͖͢'҉͖t̳͓̣͍̗̰ ͉W̝̳͓̼͜a̗͉̳͖̘̮n͕ͅt͚̟͚ ̸̺T̜̖̖̺͎̱ͅo̭̪̰̼̥̜ ̼͍̟̝R̝̹̮̭ͅͅe̡̗͇a͍̘̤͉͘d̼̜ 
⚢
More of Smokie's trash-pile masterpieces: (thank you images list)
HOLY FFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFF-
There's an images list?! O_O
...
[AOD]'s best contribution to the site?
edited 20th Mar '10 10:12:16 PM by Tzetze
☭
B̤̺͍̰͕̺̠̕u҉̖͙̝̮͕̲ͅm̟̼̦̠̹̙p͡s̹͖ ̻T́h̗̫͈̙̩r̮e̴̩̺̖̠̭̜ͅa̛̪̟͍̣͎͖̺d͉̦͠s͕̞͚̲͍ ̲̬̹̤Y̻̤̱o̭͠u̥͉̥̜͡ ̴̥̪D̳̲̳̤o̴͙̘͓̤̟̗͇n̰̗̞̼̳͙͖͢'҉͖t̳͓̣͍̗̰ ͉W̝̳͓̼͜a̗͉̳͖̘̮n͕ͅt͚̟͚ ̸̺T̜̖̖̺͎̱ͅo̭̪̰̼̥̜ ̼͍̟̝R̝̹̮̭ͅͅe̡̗͇a͍̘̤͉͘d̼̜ 
⚢
i get so angry sometimes i just punch plankton --Klinotaxis
DANCING ALONG ON HTAT WHATS T HAT DANC E AGAIN DAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAANCE
UP WHERE THEY DANCE
UP WEHRE THEY DANCE
UP WHERE THEY DANCE ALL DANCCE IN THE DANCE
DANCE DANCE CANCE DANCE
DNACE DANCE DANCE DANCE
DANCE OF YOUR DAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAANCE
The Voodoo, Voodoo, what you don't dare to people
"Why, hardly," he answered, leaning back luxuriously in his armchair and sending up thick blue wreaths from his pipe. "For example, observation shows me that you have been to the Wigmore Street Post-Office this morning, but deduction lets me know that when there you dispatched a telegram."
"Right!" said I. "Right on both points! But I confess that I don't see how you arrived at it. It was a sudden impulse upon my part, and I have mentioned it to no one."
"It is simplicity itself," he remarked, chuckling at my surprise -- "so absurdly simple that an explanation is superfluous; and yet it may serve to define the limits of observation and of deduction. Observation tells me that you have a little reddish mould adhering to your instep. Just opposite the Wigmore Street Office they have taken up the pavement and thrown up some earth, which lies in such a way that it is difficult to avoid treading in it in entering. The earth is of this peculiar reddish tint which is found, as far as I know, nowhere else in the neighbourhood. So much is observation. The rest is deduction."
"How, then, did you deduce the telegram?"
"Why, of course I knew that you had not written a letter, since I sat oppositeto you all morning. I see also in your open desk there that you have a sheet of stamps and a thick bundle of postcards. What could you go into the post-office for, then, but to send a wire? Eliminate all other factors, and the one which remains must be the truth."
☭
B̤̺͍̰͕̺̠̕u҉̖͙̝̮͕̲ͅm̟̼̦̠̹̙p͡s̹͖ ̻T́h̗̫͈̙̩r̮e̴̩̺̖̠̭̜ͅa̛̪̟͍̣͎͖̺d͉̦͠s͕̞͚̲͍ ̲̬̹̤Y̻̤̱o̭͠u̥͉̥̜͡ ̴̥̪D̳̲̳̤o̴͙̘͓̤̟̗͇n̰̗̞̼̳͙͖͢'҉͖t̳͓̣͍̗̰ ͉W̝̳͓̼͜a̗͉̳͖̘̮n͕ͅt͚̟͚ ̸̺T̜̖̖̺͎̱ͅo̭̪̰̼̥̜ ̼͍̟̝R̝̹̮̭ͅͅe̡̗͇a͍̘̤͉͘d̼̜ 
⚢
DOG.MOV
i get so angry sometimes i just punch plankton --Klinotaxis
O_O
O_O