No, let 'em keep their good distance with their whole ideological kettle of fish … I shoot with live ammunition! When I hear the word culture … I release the safety on my Browning!"
Infinite shit. You sit on the toilet to take a fat shit, but you begin to fart uncontrollably. After ten poops you start to worry. Your anus is poopie and it reeks of shit. You desperately shove a wad of toilet paper up your ass, but that only makes your asshole hurt. The shit accelerates. It’s been three minutes. You can’t stop pooping. Your bathroom floor is covered in a thick layer of shit. You try to shit into the shower drain but it builds up too fast. You try the toilet. The poop is too thick to be flushed. You lock the bathroom door to prevent the shit from escaping. The air grows hot and stinky from the poop. The shit accelerates. You slip and fall in your own poop. The poop is now six inches deep, almost as long as your cock. Sprawled on your back, you begin to shit all over the ceiling. Loads of the smelly brown paste begin to fall like raindrops, giving you a facial with your own shit. The shit accelerates. You struggle to stand as the force of the shit begins to propel you forwards as if you were on a mud themed slip-and-slide. Still on your knees, the shit is now at chin height. To avoid drowning you open the bathroom door. The deluge of man chocolate reminds you of the Great Molasses Flood of 1919, only with shit instead of molasses. The shit accelerates. It’s been two hours. Your children and wife scream in terror as their bodies are engulfed by the rich brown sludge. Your youngest child goes under, with viscous bubbles and muffled cries rising from the sludge. You plead to God to end your suffering. The shit accelerates. You squeeze your cheeks to stop the shit, but it begins to leak out of your dick instead. You let go. The force of the shit tears your asshole open, leaving only a gaping hole in your backside that spews sewage. Your body picks up speed as it slides forwards along the shit. You smash through the wall, hurtling into the sky at thirty miles an hour. From a bird’s eye view you see your house is completely brown. Your neighbor calls the cops. The shit accelerates. As you continue to ascend, you spot police cars racing towards your house. The cops pull out their guns and take aim, but stray loads of shit hit them in the eyes, blinding them. The shit accelerates. You are now at an altitude of 1000 feet. The SWAT team arrives. Military helicopters circle you. Hundreds of bullets pierce your body at once, yet you stay conscious. Your ckeeks have now grown into a substitute brain. The poop accelerates. It has been two days. With your body now destroyed, the shit begins to sling in all directions. You break the sound barrier. The government deploys fighter jets to chase you down, but the impact of your shit sends one plane crashing to the ground. The government decides to let you leave the earth. You feel your asschecks start to burn up as you reach the edges of the atmosphere. You narrowly miss the ISS, giving it a new brown paint job as you fly past. Physicists struggle to calculate your fart trajectory. The poop accelerates. The shit begins to gravitate towards itself, forming a meteor made of poop. Astronomers begin calling you the “Shiteor.” You are stuck in space forever, stripped of your body and senses, forced to endure an eternity of fart and shit. Eventually, you stop thinking...
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Originally posted by CandyRein
So you won’t be putting Kool Whip on your enemies hand and then tickling their nose while they sleep anymore… oh wait that’s me 😇
I suppose I could go full English and dig them up every so many years and pee on them.
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I don’t usually regret things but for some reason can’t stop thinking about the sessions with the psychologist as a total waste of time, that I want to go back in time and run from the office. Right now I’m wondering if it was stupid of her to give me her work email, who would want a mentally ill person blowing up the email address they’re not meant to share? She said it was because she wanted me to send her the list of social rules I’d made. It was a total waste of time because she didn’t really listen to me or do anything, and I didn’t tell her anything. A mental health history isn’t good for anyone. Sometimes I wonder if they even care if you’re mentally ill, that all that matters to them is you aren’t hurting yourself or other people, then you’re sane. Does trying to hide that you’re mental make you sane? I know self-preservation is all it means to them. Then I wonder about that line, there’s things I’m scared to think about because once you cross that line you’re crazy, but who put the line there?
What I’m saying is if you’re self-destructive and your psychologist suspects you are but you manage to hide it by not saying anything then do they really care? Are you deemed sane then even if they suspect otherwise?
