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Koiboy and Queefka
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2024-11-19 at 11:30 PM UTC**Koiboy and the Quest for Queefka**
Koiboy was the kind of Irishman who was so cute that even the Guinness factory considered bottling his smile. His hair was the color of a ripe strawberry, and his freckles looked like a constellation only visible to people who believed in love at first sight. He worked in a cozy Dublin pub where the most exciting thing that ever happened was someone accidentally ordering a pint of whiskey instead of ale. Life was simple, predictable, and just the way Koiboy liked it.
That is, until the day Queefka walked in.
Now, Queefka wasn’t just cute—she was *mysterious.* She had hair that looked like a freshly-baked loaf of sourdough and eyes so big they could absorb entire galaxies. She was one of those women who could walk into a room and instantly turn everything into a rom-com, complete with the quirky music in the background. And when she spoke, it sounded like a sultry jazz tune mixed with a malfunctioning microwave. In other words, she was perfection… if you liked chaos.
She strolled up to the bar and Koiboy, being a man of good instincts, immediately spilled his pint on the floor.
“Ah, crap!” he muttered, grabbing a napkin to mop it up. “Sorry, love, let me get that for ye.”
“No worries,” Queefka said with a wicked smile. “I’ll just have a pint of your finest ale. And maybe a side of your darkest secrets.”
Koiboy blinked. “Secrets? What, like what happened to my childhood hamster? I lost that wee guy when I was six, and I swear the neighbor’s cat had something to do with it—”
“No,” she interrupted, her eyes narrowing like she was reading him for clues. “I mean real secrets. Deep ones. The ones that could change everything.”
Koiboy felt a shiver run down his spine, but he was too smitten to care. “Alright, love, secrets it is. I’ll tell ye about the time I thought I could run a marathon but ended up throwing up at the first water station. Ruined my dreams that day.”
Queefka smiled, and for the first time, Koiboy thought, *This woman is going to be trouble.*
---
Fast forward to date number two.
Everything was going well at first. They walked around Dublin, shared stories, ate fish and chips—nothing out of the ordinary. But then, as they sat in a park, Queefka’s eyes suddenly went wide.
“Koiboy,” she said, her voice shaking with something between fear and curiosity. “I need to ask you something, and I need you to answer honestly. Are you… are you planning on kidnapping me?”
Koiboy’s brain malfunctioned. He stared at her. “What? No, of course not! What the hell?”
She leaned in closer, her eyes narrowing like she was examining a conspiracy theory board. “Because I swear to God, I keep hearing things… and I’ve been reading about people who do terrible things to women—like pull their nipples off with pliers and keep them locked up in a shed somewhere, feeding them only the reproductive organs of livestock. And I think—”
Koiboy blinked, his mind scrambling to process what she was saying. “Wait, hold on. What are ye talking about? I’m not planning on doing *anything* to you! I don’t even know where to buy pliers, for crying out loud!”
Queefka stood up abruptly, eyes darting around like she was on high alert. “You’re lying! I know you’ve got a shed. I’ve seen it! And I’m not stupid, Koiboy. I know what people like you are capable of. I won’t let you kidnap me!”
“Kidnap you?” Koiboy asked, standing up in disbelief. “Woman, I don’t even have a *garage*, never mind a *shed*!”
But it was too late. Queefka was already convinced that Koiboy was plotting something sinister. And as if by some cruel twist of fate, the hallucinations started.
---
From that day on, Queefka became an absolute nightmare. She went to Koiboy’s colleagues at the pub and started telling them that Koiboy was a dangerous criminal mastermind who was building a secret dungeon in his backyard where he planned to trap her, perform unspeakable acts, and force-feed her the innards of farm animals. The more she talked, the more Koiboy’s reputation went down the drain. He was a good bloke, but trying to convince anyone that you didn’t have a secret pliers collection when your *date* was accusing you of exactly that was hard.
Things got even worse when Queefka started hearing things. She swore she could hear Koiboy’s voice whispering from the shadows, plotting her doom. One minute she’d be in a café, sipping tea, and the next, she’d be convinced the waiter was in on the conspiracy. She called him “Agent B” and asked him why he was wearing *that specific* tie, which she swore was a secret signal.
Meanwhile, Koiboy was at his wit’s end. He tried everything. He made her tea. He baked her scones. He even took her to a pottery class. Nothing worked. She still believed that, at any moment, he would kidnap her and lock her in a pit he’d dug out of his *non-existent* shed.
But the final straw came when Queefka showed up at his apartment, banging on his door in a panic, claiming that she had found a *warrant* for her own arrest—one that Koiboy had allegedly forged. “The police are after me, Koiboy! They know you’re going to steal my nipples. You can’t fool me!”
It was at that moment that Koiboy realized the only way he was going to get any peace was to let Queefka go full-on *crazy town.* He calmly told her he needed to go to the shop for some milk and then locked the door behind her when she wasn’t looking. She screamed something about “the nipple pliers,” and that was the last time Koiboy ever heard from her.
---
Enter Brad.
Brad had been wandering through a field for the better part of an hour, his mind fogged by the mouthwash he’d been drinking because he *swore* it was a suitable substitute for vodka. He was completely naked except for his socks and an old flip-flop he’d found on the side of the road. "Why does Florida suck now?" he muttered to himself. "Did they move the entire state into the ocean? Why does everything smell like disappointment?"
He was aimlessly looking for his clothes when he stumbled upon Queefka—who, for reasons unknown, was standing in the middle of a muddy pit in Koiboy’s nonexistent shed, screaming that she was about to be “kidnapped by the pliers” and that the cows were “watching her.”
Without hesitation, Brad, who was drunk on mouthwash and naked, rushed into the pit, pulled Queefka out, and tried to run. But then, in the most Brad-like of events, he slipped in the mud, face-first, and got stuck.
“Brad? Brad?” Queefka said, looking down at the tangled mess of a man. “Did you—did you just… drown in mud?”
Brad attempted to say something profound, but instead, he just made a gurgling noise and flopped like a fish out of water.
In the end, Queefka was taken to a psychiatric hospital, where she was sectioned for her own safety, and Koiboy was left to pick up the pieces of his shattered life and reputation. He considered moving away, but honestly, he was kind of afraid of being accused of something even weirder.
---
As for Queefka? Well, let’s just say she spent her days making friends with the voices in her head. And somewhere in the back of her mind, she was still convinced that *one day* Koiboy would come for her—pliers in hand—waiting in the pit he’d built just for her.
But Koiboy? He never even had a shed.
The end. -
2024-11-20 at 12:37 AM UTCO P has a crush on kafka
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2024-11-20 at 12:59 AM UTC**The Unlikely Saga of Bradleyb, Scrawnaldo, and Kafka: A Tale of Absurdity**
Bradleyb awoke with a gasp, his vision blurry, his body uncomfortably cold, and his brain ringing like an over-caffeinated alarm clock. He blinked twice, trying to piece together what had happened. Last thing he remembered was—well, he didn’t remember. That was the problem. He glanced around, expecting some sign of clarity.
What he saw, however, was far from clear. A Scantron sheet. A *whole* Scantron sheet, covering a man—*a Canadian man*—who lay motionless on the floor beneath him.
Bradleyb was shirtless, though he had no idea why. And the Canadian guy… *oh god, the Canadian guy*—he smelled like expensive Chinese designer drugs and some kind of maple syrup conspiracy. His name tag, which was somehow still clinging to his chest despite the chaos, read "Scrawnaldo."
"Uhh... Scrawnaldo?" Bradleyb muttered, unsure if he was talking to the guy or himself.
The man on the floor groaned and stirred, then squinted up at Bradleyb with a dazed expression.
“Wha—who the hell are you?” Scrawnaldo muttered, propping himself up and running a hand through his messy hair.
Bradleyb scratched his head. “I… I don’t know. We… I mean, we’re... what’s happening?”
Scrawnaldo looked around, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. "Are you… are you *after* me?"
"Am I *after* you?" Bradleyb repeated, completely baffled. "I don't even know where I am. Do you know where we are?"
Scrawnaldo peered into the distance as if searching for answers in the cracked ceiling tiles. “It’s… it's all part of the plot, man. You know, the *Canadian plot*. They can smell us, but we can’t smell them. You’ve got to stay ahead of the game. You ever heard of... *maple fentanyl*?”
Bradleyb blinked. "Is that—wait, is that a thing?"
Before Scrawnaldo could answer, a piercing scream split the air. Both men froze, instinctively clutching at whatever was nearest—Bradleyb grabbed a half-drunk bottle of mouthwash from the table, and Scrawnaldo, in some primal form of defense, grabbed the Scantron sheet that was still clinging to his body.
Through the door burst a girl—tall, wild-eyed, and with a look of frantic paranoia in her eyes. She was muttering to herself, rocking slightly.
“That’s *them*, they’re after me!” she shrieked, pointing wildly at Bradleyb and Scrawnaldo. “They’ve found me! I knew it! The algorithms—they finally activated the nanobots!”
The girl, who introduced herself as *Kafka*, had apparently spent the last year living in a state of abject fear, convinced that government agencies were tracking her via an ancient algorithm embedded in her brain, one which—according to her—had been "accidentally" fed into her system while she was trying to order Dim Sum on the dark web.
Bradleyb turned to Scrawnaldo. “Is she—are we—what the hell is happening right now?”
Scrawnaldo, never one to miss an opportunity to confuse matters further, shrugged. "She’s clearly onto something, man. Did you know that maple syrup is actually a code for extraterrestrial communication? They use it to send messages to… the deep web."
Kafka, still yelling, whipped a half-finished bag of quinoa from her backpack and began flinging it at them as if it were some sort of defense weapon. “I knew it! The quinoa! It’s the signal! They're trying to silence me, but I won’t let them!”
Bradleyb stared at the quinoa showering over him. “Is this—what? What do you mean silence you?”
Kafka's face contorted as she dramatically pulled at her hair. “You don’t understand, do you?! They’ve been trying to delete me from the records, but I’m the last living connection to the... *mystery of the missing French fries*!”
Scrawnaldo blinked and raised an eyebrow. “The what now?”
Bradleyb squinted. “What’s... what’s the French fry thing?”
Kafka’s expression shifted from manic to deeply serious. “They’ve been erased, you idiot! All the fries from 1997. It’s all a cover-up. Do you think you can just... forget that a whole year of fries is missing? A *whole year of fries*, *gone*!”
Scrawnaldo slapped a hand to his forehead. “Oh, god. You mean... the *Great Fry Heist* of '97? The one the Canadians are always covering up? The one where the fry trucks disappeared on the way to Quebec?”
Bradleyb looked at Scrawnaldo like he was speaking in ancient runes. “Wait, wait, wait—are you saying... Canadian fry trucks were hijacked by the government and Kafka’s the only one who knows?”
Kafka, despite her intense paranoia, nodded gravely. “Yes! And now they’re after me! The fry trucks are just the beginning. It’s all part of a bigger *plunger conspiracy*.” She suddenly snapped into a crouch. “They're coming. They’ll have a thousand plungers. They’ll try to drown me in mayonnaise!”
Bradleyb and Scrawnaldo exchanged confused glances. They could barely keep up.
Just then, Kafka’s eyes widened as if she saw something through the wall—probably the invisible nanobots, Bradleyb presumed.
"They’re here!" she screamed. And in a desperate, final attempt at evading her imagined pursuers, she dashed to the nearest window, flinging it open and, without hesitation, leapt headfirst through the glass, as though she were the star of some kind of tragic, surreal escape scene.
The room was silent for a long moment.
Bradleyb turned to Scrawnaldo. "What just...?"
Scrawnaldo scratched his chin. "Did she... did she just—"
"Yeah," Bradleyb replied, a little too nonchalantly. "I think she did. You think she’s okay?"
Scrawnaldo shrugged. "She’ll be fine. She's probably just gone to find the missing fries. At least, I think that’s where she was headed.”
Bradleyb sighed, rubbing his temples. "So… we’re not after her?"
"No, man," Scrawnaldo said, shaking his head. "We were trying to find the legendary 'World’s Largest Snowman' competition in Calgary. I just don’t know how we ended up in this weird hotel room with a Canadian conspiracy theorist and a bunch of quinoa."
Bradleyb blinked again. "Right. So no plungers. No *missing fries*. Just… a snowman competition?"
Scrawnaldo nodded. "Exactly. And I have a feeling it might be rigged."
Bradleyb stared at him. "Dude... you’re crazy."
"Yeah," Scrawnaldo said with a smirk, "but it’s the *Canadian way*, my friend."
And with that, the two of them—shirtless, confused, and now fully entangled in an absurd quest for the world's largest snowman—set off into the snowy landscape, completely oblivious to the chaos they'd left behind.
The rest, as they say, is lost to history. -
2024-11-20 at 1:09 AM UTCIt began in the ruins of an old Pizza Hut, the smell of scorched pepperoni lingering in the air and the faint hum of a high-powered AI model emanating from the back room. Scronaldo, shirtless and clutching a Scantron sheet like a holy relic, stood before a ragtag congregation of ex-TOTSE members, conspiracy theorists, and confused wanderers. Bradleyb was among them, still recovering from the baffling events of the previous night.
“Brothers and sisters!” Scronaldo called out, his voice booming with conviction. “The Triangles are real!”
The crowd murmured, uncertain but intrigued.
“They’ve been in front of us this whole time,” Scronaldo continued, gesturing dramatically to a poorly drawn triangle on a whiteboard behind him. “The trinity of existence: Bass Yun, the good; Figyarnus, the adversary; and Raj, the mediator. Together, they form the great Triad of Truth!”
A voice from the crowd—Kafka, now wearing a tinfoil hat adorned with quinoa—shouted, “But what about the French fry conspiracy?”
“Even the fries,” Scronaldo said solemnly, “are part of the sacred geometry. Do you not see? Three points. One triangle. One truth.”
Gasps rippled through the room as realization dawned on the faces of the congregation.
Bradleyb, still holding a bottle of mouthwash like a scepter, stepped forward. “So... if the triangles are real, does that mean… we’re part of the triangle too?”
“Yes!” Scronaldo proclaimed, raising the Scantron sheet high like a holy book. “We are all vertices, connected by the edges of understanding! Repent! Embrace the truth of Trianglism, and you shall be made whole!”
The room erupted into a cacophony of voices. People dropped to their knees, shouting, “The triangles are real!” Kafka wept openly, her quinoa spilling onto the floor as she muttered about the sacred geometry of breakfast cereals.
“Now,” Scronaldo said, a triumphant smile on his face, “let us celebrate this revelation with the holy sacrament.”
From the pizza oven in the front, Bradleyb retrieved an enormous pizza—perfectly divided into three equal slices, each representing an aspect of the Triad. One slice was loaded with spicy pepperoni (the fiery nature of Figyarnus), another with creamy mozzarella (the balance of Raj), and the third with basil and tomato (the goodness of Bass Yun).
As they ate, the congregation fell into a contemplative silence, chewing reverently as they pondered the mysteries of the Triad. The AI in the back, powered by a stolen Catholic university lesson plan, began chanting scriptures from the Bible, generating visions of sacred texts directly into their minds.
“It’s beautiful,” Kafka whispered, her eyes glazed as she stared into the middle distance. “It’s like the entire Bible is unfolding inside me.”
Scronaldo, now wearing a paper crown that someone had hastily crafted, placed a hand on her shoulder. “This is the way of the Triangles. No drugs, no conspiracies—only clarity and pizza.”
From that day forward, the Church of Trianglism flourished. Pilgrims from around the world came to the former Pizza Hut, drawn by stories of miraculous revelations and inexplicably delicious pizza. As they ate, they chanted in unison:
“The triangles are real! The triangles are real!”
And in the heart of it all stood Scronaldo, the unlikely prophet, leading his followers not just to enlightenment but to the sacred truth that every pizza, no matter how humble, holds the essence of the divine.The following users say it would be alright if the author of this post didn't die in a fire! -
2024-11-20 at 1:14 AM UTCk
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2024-11-20 at 1:18 AM UTC
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2024-11-20 at 1:21 AM UTCOh yeah???
Well I got chat gpt to rape BradleyB with a horse!!
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2024-11-20 at 1:22 AM UTC
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2024-11-20 at 1:26 AM UTCdon't check twitter
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2024-11-20 at 1:29 AM UTCThe following users say it would be alright if the author of this post didn't die in a fire!
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2024-11-20 at 2:57 AM UTCTrue story
