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2017-07-09 at 9:21 PM UTCBlue liserds are often known to feast upon the entrails of young wandering altar boys like the priest feasts upon the cocks of demon children whose only purpose is to raise grandmas from the dead so that they can fuck up a wall with fist.
It has often been heard that drugs are bad, but actually only illegal illicit drugs are as far as when liserds sneeze [those] snots of flames that wind up causing harm to the local squid population.
It's not understood what exactly this all stemmed from, but one thing is clear: we have not, and will not Stand here and watch the liserds devour their prey. We are here, rising against what we truly believe is the army of Bill Krozby's abandoned children.
They have decided that they can no longer take the aborted fetus of their youth after Metaphysical went down south of the equator to release the poor water drinking ho' from the clutches of an engorged, horribly mutilated baby bald eagle.
This led to several wars, the least of which created the giant sploo and the sorcerer's stone of stone sorcery.
Today, we live in the era of the golden cock. Adorned on buildings and homes, plastered on every storefront and tattooed on every woman's labia, a bright and shining cock. The slogan, "Uirum Aurum Mentula." In Elvish, it means "Heavenly Nigger Dick", a vestige of a time long past.
We worship at the shrine from whence our ancestors sought to understand the great mystery of Bill Krozby and his semen encrusted daughters who committed suicide. At dawn the shrine emits a high pitched squeal, reminiscent of the sound his daughters made when they forgot his name and were promptly raped by Bill Krozby. Please Bill Krozby, you have forsaken your bastard spawn to a rather large Floridian manatee named Captain Falcon, and a degenerate Paki named Mazuse, the flying tiger
It is upon this history that the weight of civilization rests on one man alone, one Ryan Jenkins the Libtard. CEO of famed Jenkins Pop. His assistant, Bret "Honeypot" Chumlee and degenerate Paki servant, Mazuse, conspired to rape his sugary brown starfish under the guise of a booze shot via enema - a ritual Ryan performs when his alcohol addiction makes him crave both vodka and anal. Little do the dastardly duo know that Jenkins has a penchant for ass play, and a dildo to match.
His prostate abraded beyond recognition, worn crimson red from the spiked baseball bat he thrusts with all his strength each night, and stinging sharp with pain, he gritted his teeth and braced, as he had many moons ago when Malice had ass fucked him. Now, he ponders whether or not he made the right choice; breaking up the fateful love-triangle between himself, HTS, and vermouth.
He could've stayed. He could've chosen to be caught in the circle of drugs, sex, violation by tactically dressed men. But he didn't. He chose freedom. Ryan chose death. Jumping -
2017-07-09 at 9:27 PM UTCBlue liserds are often known to feast upon the entrails of young wandering altar boys like the priest feasts upon the cocks of demon children whose only purpose is to raise grandmas from the dead so that they can fuck up a wall with fist.
It has often been heard that drugs are bad, but actually only illegal illicit drugs are as far as when liserds sneeze [those] snots of flames that wind up causing harm to the local squid population.
It's not understood what exactly this all stemmed from, but one thing is clear: we have not, and will not Stand here and watch the liserds devour their prey. We are here, rising against what we truly believe is the army of Bill Krozby's abandoned children.
They have decided that they can no longer take the aborted fetus of their youth after Metaphysical went down south of the equator to release the poor water drinking ho' from the clutches of an engorged, horribly mutilated baby bald eagle.
This led to several wars, the least of which created the giant sploo and the sorcerer's stone of stone sorcery.
Today, we live in the era of the golden cock. Adorned on buildings and homes, plastered on every storefront and tattooed on every woman's labia, a bright and shining cock. The slogan, "Uirum Aurum Mentula." In Elvish, it means "Heavenly Nigger Dick", a vestige of a time long past.
We worship at the shrine from whence our ancestors sought to understand the great mystery of Bill Krozby and his semen encrusted daughters who committed suicide. At dawn the shrine emits a high pitched squeal, reminiscent of the sound his daughters made when they forgot his name and were promptly raped by Bill Krozby. Please Bill Krozby, you have forsaken your bastard spawn to a rather large Floridian manatee named Captain Falcon, and a degenerate Paki named Mazuse, the flying tiger
It is upon this history that the weight of civilization rests on one man alone, one Ryan Jenkins the Libtard. CEO of famed Jenkins Pop. His assistant, Bret "Honeypot" Chumlee and degenerate Paki servant, Mazuse, conspired to rape his sugary brown starfish under the guise of a booze shot via enema - a ritual Ryan performs when his alcohol addiction makes him crave both vodka and anal. Little do the dastardly duo know that Jenkins has a penchant for ass play, and a dildo to match.
His prostate abraded beyond recognition, worn crimson red from the spiked baseball bat he thrusts with all his strength each night, and stinging sharp with pain, he gritted his teeth and braced, as he had many moons ago when Malice had ass fucked him. Now, he ponders whether or not he made the right choice; breaking up the fateful love-triangle between himself, HTS, and vermouth.
He could've stayed. He could've chosen to be caught in the circle of drugs, sex, violation by tactically dressed men. But he didn't. He chose freedom. Ryan chose death. Jumping headfirst into a pit of -
2017-07-09 at 11:44 PM UTCBlue liserds are often known to feast upon the entrails of young wandering altar boys like the priest feasts upon the cocks of demon children whose only purpose is to raise grandmas from the dead so that they can fuck up a wall with fist.
It has often been heard that drugs are bad, but actually only illegal illicit drugs are as far as when liserds sneeze [those] snots of flames that wind up causing harm to the local squid population.
It's not understood what exactly this all stemmed from, but one thing is clear: we have not, and will not Stand here and watch the liserds devour their prey. We are here, rising against what we truly believe is the army of Bill Krozby's abandoned children.
They have decided that they can no longer take the aborted fetus of their youth after Metaphysical went down south of the equator to release the poor water drinking ho' from the clutches of an engorged, horribly mutilated baby bald eagle.
This led to several wars, the least of which created the giant sploo and the sorcerer's stone of stone sorcery.
Today, we live in the era of the golden cock. Adorned on buildings and homes, plastered on every storefront and tattooed on every woman's labia, a bright and shining cock. The slogan, "Uirum Aurum Mentula." In Elvish, it means "Heavenly Nigger Dick", a vestige of a time long past.
We worship at the shrine from whence our ancestors sought to understand the great mystery of Bill Krozby and his semen encrusted daughters who committed suicide. At dawn the shrine emits a high pitched squeal, reminiscent of the sound his daughters made when they forgot his name and were promptly raped by Bill Krozby. Please Bill Krozby, you have forsaken your bastard spawn to a rather large Floridian manatee named Captain Falcon, and a degenerate Paki named Mazuse, the flying tiger
It is upon this history that the weight of civilization rests on one man alone, one Ryan Jenkins the Libtard. CEO of famed Jenkins Pop. His assistant, Bret "Honeypot" Chumlee and degenerate Paki servant, Mazuse, conspired to rape his sugary brown starfish under the guise of a booze shot via enema - a ritual Ryan performs when his alcohol addiction makes him crave both vodka and anal. Little do the dastardly duo know that Jenkins has a penchant for ass play, and a dildo to match.
His prostate abraded beyond recognition, worn crimson red from the spiked baseball bat he thrusts with all his strength each night, and stinging sharp with pain, he gritted his teeth and braced, as he had many moons ago when Malice had ass fucked him. Now, he ponders whether or not he made the right choice; breaking up the fateful love-triangle between himself, HTS, and vermouth.
He could've stayed. He could've chosen to be caught in the circle of drugs, sex, violation by tactically dressed men. But he didn't. He chose freedom. Ryan chose death. Jumping headfirst into a pit of AIDS semen, his skin dissolves -
2017-07-09 at 11:48 PM UTC
Originally posted by Captain Falcon Blue liserds are often known to feast upon the entrails of young wandering altar boys like the priest feasts upon the cocks of demon children whose only purpose is to raise grandmas from the dead so that they can fuck up a wall with fist.
It has often been heard that drugs are bad, but actually only illegal illicit drugs are as far as when liserds sneeze [those] snots of flames that wind up causing harm to the local squid population.
It's not understood what exactly this all stemmed from, but one thing is clear: we have not, and will not Stand here and watch the liserds devour their prey. We are here, rising against what we truly believe is the army of Bill Krozby's abandoned children.
They have decided that they can no longer take the aborted fetus of their youth after Metaphysical went down south of the equator to release the poor water drinking ho' from the clutches of an engorged, horribly mutilated baby bald eagle.
This led to several wars, the least of which created the giant sploo and the sorcerer's stone of stone sorcery.
Today, we live in the era of the golden cock. Adorned on buildings and homes, plastered on every storefront and tattooed on every woman's labia, a bright and shining cock. The slogan, "Uirum Aurum Mentula." In Elvish, it means "Heavenly Nigger Dick", a vestige of a time long past.
We worship at the shrine from whence our ancestors sought to understand the great mystery of Bill Krozby and his semen encrusted daughters who committed suicide. At dawn the shrine emits a high pitched squeal, reminiscent of the sound his daughters made when they forgot his name and were promptly raped by Bill Krozby. Please Bill Krozby, you have forsaken your bastard spawn to a rather large Floridian manatee named Captain Falcon, and a degenerate Paki named Mazuse, the flying tiger
It is upon this history that the weight of civilization rests on one man alone, one Ryan Jenkins the Libtard. CEO of famed Jenkins Pop. His assistant, Bret "Honeypot" Chumlee and degenerate Paki servant, Mazuse, conspired to rape his sugary brown starfish under the guise of a booze shot via enema - a ritual Ryan performs when his alcohol addiction makes him crave both vodka and anal. Little do the dastardly duo know that Jenkins has a penchant for ass play, and a dildo to match.
His prostate abraded beyond recognition, worn crimson red from the spiked baseball bat he thrusts with all his strength each night, and stinging sharp with pain, he gritted his teeth and braced, as he had many moons ago when Malice had ass fucked him. Now, he ponders whether or not he made the right choice; breaking up the fateful love-triangle between himself, HTS, and vermouth.
He could've stayed. He could've chosen to be caught in the circle of drugs, sex, violation by tactically dressed men. But he didn't. He chose freedom. Ryan chose death. Jumping headfirst into a pit of AIDS semen, his skin dissolves
Didn't read. -
2017-07-10 at 10:09 PM UTCBlue liserds are often known to feast upon the entrails of young wandering altar boys like the priest feasts upon the cocks of demon children whose only purpose is to raise grandmas from the dead so that they can fuck up a wall with fist.
It has often been heard that drugs are bad, but actually only illegal illicit drugs are as far as when liserds sneeze [those] snots of flames that wind up causing harm to the local squid population.
It's not understood what exactly this all stemmed from, but one thing is clear: we have not, and will not Stand here and watch the liserds devour their prey. We are here, rising against what we truly believe is the army of Bill Krozby's abandoned children.
They have decided that they can no longer take the aborted fetus of their youth after Metaphysical went down south of the equator to release the poor water drinking ho' from the clutches of an engorged, horribly mutilated baby bald eagle.
This led to several wars, the least of which created the giant sploo and the sorcerer's stone of stone sorcery.
Today, we live in the era of the golden cock. Adorned on buildings and homes, plastered on every storefront and tattooed on every woman's labia, a bright and shining cock. The slogan, "Uirum Aurum Mentula." In Elvish, it means "Heavenly Nigger Dick", a vestige of a time long past.
We worship at the shrine from whence our ancestors sought to understand the great mystery of Bill Krozby and his semen encrusted daughters who committed suicide. At dawn the shrine emits a high pitched squeal, reminiscent of the sound his daughters made when they forgot his name and were promptly raped by Bill Krozby. Please Bill Krozby, you have forsaken your bastard spawn to a rather large Floridian manatee named Captain Falcon, and a degenerate Paki named Mazuse, the flying tiger
It is upon this history that the weight of civilization rests on one man alone, one Ryan Jenkins the Libtard. CEO of famed Jenkins Pop. His assistant, Bret "Honeypot" Chumlee and degenerate Paki servant, Mazuse, conspired to rape his sugary brown starfish under the guise of a booze shot via enema - a ritual Ryan performs when his alcohol addiction makes him crave both vodka and anal. Little do the dastardly duo know that Jenkins has a penchant for ass play, and a dildo to match.
His prostate abraded beyond recognition, worn crimson red from the spiked baseball bat he thrusts with all his strength each night, and stinging sharp with pain, he gritted his teeth and braced, as he had many moons ago when Malice had ass fucked him. Now, he ponders whether or not he made the right choice; breaking up the fateful love-triangle between himself, HTS, and vermouth.
He could've stayed. He could've chosen to be caught in the circle of drugs, sex, violation by tactically dressed men. But he didn't. He chose freedom. Ryan chose death. Jumping headfirst into a pit of AIDS semen, his skin dissolves while tactically dressed men watched
