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Posts by Charles Ex Machina
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2024-12-19 at 5:45 AM UTC in Haha someone got my gf to leave medarkness is beauty
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2024-12-19 at 5:40 AM UTC in Haha someone got my gf to leave me
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2024-12-19 at 5:26 AM UTC in I'm about to be arrested by the Austin Police Department
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2024-12-19 at 5:22 AM UTC in This years Christmas gifts from reps trying to curry my favor
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2024-12-18 at 1:11 AM UTC in I got friends my own age! (I think)now comehere and cuddle
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2024-12-18 at 1:10 AM UTC in Haha someone got my gf to leave me
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2024-12-18 at 1:08 AM UTC in What are you doing at the moment
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2024-12-17 at 11:21 PM UTC in I got friends my own age! (I think)uncle charles love crispy !
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2024-12-17 at 11:14 PM UTC in Hey Charley Ex
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2024-12-17 at 11:12 PM UTC in BradleyB's Eggcellent Egg Flats.
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2024-12-17 at 11:10 PM UTC in I got friends my own age! (I think)crispy, will you inrroduce your cute friends to uncle charles
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2024-12-17 at 11:08 PM UTC in CNN rescue prisoner from terrifying Assad Saydnaya military prison.
Originally posted by Cosmopolitan This thread totally ignores the horrible suffering of the Syrian people living under that monster Bashar al-Assad, a brutal dictator who’s ruined lives and destroyed the country.
assad is a monster who let moesleem women freedom to go around dressed provocatively and without a head veil and gave them voices to whine.
assad must go and its good that hes gone. -
2024-12-17 at 11 PM UTC in Little girl brings gun to school in Madison Wisconsin, killing 2.
Originally posted by Rough Rider Folks normally u don't see this behavior in females. She did this at a Christian school. Milwaukee a shithole where shitty people come from but Madison nice. I went there twice for school trips to the capital.
Whole area is really nice. She wrote a manifesto
https://www.cnn.com/us/live-news/abundant-life-christian-school-shooting-madison-12-16-24/index.html
cnn is the fakest of fake newses/ -
2024-12-17 at 10:58 PM UTC in SWIM stole a California King mattress😼
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2024-12-17 at 10:55 PM UTC in SWIM stole a California King mattress😼
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2024-12-17 at 10:53 PM UTC in Haha someone got my gf to leave me
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2024-12-17 at 10:52 PM UTC in Haha someone got my gf to leave me
Originally posted by Jiggaboo_Johnson Those clowns with the KKK hats and so called "nationalists" are not REAL racists, they're just scared little girls who don't like someone who looks different because they think they'll take their jobs and women.
No, A TRUE racist understands whites are superior and the blacks, yellows, reds, browns etc are a subspecies..again regardless of nationality.
There is no "fear" like the pretend racists have and display, there is just loathing and disgust and a desire to eradicate the filth.
so, are serbs just as superior as icelandicks ? -
2024-12-17 at 10:44 PM UTC in Hey Charley Exclub meds.
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2024-12-17 at 10:42 PM UTC in &TOTSE/totse.com. Old Babbage Bi-Monthly article
Originally posted by 🦄🌈 MORALLY SUPERIOR BEING - vaxxed and octoboosted 💉 (we beat covid!) 👬💕👭🍀 (🍩✊) In a forgotten alley, where the streetlights buzzed with dying voltage and shadows swallowed the pavement, there was a bar only whispered about: The Temple of the Screaming Electron, or simply TOTSE. No one advertised it. No flyers, no Yelp reviews, and certainly no website. But if you needed to find it, somehow, you did.
The entrance was easy to miss—a narrow door, blackened by time, with no handle and a single brass buzzer below a faded sign. The letters T-O-T-S-E were etched unevenly, like someone had carved them with a knife in a moment of frustration. If you rang the buzzer, there’d be no response at first, just silence. Then, a voice—warped and distorted—would crackle through a hidden speaker:
“Shall pass no law”
The door opened inward, and suddenly you were inside.
The first thing you noticed was the sound. It wasn’t music, at least not in the conventional sense. Speakers mounted in the corners hissed static, interspersed with fragments of broken transmissions: a news broadcast from the '50s, a Soviet-era number station, the chirp of a modem connecting to nowhere. Underneath it all, the low hum of electronics pulsed like a heartbeat.
The bar itself sprawled in impossible ways. At the center was the counter, a slab of old, pockmarked steel lined with mismatched stools. The bartender, an enigmatic figure known only as “Warden”, never smiled, never laughed—just served drinks with the precision of a machinist. A pair of thick, taped glasses magnified his eyes to cartoonish proportions, and his stained apron seemed to have more burn marks than a welder’s coat.
The drinks were infamous. No cocktails with umbrellas or sugared rims here. Instead, there were concoctions named "Short Circuit," "Blue Screen of Death," and the lethal "Rootkit." Rumor had it the last one contained absinthe, espresso, and something that glowed faintly under black light. Warden would sometimes mix them without looking, as though the bottles knew exactly where to land in his hands.
The regulars at TOTSE were the kind of people you didn’t meet anywhere else. In one corner sat a man known only as “Null,” tapping endlessly at a mechanical keyboard hooked up to nothing—no monitor, no wires. Across from him, a woman with silver hair and mirrored sunglasses argued passionately with a man wearing a tinfoil hat. They spoke in riddles, throwing around phrases like “signal interference,” “crypto-lattice walls,” and “the electron is screaming again.”
Scattered booths with torn upholstery lined the walls, each one home to a different enigma. Writers hunched over notebooks, scribbling furiously. Hackers tapped away on laptops with cracked screens, the keys worn bare. Philosophers leaned over half-empty glasses, muttering about the collapse of society, the rise of machines, or the beauty of chaos.
And the chalkboard. The blackboard behind the bar was sacred. Anyone who thought they had something to say could stand up and write on it—whether it was lines of code, fragments of manifestos, or a question no one could answer. Warden would always wipe it clean by morning, but somehow, pieces remained, buried under layers of chalk dust like ghosts of ideas unspoken.
The lights above the bar flickered unpredictably, casting shadows that didn’t always make sense. Some said the wiring was shot; others claimed the bar was alive. Occasionally, the hum would shift to an eerie silence, the kind that made you hold your breath without realizing it. That’s when you’d hear the stories.
People said TOTSE had always been there, in some form or another. Before it was a bar, it was a speakeasy during Prohibition. Before that, a forgotten basement where alchemists mixed poisons and cures alike. Some claimed it was older still, built on ley lines, drawing power from energies no one could name. But in its current form, The Temple of the Screaming Electron was something else entirely—a sanctuary for ideas no one else would host.
The hum, the walls, the name itself—it all echoed a singular philosophy: Speech is power, and power must never be silenced. This was TOTSE's creed, scrawled above the bar in jagged letters:
“Freedom of speech: Enter at your own peril.”
Here, words were sacred, dangerous, and limitless. People came to TOTSE because they had nowhere else to go—no other place where they could speak without fear, where their ideas could live or die on merit alone.
Some newcomers embraced it. Others fled, overwhelmed by the raw, unenhancemented nature of it all. But those who stayed? They found a kind of freedom most people only dreamed of. They became part of the conversation—a chaotic, electric current that screamed across the dark void of silence.
TOTSE wasn’t just a bar; it was a battleground for ideas. Some were mad, some were genius, and some were both. But all of them were given the space to exist. And if you walked out those doors feeling unsettled, electrified, or forever changed—then TOTSE had done its job.
Because, as the Warden often grumbled while wiping down the bar, “Speech is free. But freedom? That’ll cost you.”
When you left TOTSE, whether it was after one drink or a lost weekend, the outside world never felt quite the same. The city seemed quieter, the air heavier, as though some unseen force had rearranged the atoms of reality while you were inside. Streetlights buzzed louder, their glow harsher, and even the graffiti on the walls seemed to watch you with newfound intent. The hum of traffic no longer blended into the background—it gnawed at your ears, sharp and insistent. People on the sidewalks moved differently too, faces down, eyes blank, their conversations muted and empty compared to the chaos and electricity you’d left behind. The world felt sanitized, muffled, as if someone had turned down the volume on life itself. You’d check your phone, only to find it frozen, or your clock inexplicably wrong, as though time had been rewritten while you were gone. And lingering in the back of your mind, like the fading whisper of a dream, was the hum—the low, pulsing reminder that you had been somewhere real.
write about the rat that caused the whole bar to shut down -
2024-12-17 at 10:30 PM UTC in Getting on ozempic
