#ModQuest2018
 

I was a warrior. A badass. A pissed off barbarian charging into a horde of orcs, my flowing hair and loincloth blowing majestically in the wind, nothing but my balls and a really big sword between me and a hot entrée of horrible death, with a side of eternal glory.

I kicked ass. Took names. Kicked said names. Rocked the world harder than the Poison Clan. Shamed spammers, partied with the jammers, and cheesed off bosses with the yes-man-kablammers.

Then, at the very height of my excellence, I was cock blocked from taking up my rightful place among the Mods of Mount Olympus. I submitted myself to their judgement and was found unworthy, even though they probably just rejected me because there wasn't enough holy real estate available to fit my huge wanger, or some ****.

I was cast down from the holy mountain, thrown back into the cesspool of plebery, shamed and dishonored.

So now, I'm on a quest. A mission of redemption. A journey to discover what Modship really means, and who I truly am. An adventure to awaken... the Mod within.




They took everything from me. My sword, my honor, all of the biscuits I had stashed in my knapsack. Bastards didn't even leave me my loincloth. ****ing *******s. I had to hunt ten gigantic man-eating tigers to get enough pelt to make that damn thing. All of the store-bought loincloths were way too small for my morningstar.

Oh well. I'd just start over. Work my way back up to the top and take it all back. Till then, **** it, I could free-ball it.

I started off down the path, stealing a final glance back at Mount Olympus. Those holy ****s were probably sitting around up there, laughing their asses off as sexy ladies in togas and oiled up beefcakes fed them grapes and ****. And I knew that one day, those grapes would be mine. And when they were, I would put them in the freezer for like an hour, 'cause that **** tastes really good.

An hour or so later, I ended up in a ****ty little village of goat herders. Probably goat ****ers, too. Some lady came running towards me from out of a shack, yelling some **** about an attack through her tears. Her legs were all ****ed up, so she kept falling, and that just ****ed up her legs even more. It looked like someone had mangled them years ago. Yeesh. Guess this village was really on it's last legs.

A guy came running out of the shack behind her. Bandit. The heavy furs and rusty axe were dead giveaways. All those bandit ****s shop at the same places.

He threw his axe at my face. I headbutted that **** into a cloud of dust. You might think that would've scared him, or at least given him a moment of pause, but nah, that ain't how bandits in barbarian flicks roll. They really just don't give a ****. You could chokeslam a chimera right in front of them, and they'd still be like "Yeah, we can take this guy!"

He rushed me. I kicked him square in the chest. Beneath his cracking ribs, I could almost hear his heart make a generic movie soundclip of a grunt as it exploded. Blood flew out of all of his orifices, and I do mean all of them. He also got an erection, so I guess he was into it.

Anyway, the bandit fell to the dust, and I helped the lady up. She stammered out a story about how some nearby bandit clan had totally wrecked the village's ****, and enslaved pretty much everybody. The guy I'd just killed had stayed behind to search for anyone that might've still been hiding around, and found her.

The lady beseeched me to go after the bandit clan and rescue all of her buds.

I closed my eyes, and used my mind to briefly consult the Mods. Goofle was the one who picked up the mind-call. I explained the situation to him. "You provide a valuable service," he said, and I'm just gonna tell you right now that if you're not reading his words with a limey accent, get on that ****, "and thus you should be compensated for your efforts. Preferably with cash, but sex is also acceptable. Just please don't let those dirt farmers talk you into doing **** for them for free. It's their own fault they're in this mess. If they weren't such lazy twats, they wouldn't be useless peasants, would they?"

I opened my eyes. "Sure," I said to the peasant gal, stretching out a palm. "Pay me."

She acted all surprised. "Pay you? You mean... you want money? I thought you were... you know... a hero?"

And I was like, "I am a hero. And for the right price, I could be your hero."

Her eyes started welling up with more tears. "But... heroes are supposed to fight for honor, and virtue, and-"

"And look where all that honor **** got me. I was a legend. I saved the world. And now, I'm just another naked ******* roaming around without a purpose. That's what happens when you fight for honor. At least with money, you can afford enough booze to drink away the guilt. So yeah. Pay me."

She looked around the village through a gust of wind, her ugly peasant girl haircut (every peasant girl always has the same one) blowing against her face like it was trying to strangle her. She opened her mouth, probably to try and reason with me, but was having a hard time settling on the right words. Eventually, she just kinda shrugged, and let her hands fall to her thighs with a slap. "We've got nothing to pay you with."

And I was like. "Really? Nothing? Nothing at all? You don't have any food, or booze, or maybe even just a CRT that you've been meaning to put out on the curb?"

She looked down. "We're simple people. All we had was our herd. They were all that we needed. And now, we don't even have th-" She got all choked up and raised a hand to her mouth, her mind probably playing a rerun of the bandits slaughtering all of her goats. Wish I could've been there. Would've made a sick album cover.

And I sighed, and was like "Alright. Fine. I guess the bandits'll probably have some **** I can loot. I'll go save all your brother-husbands."

She beamed and gave me a hug.

"But," I continued through her hair, which was actively trying to go into my mouth, and it was really gross, "we have to **** first."

She snapped open her eyes and pushed me away. "What? Why?"

My monster vine was already rising towards the warmth of the sun. "'Cause this is a Fantasy story, and I'm a male power fantasy, and you're a grateful peasant lady, and-"

She raised a hand. "Alright. I get it. But no. I'm not gonna sleep with you."

"Why not?"

"Well, for starters, I'm married."

"To a guy who couldn't even handle a few bandits. Now come on, let's go."

"Are you serious? I just watched my whole family, my whole village, get enslaved. Not five minutes ago, I almost got raped. And you think, what... all that **** has made me super horny?"

"Uh... yeah?" I briefly consulted my memory of the genre. "Yeah, that's definitely how it's supposed to go. So, should we just do it right here? Or does your village have, like, a **** shack we can use?"

She slapped me. I still had the mark on my cheek when I reached the makeshift fort nestled in the foothills and started the slaughter. My fists were like a whirlwind of bloody destruction. There was this one part where I turned really fast, and I'm pretty sure my dick whipped out and knocked someone cold. It was great.

I found a nice stash of pilfered gold and jewels in the bandit chief's quarters, and plenty of food for my journey in their supply stores. I even cobbled all of their furs together and made myself a new loincloth. All of the peasants cheered me on as I ripped their chains off. They all loaded themselves up with as much food and booze as they could find, and we had a huge feast when we got back to the village.

During the festivities, the peasant lady found me and apologized for slapping me. And I was like, "Hey, it's cool. Don't worry about it," and not just because I'm a forgiving guy who pretty much had it coming anyway, but also 'cause I kinda like it when girls hit me. Don't tell anyone, though, 'cause that **** is top hush.

Anyway, the day ended much better than it began. The peasant lady and I got buzzed on bandit moonshine and then snuck off, and she gave me an awkward handjob in the **** shack. Aw yeah. Fantasy.

Why this comma?

Strategic narrative pause to improve the comedic flow. And also so Patrick Stewart can get plenty of breaths in when this **** is inevitably put on tape.

I saw Urban in a dream last night. I fell asleep pondering where next I ought travel, my worries obscured by the haze of rest, whence came him through such glittering shards of which memory and imagining join and crystallize.

"Leave me out of your dreams, you ****ing dork," he said. "I don't give a **** what you do, or where you go. Figure that **** out on your own."

As I woke, I did ruminate on those seeds of wisdom he had so haply sown, tending to them with the warm succor of patient consideration, till at last an idea did sprout, taking deep root in my mind.

I would get another really big sword. And this one would be even bigger.

I broke camp, extinguishing what faint smolders remained of the fire with a healthy morning piss, and set off down the road with a limp. That peasant gal back in the village I saved? Yeah, she had hand herpes. **** itched like a bitch. Yet until upon the path of a healer I might cross, I'd just have to suck it up and deal with it.

Not long on the path, I stood atop the crest of a hillock and did mark smoke on yonder plains ahead, churning through the sky so blue as liquor churns through a maiden true.

Twas a town I spied, within which I'd soon arrived. The past few days, I had hunted many a bandit, filling my knapsack to bursting with what coinage I had liberated from their coffers. And now, I dumped all that **** on the floor of the smithy's shop.

"Fashion me a sword," I said, "of such length and girth that I might cleave the very world upon which I tread, should it offend me."

The smith, an eldery gentleman of a portly sort, laughed as he cleaned his hands with a rag. "I'm a goldsmith, son. Says so right on the sign. Weapons aren't really my-"

I punched some **** off of a table. "Sword."

He seemed as if he didn't quite understand the situation. "Son, you need to calm down. Now, there's a blacksmith just a stretch down the road, not five minutes from here on foot. If you just-"

I ripped off my loincloth. "SWORD. NOW."

I saw many things flash across his face. Fear. Revulsion. Maybe some jealously. But I also saw understanding, and that was good.

"I'll get right on it," he stammered, hurrying to his forge.

And that's how I ended up with a seven hundred pound sword made of gold.

And it was glorious.

Until I swung it into an armored orc, and it got all bent and ****. You know, for a metal with such a heavy rep, gold is actually kind of a bitch.

I consulted the Mods on what I ought do next. Vanilla answered my call, and told me to join her cult for a woke 'n smoke. But a cult is no place for a true warrior, and so I sadly had to decline.

Before hitting up a nearby inn and buying a room and a wench for the night, I sought out the services of a local healer. I traded my warped weapon for a remedy, and so was rid of my penile ailment. In a manner of speaking, anyway; it made my dick fall off. But it was fine. I rolled with it. Hardly the first time a cheapo quicky potion had bent my gender.

Fun read.

I awoke to the noise of excited chattering beyond the canvas of my tent. Temporarily swordless, I reached for the sturdy club that I had been using in the interval, and sometimes using as an anal stimulator when my whacking sessions needed that extra oomph.

Hobgoblins. Dozens of them. They leapt at me, razored claws retracted, screaming their squeaky battlecries. Adorable.

My first swing turned three skulls into goblin pasta. The next ripped through their tiny torsos like a hot dick through a bunch of ugly little butter sculptures, cutting at least one of them clean in half. The few left unmangled soon scampered away, shouting vaguely hurtful insults and edgy alt-right rhetoric as they disappeared into the foliage.

And as for the corpses, well... let's just say that breakfast took care of itself that morning.

Bloated with gobby burgers and covered in green blood, I decided to wash up in the nearby stream. But when I got there, looking down into the crystalline waters, I found a pair of tits staring back at me.

Damn. I checked between my legs. Yup. That potion really had bent my gender.

Whatever. A few good dungeon crawls, and I'd have more than enough gold to get myself changed back.

I spent the next few minutes cleaning up and playing with my new tits, and then broke camp.

As I prepared to leave, I knelt down and opened my mind, praying to the Mods for guidance. Maybe they could give me a hot tip on some good bandit lairs.

Wolverinewolfweiselpigeon answered the call.

"Ayyyyyy," she sang, waving to me through a thick haze of smoke. "Just got the Incepta-Bong fixed. You wanna come by for a rip?"

"Uh, I -"

"Oh, wait," she said, raising a hand to her mouth and giggling like an anime bitch. "I forgot. You couldn't get an invite to Mount Olympus. Loooooool."

"Yup," I sighed, trying not to roll my eyes. "Look, I just called to ask for some advice."

"Oh? 'Bout what?"

"Uh... my quest?"

"Oh yeeeeaaahhh..." she smiled, shooing away an oiled up beefcake grape-bearer. "How's that been workin' out for ya'?"

"Fine. But I could use some pointers. Hence the prayer-call."

"Oh, sure. Some pointers. Like, on how to tap into the essence of the True Mod, and ascend above the dregs of mediocritous humanity, or whatever?"

"Or just a heads up on where the nearest thing to kill is would be fine."

"Can do, bro," she said, cracking her knuckles. Raising her hands to her temples, she scrunched her face like she was straining her mind, or just taking a really painful ****. "Oooh. I'm scanning the area around you. Really scouring around. And it looks like... the nearest thing to kill... is..." Opening her eyes, she laughed and blew a raspberry. "You. As in, kill yourself, dork. Ha ha ha! How d'ya like that? Mod clan ain't nothin' ta **** wit!"

"Oh, shut up, bitch."

"Aaaaaaaaand infracted," she grinned, dropping an invisible gavel.

"Oh yeah? Infract these, bitch," I said, standing up to show her my rockin' new pair of tits. "I've only had them for one morning, and they're already bigger than yours."

"Oh shiiiiiiiiiit," she laughed. "Those are pretty nice. Infraction lifted, I guess. Anyway, I've gotta run. Janszoon just tossed up some edibles all over my carpet. Have fun with your quest thiiiiing byyyyeeee."

Well ****. What a waste of time.

I needed something to kill.

Trekking my way to the nearest road, I followed it for a few miles. Not much happened. There were some gooey skeletons. A crow looked at me. I smashed it. Cheeky little ****er.

Eventually, I ended up in yet another generic fantasy pastiche village. Oh joy.

Gods, I was done. Done with that ****. I saw those cutesy little cottages and those jolly woodcutters, and I just couldn't. I kept my gaze locked to the ground as I trundled to the nearest tavern to get ****faced, knowing that if I for any reason had to look back up, had to look at that ****ing village one more time, I would just start swinging. It would just happen. It does sometimes, you know. I start swinging, and I don't stop until everything is... well, whatever color blood the people around here have.

Life is so much simpler when you reduce it to a swing. Good? Evil? No. Swing.

Rich? Poor? Swing.

Human? Monster? Swing.

All is swing.

Swing.

And then I wake up naked inside of a pile of body parts.

Just a few steps from the tavern, some tubby baker gets in my way, trying to sell me some freshly baked rolls. I told him that he could bake himself a roll shaped like a vagina and go **** it. Then I pushed him away.

Some town guards saw that ****, and rushed in.

I was so close. One of my feet had found the porch steps. And then I felt their hands drop on my shoulders.

"Awlroight," one of them said, because of course he was a limey. "Wot's all this, then? You havin' a loff, you saucy wanka? Don you know we don stand for sush ooliganism in ese pahts?"

"Let me go."

They had a chuckle. "Oi wiw naught. In fact, oi think you beh-ur come along wiff us. Roight now."

Swing.

"I'm serious. Let me go."

Their grips tightened. They started to pull me back.

Swing.

"You ear at, Chahleigh?" laughed one of them. "Ee wants us to let im go. Wehw, maybe we should..."

"Aye," chuckled the other. "Wiw let im go, awlroight." He leaned in closer to me. I could feel his limey breath on my neck. "To hell."

And then I turned around.

And smiled.

And swang.

I was onboard with you getting modded until you started spouting made-up lies, saying that I beat my wife, hit women and build bombs.

https://static.timesofisrael.com/www...02-640x400.jpg

^ a pm would be more appropriate than bringing it into an unrelated thread.

My lies are made up, are they?

Not saying that I beat my wife, hit women and build bombs would have been more appropriate as well.

hey man it's your drama to drag out don't let me stop you

Then don't stop him.

https://media.giphy.com/media/UlqLDtI8Qc0j6/source.gif

Nah, it's cool.

Ori says that I beat my wife, hit women and build bombs.

Frowny says that I distribute child pornography.

Lucem says that I plan mass shootings and am a domestic terrorist.




Why would anyone ever be mad at any of that . . .

just seems counter-intuitive to me to continue bringing it up when you want your name to not be associated with those things

I don't mind. I'll humor his idiocy.

Please show me where I directly accused you of hitting women and building bombs, Merit.

'Cause if I recall, I accused you of fighting a cop during an instance of domestic abuse (which doesn't always mean physical violence) and getting blocked by the mods when you wanted to post about homemade/3D printed weapons. Which you admitted.

And I also noted you're very vocal about men having the right to hit women in certain situations. Which you are.

So get over it.

^ See? I mean, my memory of your escapades may have been slightly off, but damn if I wasn't in the ballpark.

It is pretty ridiculous to call Merit a wife beater tbh. He's never hit a woman who didn't deserve it.

*unjustified popcorn gif*

Because "domestic abuse" is TOTALLY different than beating your wife.

And positing that it's morally acceptable to defend yourself against someone trying to murder you, regardless of their gender, is a completely different issue than advocating for violence against women.

Abuse actually does come in many forms.

And I didn't say that you advocated for violence against women. I just said that you were the kind of guy who made sure to brush up on where the law stood on the issue. *dramatic voice* Just in caaaase...

We cool now?

'Cause hey, I admit that I've made some mean spirited jokes at your expense. But it's not like I wrote a ****ing expose accusing you of being a pimp slapping bomber, or whatever.

Wait, are the recent posts not part of the story? I'm confused.

"Wait, are the recent posts not part of the story?" typed Kiiii, his Hello Kitty keyboard clacking as his fingers danced across it. "I'm confused."

Navigating away from MB, he leaned back in his chair and pulled up a banquet of kinky porn tabs. Not because he liked jerking off to them, but because they were his aesthetic. Basking in the warmth of the piles of furries and crotch-chopping leather dudes before him, the screen of his computer illuminating his contented eyes in the rich darkness of his apartment, he felt an overwhelming peace as he came to terms with not only his existence in an uncaring and chaotic world, but also the transient nature of said existence. For sometimes, it is better for things to have an end.

In the midst of his meditations, there came a sharp creak from behind him, rising up slowly and unsteadily through the silence like a banshee yawning in the morning. He recognized the sound immediately, for he had fastidiously mentally cataloged the sound of every door that he had ever encountered. It was a thing he did.

The unoiled rasp. The popping of the painted-over hinges. The whispers of the eternal. It could only be The Red Door.

The creaking came to an abrupt stop.

He turned in his chair. The parting of the door was slight, barely visible through the dim light of his computer.

The voice came like tinnitus, drifting in as if it had always been there, the undercurrent of his existence, waiting for him to acknowledge it. It spoke not in simple and discernible words, but in pure intent, a transmission of raw desire from one mind to another, or perhaps many minds to none.

The desire was simple.

"Feed me."

And there, set in the far darkness, came two orbs, unreal things that were at once too dark and too bright for his tired mortal eyes. They resonated with the frequency of his soul, drawing nearer.

"Feed me."

Kiiii tried to look away. He knew that if he didn't, if he couldn't force himself to, he would never leave those eyes. But every thought of resistance seemed to unfurl as he fell deeper into the comforts of the eternally lost.

Fighting with every ounce of energy yet left within his worn frame, his hand trembled as it inched to the side. And every inch, every hint of movement, was a desperate battle that came at a terrible price, but it was a price that he had paid many times before. And, he suspected, one that he had never truly stopped paying, and never would.

His fingertips found the cold metal, curling and tightening as he tried to secure a grip. The aluminum scraped faintly as he pulled it to him across his desk. The fingers of his other hand found the tab.

"Feed me."

The shimmering darkness settled on him until it seemed to be all that ever was, his mortal distinctions and conceptions scattering out of him like bats fleeing a unsafe belfry. The last pieces of his nearly nonexistant will swelled, burning with the beautifully pathetic brightness of all things doomed to fade. He pulled the tab. Harder. Harder. Until at last! The lid finally gave, curling up with a faint rasp. At that moment, it was the most wonderful sound that he had ever heard.

The smell of tuna fast pervaded. The orbs withdrew, settling on the tin. Something brushed against his hands as the tin rose free and slipped into the darkness, the fur of a limb never meant to be touched by such a limited being. It brought forth sensations triggered from senses that he did not, could not, even possess, his mind giving him the closet possible approximations as it teetered on the edge of total dissolution.

And then the moment passed, as all moments do. The room jittered and warped minutely as reality reasserted itself, making an odd noise, like a basket made of thin metal weaves being stretched and twisted until the breaking point.

Kiiii turned back to his screen, his mind censoring his memories in defense of his sanity, only vaguely aware of what had transpired. Pulling MB back up, he went to the Your Day thread.

"Just fed the cat, lol," he typed with a smile. "Might take her out for a walk later, after a few more ranked Rocket League matches."

I want to be in the story. However, I HAVE to die.

I think I love you.

These just get better and better.

Ori, you failed. Gonna re-up for 2019?

Mayyyyyybe

I want more lines

*insert Scarface gif*

Nah, have this one instead

https://uproxx.files.wordpress.com/2...mama.gif?w=500

Actual photo of me looking for my own username every time threads like this pop up

https://i.ibb.co/tZmsfCV/ctrlf.png

I walked through the underworks, the mossy cobblestones hard and slick beneath my bare feet, like a Floridian methhead that's just caught the scent of an unattended pool toy with a vaguely vagina-shaped hole in it.

Darkness. The scent of blood. The distant roar of the crowd, a deep bass vibration, buzzing through me. My sword was slung low on my waist, scraping the stones beneath with every step, tearing through the darkness with a small wisp of bright sparks.

And then I remembered that I wasn't even wearing a sword.

The light ahead grew closer. Swelled. Enveloped me.

Even as my gaze fell to naught under the full fire of the morning sun, I kept walking. Kept breathing. Every breath matched to the rhythm of the crowd.

The cold stones became warm, soft sand. Like a blanket of pop tarts, when they're all het up just enough that they start getting all gooey, but you can still actually bite into them without getting a mouthful of flaming demon semen.

I raised a hand to the light. The world through my sun kissed retinas was a swirl of smeared colors, jittering flashes.

And as my vision slowly returned, I saw a shadow approaching from the other side of the pit.

My enemy. Smiling. The naked steel of his blade glowing bright against the pale sand. And his blade wasn't the only thing that was naked.

Tristan. That sexy ****ing bastard.

High above, the ceremonial gong was sounded. A call to silence.

And a figure stepped to the front of the royal box.

Exo.

"Weeeeelllllp," he shrugged. "Here we are. Doing the arena thing. I don't think I have t-"

Interrupting him with a cough, a figure approached him from behind. A middle aged woman carting a box of Pat Boone albums. "Excuse me? You buy records, right?"

He turned with a smile. "Sure!" he sang, firing up his wrist flamethrowers. "Whatchya got?"

She set the box on the counter, because there's a counter now. Deal with it. "What I've got are ten boxes of extremely important heirlooms that my mother trusted me with when she passed away. I think you're gonna like what you see." She leaned in with a wink. "They're first pressings."

He leaned in as well, raising his eyebrows. "Reaally?"

"Uh-huh! Anyway, here's the first set. Take a look. I was thinking maybe a few thousand for the entire collection, but if you wanna haggle, hey, I can maybe go down a little bit. I understand that a haul like this doesn't come in every day."

He spent three whole seconds flipping through the box. "Well ****," he grinned. "A haul indeed! Let me run some quick calculations." Pulling a pork roll out of his pocket, he slapped it against a calculator. "There we go. If I've got my numbers right, then your collection should be worth..." Pausing, he raised a hand to his chin in thought. "Damn. I was never very good with math. Can you help me out with this last part?"

"Oh sure. I love math. What do you need?"

"Can you tell me what you get when you divide Jack by Shit?"

Before the woman could so much as gasp, Exo let forth a stream of flames, enveloping both her and her treasured heirlooms in a dancing stream of fire.

"Well if they're not worth anything," screamed the flaming woman, "can you at least just take them off my hands and throw them away?"

Pulling out a jug of lighter fluid, he held it between his legs and gave it a good squeeze, shaking it around as he pissed out a line of fuel, spelling his name in the air and feeding the raging fire.

And then he was back at the balcony, taking a bite from his pork roll as he waved to the crowd. "Alright," he said through the mouthful of finely cooked processed foreskin. "Let's get on with this ****. You know the rules. Two men enter. One man leaves."

Flexing his oiled-up muscles, Tristan looked up at him with a glare. "Two men? Ain't that a bit gendered, fella?"

"Oops," said Exo. "Sorry. My bad." Clearing his throat, he started again "Two assholes enter. One asshole leaves." Picking a stray piece of eyeball out of his pork roll, he tossed it towards the combatants. "That better, ya' ****in' snowflake?"

Smiling happily enough, Tristan gave him an 'eh-good-enough' shrug.

"Great! Then go kill each other already."

We stepped towards each other.

I ripped off my shirt.

He had already taken his own off. But then he went back and put it back on, just so he could rip it off again.

We glared at each other as we moved in, carefully circling each other.

I took a grappler's stance, watching closely, preparing to strike. I had no weapon. I didn't need one.

With a smile, he threw his blade to the side, taking a stance of his own.

Our coiled muscles gleamed under the sun, thick cords of raw power, rolling beneath our skin like a million awkward boners, barely concealed by those pants that you knew were way too tight for you.

Someone from the crowd realized that they had accidentally forgotten to spread anything on the sandwich they'd packed. Jumping down into the pit, they carefully approached, slicing the air between us and cutting out a chunk of sexual tension. Lucky bastard was gonna eat like a king.

Seeing an opening at the same moment, we both acted on immediate instinct, surging towards each other. Every muscle exploded with power. Every tendon with energy. Our bones cracked as we contorted ourselves into horribly unnatural JoJo poses.

And the battle began.

And who, you may ask, proved the victor of that terrible battle?

Everyone. Every eye in the crowd, every soul blessed with privilege of having witnessed such a sight of pure beauty, was a winner that day.

But more specifically, me. I won. Ha ha.

Good stuff, but dude, pronouns

Bro how do trans people who speak languages with gendered nouns feel?

Every person has a penis within, waiting to be unleashed. Therefore, masculine pronouns are always applicable.

*penis high-five*

According to Jurassic Park we're all female until an extra hormone is introduced, my ladies.

Taylor Ham > Pork Roll

im disappointed in you.