no fetch you

justin biebar is bawse

Name: CRT "young money"
Appearance: a black guy who would fit in alongside a stereotypical stoner ritual
music

I buy my my bitch a new ass and... watch her sit on my monkey

me and my lil bro going hard on a rap track feedback would be nice

jajaja

i pretend in my mind im here sometimes but i think honestly we're always omnipresent as a bundle of love

this post is for trucks

 I will be appointed to the leader of the monarchummist party.

 questionariees to the front

Lets have a monarchy as opposed to our democrazy doods

you can almost imagine a truck driving through the sounds of jazz

take this soulja boy

the next poster will be mod if he changes his name to google is cool 2004

How about a new mod team suited for the modern day needs of this website?

 Dissident- A firey worker who appreciates a job well done, slimey presumtious juices rarely hint a slither towards free radicalization in this post modern sleeping bacadus

You're Winner OF course - a parrot of self tuned awareness ready to leap frog any challenge that awaits.

Andmill - A fair intimidating entity who weilds our sparrow bar!

any other additions?

With a bubble and a squeak, and some bangers and mash, the vortex leading to the Brundlesphere disgorged me on my living room floor early this morning.

After duly wetting myself—now nothing more than routine formality, honestly—the first thing I did was rush to my computer to record my memories of the Brundlesphere, before they faded like so many dreams of Alyssa Milano’s toes. I sat down in front of my computer, cracked open the monitor, and leapt right into my word oppressor to compose a web blob entry for August 17, 2008.

Then I saw it: The tiny little calendar application running on my desktop, surrounded by viruses and trojans, dutifully displaying the current date and time in 7pt Tahoma, each letter and digit a delightfully light shade of purple.

I froze. I murpled a little in my pants. I even bubbled and squeaked a bit myself.

The date was March 7, 2010.

My eyes started from my head. My pupils popped. I went, “Gnaåaåaåaaahhh!!” and fell to the floor, quickly skittering under my computer desk in abject fright. Yappie yapped. In the distance, a hog would have snarked—had it not died a year ago of old age. Not since Pope John Paul II, that crazy old coot, had canonized the entire population of Arp, Texas during a particularly intense bout of dementia, had I been so enfliverously, testicularly shocked and appalled in my life.

“Oh, my Dog! It’s 2010! Pwee, pwee, pwee!!”

ahahahaah bullies aren't bulletproof