Go Ahead, Ladies, Ogle The Abs: 1313 Frankenqueen Review, Part Two

Ladies and (gay) gentlemen, make sure nobody’s standing behind you and grab your box of Kleenex, because we’re back at 1313: Frankenqueen!

Don’t try and escape it. It knows where you live. It tastes your fear.

Previously, on 1313: Frankenqueen: Dude. Come on. It’s a 1313 film. Do you honestly think you missed a big chunk of the story that just ruins the story without it!? It’s a bunch of shirtless models getting picked off in slow motion. Think porno, but without porn. Or ‘O’, to be honest.

Ahem!

Sunglass Douche, Senior Subtlety and Pool Prick are all lounging in the hot tub. They argue about who’s going to get more beer, check-out each other’s asses, and trade exposition. And yes, Senior Subtlety says “dry fusion laser” again, just to prove that I didn’t miss hear that. Good god, not even dead Einstein’s ghost would use something that stupid.

Finally, Dr. Kardashian has a meeting with all the spare penises- er, I mean, redshirts- er, I mean, characters. Turns out, her “evil plot” is examining them… while they engage in “various physical activities”. Oh, jesus christ, lady, are you doing all this to get laid? I mean- grrrrrr-

…

Oh, why am I even surprised, this is porn is sheep’s clothing.

There’s some lame attempts at characterization, with the Senior trying to smack down Dr. Kardashian and Sunglass Douche trying to get laid, but it’s about as interesting as an oatmeal convention. God, what is there to even say about this? There’s nothing actually solid here to make fun of! It’s like trying to mock air! It’s flacid and empty and meaningless and- and-

Okay, okay, come on, keep it together…

One sec, need to detox.

All better now!

The muscley models all head to the work-out room, and naturally, we get more slow motion close-ups over their flexy muscles. And as if this wasn’t creepy enough, it’s intercut with her fucking reviewing them. “Jesus, lady, we just met. Can’t you at least buy me dinner before you start trying to taste my nipples?”

They adjourn to the pool area, where more of the same follows, but at the very least, it comes complete with somebody ogling her instead… only for them to cut back inside as she ogles them again. Oh, you have got to be kidding, this whole film is just a Mobius Strip of Sexual Frustration!

…

Oh my god, I’ve just figured out what to name my autobiography.

We get slow cuts of the men flexing, slow cuts of Dr. Kardashian ogling them, so on and so forth until the very idea of nipples will make you gag and want to stab the nearest director with a spork, until they finally stop to start bickering with each other while she taps away on an iPad. Ah yes, I assume this is reverse product placement on behalf of Android?

After a bit of Shatnerian tussling, Dr. Kardashian tells them to shut the fuck up and start licking whipped cream off each other- er, I mean, quiet down. She takes the Senior aside for some triage after the fight, to show off the dry fusion laser. Turns out, it’s that reading light from earlier, and it can heal wounds with the power of the wet panties that this movie inevitable generated!

Outside, Sunglass Douche and the guy who got experimented on first, Mr. Guinea Pig, play catch in the pool.

It’s about as exciting as it sounds.

By the time this movie is over, the idea of pools is either going to ’cause your intense revulsion, or intense lady boners.

Mr. Guinea Pig is brought in to triage, and Dr. Kardashian starts rubbing a different shiny prop over his head to somehow completely scan his brain. You might say, “hey, how does that work”, but I’m pretty sure the director would just start screaming, “DAMMIT, MAN, DON’T YOU SEE THE BIG PICTURE?! IT’S ALL ABOUT THE NIPPLES!”.

This same process goes on for every single one of the men, with Kardashian condescending and bitching at every damn scan, until she finally reaches Workout Wanker… who she immediately brains with a roller skate.

OH GOD.

SHE’S GOT A BRAND NEW PAIR OF ROLLER SKATES.

AND THIS FALL… YOU’VE GOT A BRAND NEW KEY.

Hot Gay Sex 2, Electric Boogaloo: 1313 Frankenqueen Review, Part One

Breathe in, breathe out… breathe in, breathe out…

Okay.

Ladies and gentlemen… we’re back at 1313.

Run, you fools.

You might remember my review of 1313: UFO Invasion, which I reviewed almost a year ago! If you don’t remember it, don’t worry, you’re not missing much. That was back in the days when a review would take about five minutes to write and was about as funny as fetal alcohol syndrome.

(So, no difference.)

The 1313 series is, essentially, soft core gay porn, but remains an absolute enigma, with Netflix consistently uploading 1313 movies, and assigning them to any genre that holds still long enough. So today, we’re handling 1313: Frankenqueen, because “Horror” drew the short straw this week!

Ahem!

We open with some jive soundtrack over the opening credits, as it proudly displays it’s title: Frankenqueen, in all it’s obscene glory. Good god, it sounds like the title of some kind of porn- oh wait.

Anyway, we actually open with an establishing shot of the house as two men in tiny shorts and no shirts walk up, showing off their abs- er, I mean, “acting ability”. They trade some anaemic exposition, including names and homo-erotic subtext, and go on about how they’re getting paid to be guinea pigs for “the Kardashian of Plastic Surgery”. Wait, what the fuck does that mean? She’s been in a sex tape? She’s won the Guiness World Record for shortest marriage? She has no idea what it’s like to be human-

“She’s all about how the pieces fit, she has no idea what it’s like to be human.”

… Huh.

… Burn?

The duo are let in by yet another hunky (strictly objective, of course) guy without a shirt, who invites one to avail himself to the pool (nice sly pick-up line, buddy, nine out of ten), and calls the other one a tool. Justified, perhaps, but it’d be more appropriate if you said that about every single living thing in this fucking movie. As well as the inanimate objects. And anyone who says “1313” three times in a mirror.

The pool guy passes two other shirtless dicks, one of whom leaves to go workout for no other reason than to brag to the others about his abs. Abs are a form of currency in this universe, understand. Anyway, the other guy, Sunglass Douche explains to Pool Prick about how they have a bet running about who’ll get to boink the plastic surgeon first, and the winner will receive 100 Ab Bucks, payable upfront, and gathered from the chests of very enthusiastic slave boys.

The suspicious one, dubbed Senior Subtlety, hides away in his room and very discreetly (coughcough) pulls out his cell phone. Seems whoever’s on the other line is paying big abs for this guy to infiltrate this place and find a “dry fusion laser”, and- wait, what?! A), what the fuck does that have to do with plastic surgery, and B), according to my Google searches, that’s not an actual thing! Apparently, “dry fusion” is a brand of carpet, so maybe this guy’s just trying to figure out if it matches the drapes.

[Editor’s Note: … I can’t believe you just said that.]

THAT’S WHAT THIS FUCKING MOVIE IS DOING TO ME.

Kill me now, before it spreads!

We cut downstairs to the weight room, with Sunglass Douche asking Workout Wanker to explain his backstory. This is, of course, while they flex their abs and moan in exertion because how else are straight women and gay men supposed to pay attention? Well. I suppose Sunglass Douche very unsubtly asking him about his penis will have to tide them over.

(Oooh, filled out my cock joke quota for this quarter, the CEO is going to be thrilled.)

(The CEO is me.)

Outside, we see one of the shirtless models, one of the ones whom I haven’t given a name to yet, walking very, very slowly… one step… then the next step… then the next step… then the next step…

Then we’re inside… and we’re walking… we’re walking… we’re walking… we’re walking… different shot inside… and we’re walking… and we’re walking… and- wait, why do they just have a model car sitting in the living room? Were they gonna go drag racing if this whole “gay porn” thing didn’t work out?

We cut to him outside… as he walks… and walks… now he’s inside… and he’s walking… and he’s walking… and he’s walking… and he’s walking… yeah, better get used to this, 90% of all 1313 movies consist of these shots. And the rest is stock footage of nipples.

He wanders in to the bedroom, the same one from UFO Invasion just in case you thought there was any actual difference between these movies. So, yes, feel free to turn your back on a kind and loving God. And just in case you think that “hey, maybe it’s not that bad”, we see shots of him walking in to the bedroom five motherfucking times until you start contemplating taking up self harm.

On the other side of the house, a point of view shot that is revealed to be the plastic surgeon, Dr. Kardashian (I am not calling her Frankenqueen. Fuck that.), starts very slowly walking… and walking… and walking… and walking over to the bedroom while the soundtrack tries to convince us that this is ominous. It fails.

MISERABLY.

When she finally makes it over in her big, click-clacky high heels (you know, like all doctors have!), she takes out a little desk light and slowly moves it back and forth over his abs… back and forth… back… and forth, all while the camera lovingly takes the time to detail each and every contour of his chest and package. Oh, joy, I’m spending my spare time staring at some strange man’s junk. I’ve officially hit rock bottom.

She does this about six fucking times, till I could draw this man’s cock from fucking memory if I had do, till we cut to him slowly… slowly… slowly… slowly… slowly… slowly… slowly… slowly… walking around the pool outside… and we’re walking… and we’re walking… and we’re walking… OH GOD HOW MUCH LONGER IS THIS DAMN MOVIE?!

[Editor’s Note: 58 minutes.]

…

Breathe in, breathe out… breathe in, breath out…

Here, stare at this picture for two hours while punching yourself in the nads and/or ovaries, and you’ve perfectly recreated the experience of watching this “movie”.

 

Oh, And Also, Happy Crashiversary!

Er, see, I forgot to mention, back at Deathiversary? Yeah, that was also Crashiversary, the one year anniversary of me almost killing myself in a head-on snowmobile collision! Happy Crashiversary!

…

Wow. I kinda suck at Januarys, huh.

We All Fall Down, Part Two: Is There A Doctor In The House?

Ring around the rosy, pocket full of posy, 

Ashes, ashes we all… fall… down.

Welcome, ladies and gents, to We All Fall Down, the Dead Space 2 analysis that just won’t stay dead!

Previously, on We All Fall Down: We recapped the first game, talked about penises, escaped Space Arkham Asylum, and beat a Necromorph to death using only my sheer brass balls.

Ahem!

“You know… today sucks.”

After I get up, half dead, coated in blood, stuck in a straitjacket, and higher than an orbital drop, I wander out of the waiting room… only to walk straight in to a pair of soldiers who start shooting at me. “Oi, jackasses! Do I look like I’m made of fucking beef jerky to you?!”

But, fortunately, the massive phallic tentacle of karma (that’s how karma works, right?) comes out of the vents and skewers my two fan-boys, only to spit their remains out of a completely different vent. Which means that the Official Vent Body Count is at two! Yeah, just watch it, that things gonna get higher than Ishimura’s dry cleaning bill.

As I head on my merry way, we hear a “Director Tiedemann” going on about how all the key subjects should be terminated. Oh, so that’s why Wingus and Dingus were takin’ pot shots at me! Either that, or they knew that once Isaac Clarke enters a room, the only things that are coming out alive are Isaac Clarke and any Necromorphs he feels like putting in a Princess Leia bikini.

And no, I didn’t actually edit this on to a Necromorph. You’re welcome.

I pass a big mess of blood, as if cranberry punch had just spontaneously combusted, before heading upstairs to the Observation Deck. Apparently, it’s a big lab with class floors, just in case the doctors wanted to play Peeping Tom to a bunch of wackjobs. “Oh yeah, you’re a crazy girl, aren’t ya…”

In the next room, which is apparently an observation deck for people who want to ogle the dining room, there’s my ginger Interrogator leaning against the window and staring down. “Hey, dude! Guy who… has a nice beard, I guess. Are you a doctor? Can you heal me- ack!”

He suddenly grabs me by the scruff of my neck, like a kitten (which is just humiliating for a professional badass, lemme tell you), and presses a scalpel against my throat. “… Okay, let’s both pretend that you didn’t just do something that should get you torn apart with my bare hands.”

“Patient Four… I remember you… Tiedemann said we… all the key subjects… need to be eliminated… terminated… what’s one more?”

“Yeah, well, this ‘one more’ is about ‘one more’ second away from beating you to death with your own shrivelled cock, so-”

“What’s it matter-“

He presses the knife closer.

“Okay! Just- just listen to me-”

“Will it matter?!

“AAAHH! Come on, we can both get out of here- just- just cut me out of this straitjacket-”

“No one’s getting out of here alive. No one.”

“Oh, geez, spoiler warnings.”

He pulls the knife away from my throat.

“Ah, see? That’s progress, that’s some definite progress!”

He pushes it towards my guts.

“See, that’s a step backwards. We’re never gonna get anywhere at this point.”

He thrusts it in, and just as you wince and turn away from the screen-

– The doctor calmly slashes the straitjacket open, letting my arms free.

“… You do realize there was a button, like, right here, right?”

Or hey, maybe all the straitjackets in the future are specifically designed to require complicated knife play. Would make working with crazy people a lot funnier!

My new doctor buddy points out that my RIG is red, and- oh yeah, I guess I forgot to mention that! See, apparently in the future, all of our spines have been replaced with fluorescent tubing that can somehow perfectly quantify health. Not only has somebody figured out a hypothetical scoring system to rank up “internal bleeding”, “brain tumour”, and “stubbed toe” all on the same chart, but they also had the bright fucking idea of sticking it on people’s backs! What, do people has eyes on the back of their heads in the future?

(Somewhere, Jack Johnson is weeping tears of joy.)

Anyway, I head over and grab a health pack to get everything shiny again, as well as a flashlight, before turning around to my new buddy… just as he slits his throat and sprays blood over the whole rooms.

“Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck- see, this is why we can’t have nice things!”

You know, I’m starting to wonder… In the four minutes since he’s woken up, Isaac Clarke has met four people: One is a zombie, two are skewered slabs of meat, and one just slashed his own throat. Have I just assumed I’m being badass Clarke? Is he not actually some kind of bookworm badass? Instead, he’s some kind of eldritch abomination who can kill people just by being there?!

…

This is worrisome.

Pictured: Isaac Clarke, Walking Nightmare.

After stomping on the body a couple times, just to see what shakes loose, I head over to the elevator, only for my on-board radio to start speakin’ up. Some white chick suddenly appears on screen, acting as if this is some sort of webcam as she tries to shimmy around for the best view. “Isaac! Isaac Clarke, are you there?”

“Yes, he’s here. Who’s asking?”

“I’m Daina, I’m the one who rescued you!”

“… Well, the one who rescued me was a black guy who now currently lacks most of his face, thanks to an impromptu headbutt. What the hell’s going on, Daina?”

“You have unique form of dementia, Isaac, you picked it up on the Ishimura! It’ll kill you unless you can get to me!”

“Oh, because of fucking course. Not as if I tore apart a whole fucking ship full of fucking Necromorphs, no no, a bit of fucking wacko got lodged in my skull, and that’s what’s gonna put me down. Jesus christ, I’m going to turn in to pure thought, travel back in time, and just eat the damn thing.”

“… Wait, what-”

“Look, are you the person in this conversation who’s won both the Guinness World Record and Nobel Peace Prize in cunnilingus? Now shush up, and send me the co-ordinates so I can get there and kill you quicker.”

“… Wait, what-“

“I said shush up!”

“I got places to go, people to headbutt!”

Happy Deathiversary!

Today marks the 3 year anniversary of the death of my father, Michael Van Rooy.

Yup… he’s still dead.

Might wanna work on that.

Because I Could Not Mock For Death, He Kindly Mocked For Me: Life Of Deaths, Part Four

Alright, you degenerate motherfuckers, get out your fake chainsaws and denounce a kind and loving God, because we’re looking at Life Of Deaths!

A lot has changed since I last reviewed that web series: I finally became a professional writer, somebody involved in the creative process started swearing at me and comparing me to genocide, Peter Parker started working for a drug dealer in that incredibly sexist student film, and I was elected the “official” Life Of Deaths reviewer! Now, that’s either a show of conciliation, a poorly thought out bribe, or they’re coming on to me. But, hey, it may be flattering, but it won’t stop me from doing my job!

[Editor’s Note: You mean “being an ass”, right?]

Yeah, pretty much.

PREVIOUSLY, ON Life Of Deaths: Peter Parker, the incredible Whiny-Man, has been granted suicidal immortality because God is secretly the Devil in disguise, or at least that’s my theory. His life is a living hell, authority figures are either drug dealers, pot heads or God in disguise, his ex-girlfriend is only capable of dull surprise, and even worse, his view count is getting lower and lower!

Ahem!

After yet another “previously on” segment (I swear, you could string all this crap together and make “Life Of Deaths: The Abridged Series”), we open with a beautiful field! The sun is shining, and birds are singing, and… well. We get what might be the greatest background song ever, and I quote:

“Fuck that pussy. Dick cock ass shit bitch fuck c**t whoa ni**er bitch fuck cock bitch fuck motherfucker’s don’t dope on me fucking gee motherfucker fucking ni**er fucking mothers pussy, TITTIES, pussy, TITTIES, eat that fuck!”

…

It’s… it’s so beautiful.

They should have sent a poet.

Anyway, while you’re still crying tears of joy, it seems K-Dog (ugh), that drug dealer who sold Parker the drugs in episode episode three, is meeting his boss in the middle of a field, like a cool gangsters do nowadays! (Oh, what am I talking about, this is Winnipeg, 90% of the fucking city is a field.)

K-Dog (ugh), now with a completely different nonsensical dubbing that is quite clearly from somebody of a different age, ethnicity, nationality, and possibly plane of existence, is confessing to his boss… Carnage, (yessss, the naming scheme shall never die!) about how Parker still hasn’t paid him the 5000 dollars he owes him- wait, what?! Some whiny brat you’ve never seen before asks for 5000 dollars worth of drugs, and you just figure he’s good for it? Holy fuck, you can’t even drugs.

Carnage, with his gang tattoos obviously drawn on with Sharpie and his henchman who’s only job is to carry his bag of flour at all times, is obviously a little incredulous that a big tough… well, tough in comparison to Carnage, who looks like he could be pushed over in a strong wind and probably has brittle bird bones, and… I forget where this sentence was going. Anyway, Carnage fills K-Dog with more holes than Insidious’s plot.

The flour minion tottles off to go hide the body while Carnage pledges vengeance against “whoever” stole his money… cut to Parker, in leopard print footie pyjamas.

…

Okay, that’s funny.

He gets some cereal, pours some syrup on the camera, and generally acts like he didn’t just go crashing through his Despair Event Horizon last episode. What, don’t you remember that? You were taunted by God? Driven to near insanity by your immortality? Chopped off your own head with a chainsaw? Jesus christ, how good was that ice cream?

Either that, or him and Osborn did a little more when they were running out for ice cream, ahem!

Gwen Stacy shows up, and after some nice editing, he’s switched in to some actual clothes. Naturally, like any man greeted by his ex-girlfriend early in the morning, he insults her and closes the door- no, wait, he invites her in to chat. And like any woman who’s been having some serious relationship trouble, she asks her friends about it- no, also wait, she heads over to her ex’s house to bother him about the guy who she’s fucking! Ah, the miraculous wonders of only having about six people in your cast.

Seems like Flash Thomson has been doing a lot of drugs lately, which has “completely changed his personality” (what, you claim he has one?), and she’s come to Parker for help. He, naturally, suggests dumping him because that’s what’s going to happen when you ask your ex for advice on your new relationship, and she equally naturally says she can’t because Flash is the quarterback, because she’s a fucking reprehensible human being!

Gwen kisses him on the cheek, because cheating on one boyfriend just isn’t enough and she’s going to the high score, and leaves in to the… night, apparently! It was breakfast time a minute ago, what the fuck happened to the sun?

The next… day? Week? Month? Five minutes later? Two years in the past? Look, don’t ask, space is warped and time is bendable. Anyway, Parker challenges to Flash to fight outside the school… which, if you’re implying that this is the school they go to, is impossible, as that one is clearly on the second floor and this one only has one floor! What, did they let you film inside that one school, but couldn’t let you outside because you just ruined their street cred?

(Incidentally, this is the also next to the parking lot, bench, and drug deal location they used in Sarah, which I think means that they exist in the same universe. So, does that mean Parker is about to put on his plaid shorts and work for Carnage? One can only hope. It might liven the fucker up.)

Parker, without the use of his Spider Sense (all he has is Whiner Sense, and that’s not as useful in a fight), gets his ass kicked by Flash, until Parker’s mom shows up to pick him up. And, despite the fact that this timely intervention is the only reason he didn’t end up shoved up his own ass, he still takes the time to taunt Flash over how Stacy will dump him soon, because self preservation goes out the window the second you become immortal.

Later, in this undecipherable void they call “time”, Parker is getting a call from Gwen Stacy telling him to meet her under the Plot Relevant Bridge. He agrees and hangs up… and then it’s revealed that the flour henchman and Flash have kidnapped Gwen Stacy!

“This…” Flash says, as he creepily strokes her. “… Is gonna be… a blast.”

…

W- what’s that? Is… is something actually happening?!

…

HUZZAH!

Okay, look, I don’t care what else was bad about this (the writing, the dubbing, the acting, Gwen Stacy seems blander and blander whenever she’s not actually being a bitch, Parker’s characterization up to this point was completely thrown out the window, time has just started weeping and mumbling the safe word in the corner, if you’re curious), but the good (a sense of flow, clear antagonist, a sense of progress, that rap song) has definitely made this the best episode thus far! I’m actually looking forward to the next episode!

…

I hope I don’t regret saying that.

LIST OF THINGS ACCOMPLISHED TODAY

– Woke up.

– Had some toast.

– Played video games.

– Moved furniture.

– Masturbated.

– Masturbated some more.

– Discovered that a random black woman in New York stole an old email account of mine and never thought to change the fucking password after she did it.

– Sleep.

DIAGNOSIS: Best day ever.

Freshly Riffed 63: If I Acted Less Like Me, Would I Be In The Clear?

Welcome back to Freshly Riffed, and yes, this web series still exists! You didn’t think I’d actually forget you, did you?

…

Don’t answer that.

Forgetfulness would be my middle name, if it wasn’t already “danger”, “hormones”, and “Batman”.

According to the vaguest murmerings of people who actually remember what the fuck Freshly Riffed is, it’s when I make fun of the titles of Freshly Pressed blog posts! Yes, yes, I know, remembering hurts. Just lay back and take this memory enema and everything will be fine.

Each title will be linked to the original author, and remember; All mockery is for mockery’s sake only.

Ahem!

West Virginia Girl, All Bottled Up

The most specific fetish imaginable, or an off-brand version of Soylent Green? YOU MAKE THE CALL.

What’s It Like To Perform A Solo Show?

“A lot like your first time having sex, really: Awkward, stilted, and in the back of a Volksewagen Golf.”

“And filled with mocking laughter.”

Tear Gas: A Weekly Prescription

“Administer rectally.”

Why I Don’t Like Unicorns

They administer tear gas rectally.

The Truth About Maternity Leave

It’s amazing, you learn exactly how much pressure to apply to a baby’s windpipe!

Growing Up Like Skipper: On Breasts And Body Image

Well, seeing as Skipper grew up by twisting her arm around until she sprang up an inch and sprouted some boobs, I have some serious questions about your physiology.

The Bog At The End Of The World 

Take a left at the apocalypse, then it’s right across from Ragnarok.

Ingredients Of An All-Natural Banana

77% banana.

30% loathing.

3% fucked if we know.

Blogging Authentically: Do You Apologize For Real Life?

Dude, fuck real life. 

 

The Cheque Of Doom

Look at it… it’s just sitting there… judging me…

[Editor’s Note: … What are you doing?]

Shh! It’ll hear you!

[Editor’s Note: You mean, that cheque that you got from the sex toy people? It finally arrived?]

Yes, keep your damn voice down! It’s vision is based on who’s the dumbest, so you don’t have long!

[Editor’s Note: Why are you scared of it?]

It’s… look, it’s the first pay cheque I’ve ever gotten that didn’t come from cleaning art stores, and let me tell you, the people who shop there are prissy little bitches.

[Editor’s Note: Good god, just cash it in, man!]

I can’t! It already has a taste for human blood.

[Editor’s Note: Jesus christ, fine, I’ll do it for you- HOLY FUCK IT HAS TEETH! WHO GAVE THIS THING FUCKING TEETH?!]

I told you! I fucking told you!

Omegle: Oh God, Stop The Bleeding

Oh god.

Oh god.

The blood is everywhere.

Help us.

Hide the body.

May God have mercy on our souls.

Oh, and also, people use Omegle to ask questions which I then make fun of.

Ahem!

you will get naked

Worst drill sergeant pick-up line ever.

Whats the best way to get a fat girl into bed? A forklift.

This is the song, written for the sex scene,

This is the song, sexism sucks…

HE TRIED TO FUCK ME WITH A FORKLIFT!

She rejected me, but I want to try again. How should I approach it this time? I was played by my best friend who set me up for failure so I want to try again

… Have you tried a forklift?

does anyone else peek at the urinal

Dude, don’t do that. You look in to that thing, and all you see is a mass of tentacles, the screams of those who’ve sinned in the eyes of Dagon, and a moldy urinal cake.

Have you ever been skinny dipping? If not, do you want to?

God no, stepping outside naked in Manitoba is like hanging a dinner bell around your jubblies and summoning the patron god of mosquitoes.

… That mental image makes me very uncomfortable.

Here’s an classic question I haven’t seen here. The main character from the last video game you played is now coming to kill you for unknown reasons. How screwed are you?

That’d be… Isaac Clarke, I guess.

…

I’m just gonna dismember myself now and save us all some trouble.

Look around you… Everything you see, i want to make dissapear. Except for the plants and animals.

… Why would that possibly seem like a good idea? Wouldn’t that include the sun? The atmosphere? Gravity? Yourself? The whole fucking planet? Every other star?!

girls that want my dick txt me,otherwise dont txt me at all

I’m pretty sure the only people who want your dick are scientists, attempting to discover how something on the sub-atomic level managed to get herpes.

*drops mic*

ERIK OUT.

I’m a hardcore gangster. Ask anyone.