BlackStone

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http://www.albinoblacksheep.com/video/censorbarart

In display properties select the TV and check "Make this my main display"

ewwww vista.

Its a typo, I didn't notice it myself, but I suppose it was to much to have hoped you of all people would have the intelligence to realize that the context it of the post would have meant librarian. Apparently, you are not as intelligent as I had thought.

And of course, we can't have shootings without a mob mentality pinning the blame on something entirely irrelevant.
http://imageshack.us/a/img850/6883/xmogz.png

They should certainly pose stricter regulations on assault weapons and handguns.

All in all, it hadn't been a good day. Bad traffic, a malfunctioning
computer, incompetent coworkers and a sore back all made me a seething
cauldron of rage. But more importantly for this story, it had been over
forty-eight hours since I'd last taken a dump. I'd tried to jumpstart the
process, beginning my day with a bowl of bowel-cleansing fiber cereal,
following it with six cups of coffee at work, and adding a bean-laden lunch
at Schoops. As I was returning home from work, my insides let me know with
subtle rumbles and the emission of the occasional tiny fart that Big Things
would be happening soon. Alas, I had to stop at Walmart to go Christmas
shopping. I completed this task, and as I was walking past the stores on my
way back to the car, I noticed a large sale sign proclaiming, "Everything
Must Go!" This was prophetic, for my colon informed me with a sudden violent
cramp and a wet, squeaky fart that everything was indeed about to go. I
hurried to the mall bathrooms. I surveyed the five stalls, which I have
numbered 1 through 5 for your convenience:
1. Occupied.
2. Clean, but Bathroom Protocol forbids its use, as it's next to the occupied
one.
3. Poo on seat.
4. Poo and toilet paper in bowl, unidentifiable liquid splattered on seat.
5. No toilet paper, no stall door, unidentifiable sticky object near base of
toilet.
Clearly, it had to be Stall #2. I trudged back, entered, dropped trousers
and sat down. I'm normally a fairly Shameful Shitter. I wasn't happy about being
next to the occupied stall, but Big Things were afoot.
I was just getting ready to bear down when all of a sudden the sweet sounds
of Beethoven came from next door, followed by a fumbling, and then the sound
of a voice answering the ringing phone. As usual for a cell phone
conversation, the voice was exactly 8 dB louder than it needed to be. Out of
Shameful habit, my sphincter slammed shut. The inane conversation went on
and on. Mr. Shitter was blathering to Mrs. Shitter about the shity day he
had. I sat there, cramping and miserable, waiting for him to finish. As the
loud conversation dragged on, I became angrier and angrier, thinking that I,
too, had a crappy day, but I was too polite to yak about in public. My
bowels let me know in no uncertain terms that if I didn't get crapping soon,
my day would be getting even crappier.
Finally my anger reached a point that overcame Shamefulness. I no longer
cared. I gripped the toilet paper holder with one hand, braced my other hand
against the side of the stall, and pushed with all my might. I was rewarded
with a fart of colossal magnitude - a cross between the sound of someone
ripping a very wet bed sheet in half and of plywood being torn off a wall.
The sound gradually transitioned into a heavily modulated low-RPM tone, not
unlike someone firing up a Harley. I managed to hit the resonance frequency
of the stall, and it shook gently.
Once my ass cheeks stopped flapping in the breeze, three things became
apparent:
(1) The next-door conversation had ceased
(2) my colon's continued seizing indicated that there was more to come
(3) the bathroom was now beset by a horrible, eldritch stench. It was as if
a gateway to Hell had been opened. The foul miasma quickly made its way
under the stall and began choking my poop-mate. This initial "herald" fart
had ended his conversation in mid-sentence.
"Oh my God," I heard him utter, following it with suppressed sounds of
choking, and then, "No, baby, that wasn't me (cough, gag), you could hear
that (gag)??"
Now there was no stopping me. I pushed for all I was worth. I could swear
that in the resulting cacophony of rips, squirts, splashes, poots, and
blasts, I was actually lifted slightly off the pot. The amount of stuff in
me was incredible. It sprayed against the bowl with tremendous force. Later,
in surveying the damage, I'd see that liquid poop had actually managed to
ricochet out of the bowl and run down the side on to the floor. But for now,
all I could do was hang on for the ride.
Next door I could hear him fumbling with the paper dispenser as he
desperately tried to finish his task. Little snatches of conversation made
themselves heard over my anal symphony: "Gotta go... horrible... throw
up...in my mouth... not... make it... tell the kids... love them... oh
God..." followed by more sounds of suppressed gagging and retching.
Alas, it is evidently difficult to hold one's phone and wipe one's bum at
the same time. Just as my high-pressure abuse of the toilet was winding
down, I heard a plop and splash from next door, followed by string of swear
words and gags. My poop-mate had dropped his phone into the toilet.
There was a lull in my production, and the restroom became deathly quiet. I
could envision him standing there, wondering what to do. A final anal
announcement came trumpeting from my behind, small chunks plopping noisily
into the water. That must have been the last straw. I heard a flush, a
fumbling with the lock, and then the stall door was thrown open. I heard him
running out of the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.
After a considerable amount of paperwork, I got up and surveyed the damage.
I felt bad for the janitor who'd be forced to deal with this, but I knew
that flushing was not an option. No toilet in the world could handle that
unholy mess. Flushing would only lead to a floor flooded with filth.
As I left, I glanced into the next-door stall. Nothing remained in the bowl.
Had he flushed his phone, or had he plucked it out and left the bathroom
with nasty unwashed hands? The world will never know.
I exited the bathroom, momentarily proud and Shameless, looking around for a
face glaring at me. But I saw no one. I suspect that somehow my supernatural
elimination has managed to transfer my Shamefulness to my anonymous
poop-mate. I think it'll be a long time before he can bring himself to poop
in public -- and I doubt he'll ever again answer his cell phone in the loo.
And this, my friends, is why you should never talk on your phone in the bathroom.

All in all, it hadn't been a good day. Bad traffic, a malfunctioning
computer, incompetent coworkers and a sore back all made me a seething
cauldron of rage. But more importantly for this story, it had been over
forty-eight hours since I'd last taken a dump. I'd tried to jumpstart the
process, beginning my day with a bowl of bowel-cleansing fiber cereal,
following it with six cups of coffee at work, and adding a bean-laden lunch
at Schoops. As I was returning home from work, my insides let me know with
subtle rumbles and the emission of the occasional tiny fart that Big Things
would be happening soon. Alas, I had to stop at Walmart to go Christmas
shopping. I completed this task, and as I was walking past the stores on my
way back to the car, I noticed a large sale sign proclaiming, "Everything
Must Go!" This was prophetic, for my colon informed me with a sudden violent
cramp and a wet, squeaky fart that everything was indeed about to go. I
hurried to the mall bathrooms. I surveyed the five stalls, which I have
numbered 1 through 5 for your convenience:
1. Occupied.
2. Clean, but Bathroom Protocol forbids its use, as it's next to the occupied
one.
3. Poo on seat.
4. Poo and toilet paper in bowl, unidentifiable liquid splattered on seat.
5. No toilet paper, no stall door, unidentifiable sticky object near base of
toilet.
Clearly, it had to be Stall #2. I trudged back, entered, dropped trousers
and sat down. I'm normally a fairly Shameful Shitter. I wasn't happy about being
next to the occupied stall, but Big Things were afoot.
I was just getting ready to bear down when all of a sudden the sweet sounds
of Beethoven came from next door, followed by a fumbling, and then the sound
of a voice answering the ringing phone. As usual for a cell phone
conversation, the voice was exactly 8 dB louder than it needed to be. Out of
Shameful habit, my sphincter slammed shut. The inane conversation went on
and on. Mr. Shitter was blathering to Mrs. Shitter about the shity day he
had. I sat there, cramping and miserable, waiting for him to finish. As the
loud conversation dragged on, I became angrier and angrier, thinking that I,
too, had a crappy day, but I was too polite to yak about in public. My
bowels let me know in no uncertain terms that if I didn't get crapping soon,
my day would be getting even crappier.
Finally my anger reached a point that overcame Shamefulness. I no longer
cared. I gripped the toilet paper holder with one hand, braced my other hand
against the side of the stall, and pushed with all my might. I was rewarded
with a fart of colossal magnitude - a cross between the sound of someone
ripping a very wet bed sheet in half and of plywood being torn off a wall.
The sound gradually transitioned into a heavily modulated low-RPM tone, not
unlike someone firing up a Harley. I managed to hit the resonance frequency
of the stall, and it shook gently.
Once my ass cheeks stopped flapping in the breeze, three things became
apparent:
(1) The next-door conversation had ceased
(2) my colon's continued seizing indicated that there was more to come
(3) the bathroom was now beset by a horrible, eldritch stench. It was as if
a gateway to Hell had been opened. The foul miasma quickly made its way
under the stall and began choking my poop-mate. This initial "herald" fart
had ended his conversation in mid-sentence.
"Oh my God," I heard him utter, following it with suppressed sounds of
choking, and then, "No, baby, that wasn't me (cough, gag), you could hear
that (gag)??"
Now there was no stopping me. I pushed for all I was worth. I could swear
that in the resulting cacophony of rips, squirts, splashes, poots, and
blasts, I was actually lifted slightly off the pot. The amount of stuff in
me was incredible. It sprayed against the bowl with tremendous force. Later,
in surveying the damage, I'd see that liquid poop had actually managed to
ricochet out of the bowl and run down the side on to the floor. But for now,
all I could do was hang on for the ride.
Next door I could hear him fumbling with the paper dispenser as he
desperately tried to finish his task. Little snatches of conversation made
themselves heard over my anal symphony: "Gotta go... horrible... throw
up...in my mouth... not... make it... tell the kids... love them... oh
God..." followed by more sounds of suppressed gagging and retching.
Alas, it is evidently difficult to hold one's phone and wipe one's bum at
the same time. Just as my high-pressure abuse of the toilet was winding
down, I heard a plop and splash from next door, followed by string of swear
words and gags. My poop-mate had dropped his phone into the toilet.
There was a lull in my production, and the restroom became deathly quiet. I
could envision him standing there, wondering what to do. A final anal
announcement came trumpeting from my behind, small chunks plopping noisily
into the water. That must have been the last straw. I heard a flush, a
fumbling with the lock, and then the stall door was thrown open. I heard him
running out of the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.
After a considerable amount of paperwork, I got up and surveyed the damage.
I felt bad for the janitor who'd be forced to deal with this, but I knew
that flushing was not an option. No toilet in the world could handle that
unholy mess. Flushing would only lead to a floor flooded with filth.
As I left, I glanced into the next-door stall. Nothing remained in the bowl.
Had he flushed his phone, or had he plucked it out and left the bathroom
with nasty unwashed hands? The world will never know.
I exited the bathroom, momentarily proud and Shameless, looking around for a
face glaring at me. But I saw no one. I suspect that somehow my supernatural
elimination has managed to transfer my Shamefulness to my anonymous
poop-mate. I think it'll be a long time before he can bring himself to poop
in public -- and I doubt he'll ever again answer his cell phone in the loo.
And this, my friends, is why you should never talk on your phone in the bathroom.

http://www.humblebundle.com/?thqbundle
Redeemed my codes on Steam, all of them worked.

Well shit.... Join the club Mitch lol

EDIT: <-----That name.

TL;DR

Still got three copies of Secret of the Magic Crystals (Or whateveer its calls lol)
Yall know what ya gotta do.

drunk post. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Fuck....
You....

Also, where are your nipples?

This is what happens when a 9 year old child plays a game rated for 17 year old people. He obviously has bad parents and Child Protective Services should be called.

Illogical and.... Marvin. PM me your steam info or whatever it is I need to send you both a game.

Illogical and.... Marvin. PM me your steam info or whatever it is I need to send you both a game.

I'm feeling... giving.....
OK, so.... I'm going to give away, lets say 5, copies of SOMTC, since their going to be, supposedly, dirt cheap. Might do more... dunno.
How do you get a copy? Earn it. How? Figure it out. Something I find funny, random pick, sob story, whatever. Just it has to be done in this thread and I have to give a damn.
I'll buy the copies when they first go on sale and give them away as I deem someone a winner.
Work for you? Works for me.

I'm feeling... giving.....
OK, so.... I'm going to give away, lets say 5, copies of SOMTC, since their going to be, supposedly, dirt cheap. Might do more... dunno.
How do you get a copy? Earn it. How? Figure it out. Something I find funny, random pick, sob story, whatever. Just it has to be done in this thread and I have to give a damn.
I'll buy the copies when they first go on sale and give them away as I deem someone a winner.
Work for you? Works for me.