BlackStone

I like that kind of music, but that is the worst fucking song ever.

inb4 negrep

Repost but worth seeing if you haven't already. You fuckers.

This has nothing to do with the clan or it's members, I am just at the point where I no longer have the time to contribute to the clan and the servers. I haven't been around for a couple months because of my new position at work and it's been hard because I discovered how addicted I was to computer games. I actually talked to a therapist about it because as I cut down from gaming time I had no fucking idea what to do with my time other than lock myself in my room and sit on my computer. I wish I could just cut down and balance work, games, and my relationship... but if I am to be honest with myself the one thing I have to drop is computer gaming.
The only reason I stuck around on computer games the last 6 years is because of UV and sG. I really miss the glory days of ZM and JB back a few years ago, but I can't kid myself anymore because I know those days will never come back. There used to be a time where I looked forward to logging on the UV/sG servers and playing the game with everyone, but now that I'm becoming an old man compared to most computer gamers I think my time has passed me by as quickly as it began.
I'm a married man, 26 years old, about to have my first child, there is no way I can continue doing this. It all started with the original Starcraft, then Diablo and Diablo II, then WoW up until I got sick of the constant progression with WOTLK, and finally ended with a short stint with the new CS:GO after 5 awesome years of 1.6 and the wonderful years of UV/sG CSS.
Sadly, it ends now. I used to think I'd play video games my whole life, but I was dead wrong.
I really cherish the years I played on UV and sG servers, I really enjoyed my time playing with everyone and hope the best for you all. I think so highly of the fact that the staff and community voted for me to be Veteran status last year, especially in a clan that has lasted as long as ours. I know this whole post seems way too sentimental and stupid to some of you, but if you grew up in the age where computer gaming got it's start then you probably understand that at our age it's hard to keep your real life and digital life balanced.
I'm not looking for some sort of memorial or anything, I just hope that current gamers and members realize that eventually your real life will overtake your gaming life and that it's perfectly OK to move on from it. Deep down, I wish the best to the clan and every single member. As a saggy white-haried oldballs, there are too many members to shout out too, so as a whole, I thank all of you for the fun memories. I feel stupid saying that about an online community where personally I do not know any of you, but I really had a blast playing with everyone and will never forget this part of my life.
Please forgive my novel of an exit, but to those addicted to games as much as I was, you should understand. Good luck to everybody, I hope that you are successful and happy no matter what way you take to get there.
-Sooners
PS.
If you want to message me about a video game addiction feel free, I'll be hanging around the forums another week before I zap my gaming computer and burn it in a fire and enjoy a nice cigar and bottle of scotch over it.

Notice how the producer is the same for Rebecca Black's "Friday".

do it

i torrented and am playing via a p2p vpn thing called tunngle. but as soon as i can afford to eat, illlll buy it! c:

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.

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.

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.

[media=]

lets see-
nope, nope, nope, not working i still like the dick

I presented on online gaming addiction and how it manifested in the military population. I had fun this weekend and met alot of interesting people. The survey most of you filled out is somewhat related to this presentation.
http://phreaknic.info/pn16/speakers

I look forward to receiving feedback.

War..... somewhat beatufiul

War..... somewhat beatufiul

War..... somewhat beatufiul

War..... somewhat beatufiul

Well shit.... Join the club Mitch lol

Well shit.... Join the club Mitch lol

Forever not JCS.

So I have gotten quite a few steam msg's asking why I'm an ENG now, so here it is:
My current role in sG is better described as an ENG. So it has been decided that I will re-assign myself as such.
What I will be doing won't change much.
Minecraft is still my main concern, but I will be doing plugin / gamemode work, map development and Porting CSS maps to CSGO, along with general server related tasks, specifically with JailBreak and 'new server development'.
Hope this clarifies it a bit for those of you who were curious.