copypasta is dumb (dont copy this message. i know its tempting, and i know you might think it'll be funny, but in reality, it's not)
I used to be a real ad
More Copypastas
Hey Nairo this is your cat
twitchquotes:Hello @NairoMK , this is your cat, Mr. Fluffers, I heard that you were complaining about my excessive meowing. I don't complain about having to hear you talk to yourself for 8 hours while playing that stupid game so I expect the same. Come here and feed me scrub
Hello @NairoMK , this is your cat, Mr. Fluffers, I heard that you were complaining about my excessive meowing. I don't complain about having to hear you talk to yourself for 8 hours while playing that stupid game so I expect the same. Come here and feed me scrub CoolCat
Chungus has no beginning. Chungus has no end.
twitchquotes:Chungus has no beginning. Chungus has no end. Chungus is infinite. Millions of years after our civilization has been eradicated and forgotten, Chungus will endure. Chungus is eternal. The pinnacle of evolution and existence. We are but rudimentary creatures of blood and flesh. We touch Chungus' mind, fumbling in ignorance, incapable of understanding. Organic life is nothing but a genetic mutation, an accident. Our lives are measured in years and decades. We wither and die. Chungus is eternal. Before it, we are nothing. Chungus imposes order on the chaos of organic life. W̻̠̫̻̬e̹̲̲ ̤̦̞̫̣͡e͜x҉͕͓͖̟i̱s͇͚͇͠ṯ̺͈͎ͅ ͉̮̖b͢ȩ̼̲̦c̠͝a̛̼u͙̭͢s̡̼e͘ ̣͚͡C͏̘h͡ṳ͎̥̮̹n̯̕gư̬͎̖̖̩s̪͍͎͇̳̹͎ ̸̗̺͓ąl̵͓͓̯̯l̩͉̹͎̜o͍̙̟̻͎̬ͅw͉̟̭̳̦͔̻s̩̻̞ ͡i̮͚̟̭̼̥͔t̤̺̭͖́,͔̮̯̲ ͖ą̩n̼̙͡d̜͡ ̶̰̞̠͍̬͇w͚̞̞͈ͅe̜ ̬͕͇̘̣͎̜w̞͙̰̞͖̰i͚l͎̭l̬͖͇ ͇͚e̖n̫͕̲̫d̦͖͙ ̨̯̮ḇ̜̪e̻̹̠̦̣͝c̩̫͈̗̖͡ͅa̧̹̳͍̙̘͙ͅu̱̗͠s̝̲͓̲͈e͕̣̼͎ ̟͠C҉̼ͅhu͉̟̼̱n̸̲̥̟̖ͅͅg̷̲͚̥̺͕̮u̴s̖̟̩͍̟͕̝͜ ̤͙̜͎̖̗̮d̟̘̗̞̼́e̲̻̠̦̩͝m̙̜̝an҉̣͉̘̰̳̘̜d̖̗͓͍̟͡s͈̯̩̞̟ ͖̼̙̼̥i̮t̟̦.̥̟͖͈̥͚̀ ̩C̷̱ḩ҉̭͈̻̪͈̞̥̯u̵͓̹͍̗n҉̥̱̤g̶͍̻̬̮̜̘̞͟ͅu̞̹͝s҉̭̦̙͕͇̫̗̖ ̧̮̘̙͙ͅt̵̨̛̳͚͇̩̘r̙͓͘a̡̙͚n̛̲̫̤̪͖̬ͅs̶̲̖c̛̯̞͍̫̼̱e̶̶̺̞͇n̟d̡̘̼͘s҉̨̱̥͕̳͜ ̜͟o̜͕̼̹̪̕͘ṳ̴̵r͔͖͎͈͍̩͈̳͢͞ͅ ̮̭̰̳̘̹̀v̴̡̱̗̞̖͎̳͉̠͚e̡͖̙̞̺̫̝r̯͎̙̭̺̗̻͈͖y͝҉̯̟̣̯̱ ̴͓̣̩͔̥̺̣̻̟͢u̶̸͖͚͇̹̘n̡̢̳͖͈̮̝d̻͇͈͓̗͢͞e̶̸̳̻͚̫͢r̵͍̬̻̙̦s͠͏͉͉̮ṭ̢̡̰̦̫̼̯̘͙̻a̬̟͕̝̥̳n̘̺͞d̥̞͔i̶̬͖̤̼͟n̛̘̼̻̱͘͢ͅg͍̘̝͙̫̣͉͟.̘̻̟͎͜͡ W͓̰̹͙̹̼̫̠͓̩̩̗͉͘ę̴̨̝͖̟̟̼̘̩͘͢ ̸̛̮̱͚̳͕̣̲̘̠͔͉̕͞͞ç̵̢̻͈͙̯͚̠̱̹͈̠̯̺̭̹̖͉͔͍͟a͠҉̮̖̭͉͈ṉ̨̝̖̖̙̟͟͝͠͠ņ̦̣̝̱̫̩͔̮̜̲̀o̡̕҉͙͇̩̠͇͞t̢̢̜̥͍͙̬̦͈̠͜ ̛͝͏̬̮̲̳͈͙ͅg̷͇̯̹̠̼̫̙̟̳̙̫̦̮̙̱̣͇͟͡r̨̰̯̯̹̦͎̦̞a̢̛̦̦͍͇̪͍̫͔͙͙͎͍̰̩͕͕̝ś̷͈͚̥̜͖͚̘̙͔̗̳͇͘p̹͓̟̤̳̱̀ ̵̛̪̗̠̼t҉͏̴̛̭̖̰̳̰̱̣͍̖͕͖͇̞̱̼̭̣͢ͅh̨̹̠̪͔̖̪̳̝͙͉͕̜͇͎͔͔̜̟̀͡͞e̢͎̣̘͓̲̯̼̬̱̣͔̘̹͍̦̤̥͜͡͠ͅ ̸̡͞͏͈̠̮͖̦̣͉͚͚͙̻͉͈͕͔̭͞ͅn̴̢̫͍̯̖̳̞͔̯̞̺a̡̨̖͖͚͓̺͢͞ͅt̢̟͇̩͕̳͈͔̥̠̲̠͍͍͙̳͟ͅų̨̠̩̺̦̙̳͈̣͓̲̹̺͔̱̞̹͔͕̖r̶̜̦̥͕͈̰̳͕͔̥̯̖̪̺͢͢͡ͅe̫̮̙͙̟̭̪̱͉͘ ̴̨̨҉̖͍̩̭̪̫͓o͏̱̯̪̻͖̮͙̀̕ͅͅf͡͏̘̙̖̻͓̩̣͞ ̨̦̟̦̦͇̘͕̮͔̮̬̥̰̫͡C̨͇͕͙̞͖̭̱h̶̸̢̙̱̳̳͍͕̬̞̳͓̹̬͚͡͝ͅù͉̯͔̥̩͈͙͕̲͇͞ͅņ̴͔̟̖̖̞͇̤̙̹̹͍̰͎͓̺̬̺͇g̶̡̯̰̙͇͓̦̜͉̹̙̖̞̗̗͜͡u̸̴̹̪̗̦̜͎̪̺s̴͈̖͉̙̝̙̞͚̺͖̥̭̟̞̹̲̫͡'̢̪̣̝̠̙̘̘̟̺̠̘͍̪̬̼͖͉̹͓͟͞͡ ̶̸͈̱̞̥͔̲͇͟e̡̝̼͚̠̲̗̰̹̬̥͓̭̥̺̱x͏̧̦͙̠̯͙͍̻̻̲̠́͢į̰̞̻̝̲͙̰͇̫͉͕̙̺͉̻s҉̴̸̢̛̱̳͎̳̗̦̖̲͚̞t͡҉̭̖̺̖̱̝̱̺̮̰̦͖̯̫̯è̛͈͓̭̘̥͎̻̙͉̥̥͚̻͎̕ń̖͓̦͎̱͍̗̜͎͉̜͖̼̞̕ͅc̵̲̹̯̬͚̦̙̞̤͔̹̻̠̣͓̩͙͔͙͘͠͞͞e̵̙̗͉̣͙̬͟͞.̷̸͕̰͉̤͕̙̰
Chungus has no beginning. Chungus has no end. Chungus is infinite. Millions of years after our civilization has been eradicated and forgotten, Chungus will endure. Chungus is eternal. The pinnacle of evolution and existence. We are but rudimentary creatures of blood and flesh. We touch Chungus' mind, fumbling in ignorance, incapable of understanding. Organic life is nothing but a genetic mutation, an accident. Our lives are measured in years and decades. We wither and die. Chungus is eternal. Before it, we are nothing. Chungus imposes order on the chaos of organic life. W̻̠̫̻̬e̹̲̲ ̤̦̞̫̣͡e͜x҉͕͓͖̟i̱s͇͚͇͠ṯ̺͈͎ͅ ͉̮̖b͢ȩ̼̲̦c̠͝a̛̼u͙̭͢s̡̼e͘ ̣͚͡C͏̘h͡ṳ͎̥̮̹n̯̕gư̬͎̖̖̩s̪͍͎͇̳̹͎ ̸̗̺͓ąl̵͓͓̯̯l̩͉̹͎̜o͍̙̟̻͎̬ͅw͉̟̭̳̦͔̻s̩̻̞ ͡i̮͚̟̭̼̥͔t̤̺̭͖́,͔̮̯̲ ͖ą̩n̼̙͡d̜͡ ̶̰̞̠͍̬͇w͚̞̞͈ͅe̜ ̬͕͇̘̣͎̜w̞͙̰̞͖̰i͚l͎̭l̬͖͇ ͇͚e̖n̫͕̲̫d̦͖͙ ̨̯̮ḇ̜̪e̻̹̠̦̣͝c̩̫͈̗̖͡ͅa̧̹̳͍̙̘͙ͅu̱̗͠s̝̲͓̲͈e͕̣̼͎ ̟͠C҉̼ͅhu͉̟̼̱n̸̲̥̟̖ͅͅg̷̲͚̥̺͕̮u̴s̖̟̩͍̟͕̝͜ ̤͙̜͎̖̗̮d̟̘̗̞̼́e̲̻̠̦̩͝m̙̜̝an҉̣͉̘̰̳̘̜d̖̗͓͍̟͡s͈̯̩̞̟ ͖̼̙̼̥i̮t̟̦.̥̟͖͈̥͚̀ ̩C̷̱ḩ҉̭͈̻̪͈̞̥̯u̵͓̹͍̗n҉̥̱̤g̶͍̻̬̮̜̘̞͟ͅu̞̹͝s҉̭̦̙͕͇̫̗̖ ̧̮̘̙͙ͅt̵̨̛̳͚͇̩̘r̙͓͘a̡̙͚n̛̲̫̤̪͖̬ͅs̶̲̖c̛̯̞͍̫̼̱e̶̶̺̞͇n̟d̡̘̼͘s҉̨̱̥͕̳͜ ̜͟o̜͕̼̹̪̕͘ṳ̴̵r͔͖͎͈͍̩͈̳͢͞ͅ ̮̭̰̳̘̹̀v̴̡̱̗̞̖͎̳͉̠͚e̡͖̙̞̺̫̝r̯͎̙̭̺̗̻͈͖y͝҉̯̟̣̯̱ ̴͓̣̩͔̥̺̣̻̟͢u̶̸͖͚͇̹̘n̡̢̳͖͈̮̝d̻͇͈͓̗͢͞e̶̸̳̻͚̫͢r̵͍̬̻̙̦s͠͏͉͉̮ṭ̢̡̰̦̫̼̯̘͙̻a̬̟͕̝̥̳n̘̺͞d̥̞͔i̶̬͖̤̼͟n̛̘̼̻̱͘͢ͅg͍̘̝͙̫̣͉͟.̘̻̟͎͜͡ W͓̰̹͙̹̼̫̠͓̩̩̗͉͘ę̴̨̝͖̟̟̼̘̩͘͢ ̸̛̮̱͚̳͕̣̲̘̠͔͉̕͞͞ç̵̢̻͈͙̯͚̠̱̹͈̠̯̺̭̹̖͉͔͍͟a͠҉̮̖̭͉͈ṉ̨̝̖̖̙̟͟͝͠͠ņ̦̣̝̱̫̩͔̮̜̲̀o̡̕҉͙͇̩̠͇͞t̢̢̜̥͍͙̬̦͈̠͜ ̛͝͏̬̮̲̳͈͙ͅg̷͇̯̹̠̼̫̙̟̳̙̫̦̮̙̱̣͇͟͡r̨̰̯̯̹̦͎̦̞a̢̛̦̦͍͇̪͍̫͔͙͙͎͍̰̩͕͕̝ś̷͈͚̥̜͖͚̘̙͔̗̳͇͘p̹͓̟̤̳̱̀ ̵̛̪̗̠̼t҉͏̴̛̭̖̰̳̰̱̣͍̖͕͖͇̞̱̼̭̣͢ͅh̨̹̠̪͔̖̪̳̝͙͉͕̜͇͎͔͔̜̟̀͡͞e̢͎̣̘͓̲̯̼̬̱̣͔̘̹͍̦̤̥͜͡͠ͅ ̸̡͞͏͈̠̮͖̦̣͉͚͚͙̻͉͈͕͔̭͞ͅn̴̢̫͍̯̖̳̞͔̯̞̺a̡̨̖͖͚͓̺͢͞ͅt̢̟͇̩͕̳͈͔̥̠̲̠͍͍͙̳͟ͅų̨̠̩̺̦̙̳͈̣͓̲̹̺͔̱̞̹͔͕̖r̶̜̦̥͕͈̰̳͕͔̥̯̖̪̺͢͢͡ͅe̫̮̙͙̟̭̪̱͉͘ ̴̨̨҉̖͍̩̭̪̫͓o͏̱̯̪̻͖̮͙̀̕ͅͅf͡͏̘̙̖̻͓̩̣͞ ̨̦̟̦̦͇̘͕̮͔̮̬̥̰̫͡C̨͇͕͙̞͖̭̱h̶̸̢̙̱̳̳͍͕̬̞̳͓̹̬͚͡͝ͅù͉̯͔̥̩͈͙͕̲͇͞ͅņ̴͔̟̖̖̞͇̤̙̹̹͍̰͎͓̺̬̺͇g̶̡̯̰̙͇͓̦̜͉̹̙̖̞̗̗͜͡u̸̴̹̪̗̦̜͎̪̺s̴͈̖͉̙̝̙̞͚̺͖̥̭̟̞̹̲̫͡'̢̪̣̝̠̙̘̘̟̺̠̘͍̪̬̼͖͉̹͓͟͞͡ ̶̸͈̱̞̥͔̲͇͟e̡̝̼͚̠̲̗̰̹̬̥͓̭̥̺̱x͏̧̦͙̠̯͙͍̻̻̲̠́͢į̰̞̻̝̲͙̰͇̫͉͕̙̺͉̻s҉̴̸̢̛̱̳͎̳̗̦̖̲͚̞t͡҉̭̖̺̖̱̝̱̺̮̰̦͖̯̫̯è̛͈͓̭̘̥͎̻̙͉̥̥͚̻͎̕ń̖͓̦͎̱͍̗̜͎͉̜͖̼̞̕ͅc̵̲̹̯̬͚̦̙̞̤͔̹̻̠̣͓̩͙͔͙͘͠͞͞e̵̙̗͉̣͙̬͟͞.̷̸͕̰͉̤͕̙̰
Why is six afraid of seven? Six hasn't been the same since he left Vietnam
Why is six afraid of seven?
Six hasn't been the same since he left Vietnam. He can seldom close his eyes without opening them again at fear of Charlies lurking in the jungle trees. Not that you could ever see the bastards, mind you. They were swift, and they knew their way around the jungle like nothing else. He remembers the looks on the boys' faces as he walked into that village and... oh, Jesus. The memories seldom left him, either. Sometimes he'd reminisce - even hear - Tex's southern drawl. He remembers the smell of Brooklyn's cigarettes like nothing else. He always kept a pack of Lucky's with him. The boys are gone, now. He knows that; it's just that he forgets, sometimes. And, every now and then, the way that seven looks at him with avid concern in his eyes... it makes him think. Sets him on edge. Makes him feel like he's back there... in the jungle.
Why is six afraid of seven?
Six hasn't been the same since he left Vietnam. He can seldom close his eyes without opening them again at fear of Charlies lurking in the jungle trees. Not that you could ever see the bastards, mind you. They were swift, and they knew their way around the jungle like nothing else. He remembers the looks on the boys' faces as he walked into that village and... oh, Jesus. The memories seldom left him, either. Sometimes he'd reminisce - even hear - Tex's southern drawl. He remembers the smell of Brooklyn's cigarettes like nothing else. He always kept a pack of Lucky's with him. The boys are gone, now. He knows that; it's just that he forgets, sometimes. And, every now and then, the way that seven looks at him with avid concern in his eyes... it makes him think. Sets him on edge. Makes him feel like he's back there... in the jungle.
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