twitchquotes:
ok guys this is my first attempt at making a copypasta so wish me luck
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I used to be a real ad
More Copypastas
i'm an mibr fan
Go mods, keep up the good work!
twitchquotes:
The mods are doing a good job of stopping the copying and pasting trolls. It's a shame that people ruin an entire chat with their immature behavior. Go mods, keep up the good work!
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MODS
Surf, Psychic, Thunder, Blizzard
twitchquotes:
Surf, Psychic, Thunder, Blizzard. There was a time when all 4 moves were used to achieve teh urn. But all that changed when the e4 attacked. Only the avatar, master of all 4 moves could stop them. But when the chat needed him most, he missed! 26 e4 attempts later and we keep losing. Some believe that pc will ruin the team. But I haven't lost hope, I still believe Starmie can save teh urn.
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TwitchPlaysPokemon
A review for the videogame "Among Us"
This game has ruined my fucking life. I'm going to end it and take you all with me because I can't bear to look at anything anymore. Any shape I see is distorted into amogus, any time I hear the word suspicious, sus, task, vent, report, ANYTHING, human pattern recognition turns it into amogus. I close my eyes and i see amogus, i see jerma985 grinning as the gates of my soul are opened by amogus and I can feel the festering sclunge of words and shapes pour in, filling all that I am with the ringing noise of amogus
Among Us / Amogus
It's not gay with socks on
When I was 13 years old a buddy of mine tried to convince me to fool around. I wasn't into it, and he told me it's not gay if you're wearing socks. I didn't believe him, went home, and asked my dad.
That's 'gentleman's gay', hardly gay at all. Don't see it much these days.
The 50s were a different time. What were we to do? We were typical boarding school boys, rich with vigor, skin slick with drying sweat and gritty earth from a game of pigskin.
At night our young, virile bodies filled the dorm with sweet-musky vapors, like game-meat stewed with apple and peppercorn. You'd awake in darkness to the hushed, melodic rhythm of two pairs of white tube socks, barely visible in moonlight, bouncing on the hardwood floor.
The deep bond of male friendship played like a thousand different human instruments. The wet claps of skin on skin, the gentle thud of heads on backboards, frenzied cries in the throes of climax. Wilbur, so fat and soft like tapioca pudding. His breasts were so like the real thing, what we fantasized of our future wives. Unwilling, defenseless Wilbur, so slow and uncoordinated in the dark. 10 of us would glaze his bare, pink flesh like a giant raspberry danish. He once had the audacity to tell Headmaster Redford. But Redford was a Deerfield boy once, he understood. So he joined us on our midnight hog hunts.
Through college and years after we'd find time here and there, away from the wives at a family lake house. But it's been decades now - the times have certainly changed. If you wanted to do something private with another man, in your socks, it wasn’t ‘gay’. It was just two men, celebrating each other's strength.