stoush.net

And then on my way to work:

That’s a fucking post is it Shakespeare?

Dumbfuck Turing Test Word: “ocuco”.

You said: “Fucking hell, the sky’s fucking orange.”

I said: “Sweet bloody jesus fucking h. christ on a fucking motorcycle, we’re out of coffee. And it’s really fucking dusty out there this morning.”

That’s a fucking post is it Shakespeare?

You wouldn’t know, boxhead. You’re flat out counting past ten.

You had an important place in Ozblogistan at Red Rag and you gave it up to be a blog star at LP with your big fucking berray…and now you’re onto this sort of stuff. That shows what a 24 carat pissant you are, Haiku Hoges, that’s for sure.

I’m not like you, unverifiable, you donkey. I don’t slither into threads like a mangy maggot.

What can I say, though, that’s just Fyodor being Fyodor. It’s just a simple fact.

Oh, and I should add:

Dumbfuck Turing Test Word: “ocuco”.

Dessicated?

I don’t slither into threads like a mangy maggot.

Heh. Wound up like a thousand day clock, thou art. Speaking of slithering in.

Dessicated?

Yah: ocuco, not?

I’ve always seen myself as a Slitherin, personally. Despite my feelings about the Greens.

Speaking of slithering in.

Damn, that’s pretty… special. If you applied a sanitary test to you you, you small-time bagman, no Minister would ever do business in this country.

That’s the sort of berray-boy, stamp your foot stuff which comes from a lefty mudblood when you flue him into Hogwarts.

Besides, I thought you had to be on Teh Right to be in Slytherin? Me, I’m more Pufnstuf.

I’d have picked you as less HR Pufnstuf than HR Nicholls, although I could definitely see you as a Magical Flautist, making sounds like a screaming banshee on a rampage. Can’t do a little, etc.

St Rita in a rickshaw, that is fucken awsum.

Nicholls? Meh. HR Giger, maybe.

And I’d be more of a floutist than a flautist, though I do like to think of myself as the Plagado Domingo of Ozblogistan. You grub.

HR Giger, maybe

Ozblogistan’s premier Necroneconomist. Like a carcass hanging in the breeze, with no-one willing to cut you down.

Or perhaps…

Stouché!

That really amuses me and almost makes me spew.