Author: ~estrada~

Lo,

Fortuitously having dressed in my finest silks and cottons and feeling desirous of some char broiled beef, I took the metro to the town's mockup of farthest Cathay, or "Chinatown" as the peasants say.

And there I espied his majesty's fine castle at the corner of G and 5th. The interior of the king's court was crowded, but there was no queue at the "walk-up" order window. Showing my respect to the king's man who operated the little swinging door, I presented my tribute to his majesty, consisting of no less than $8.

And as quickly as my monetary homage was accepted, his majesty THE KING bestowed upon me the finest gifts, including:

* A Whopper whole, untouched by the stain of mayo

* Medium fries

* A Medium Vanilla Shake

* FOUR packets of ketchup

And when I had received these glorious things, the KING allowed me to enter his court and have a feast in the grand banquet room in his basement. And the KING's kindness and magnanimity was on display for all to see. For in the banquet room with me were the village poor and needy, whom the KING kindly allowed to take their rest and conduct their business in his court. One fellow, whom I assumed to be a leading man among the local yeomanry, offered to sell me a bag of some green plant, surely a finest spice from Italy or Tahiti.

Ordained by God, acclaimed by men -- Oh, what a monarch!

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=1769792&forum_id=2#19061777)

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=1770061&forum_id=2#19064195)

Author: leonard (If I did have a tumor, I'd name it Marla.)

Date: March 1st, 2005 4:27 PM

Author: alabamajdesq

I just couldn't take it anymore. Every day last week on my way home there was this obnoxious nigger bitch with a huge ass stuffed into tight jeans and a puffy jacket on a corner I pass. Every day she would start to waddle her simian ass across the street after the light turned green, then stare at traffic as she slowly mosey'ed across. Yesterday this bitch decided to to stop half way across, turn around, and start shouting something to this other cunt across the street with a triple baby stroller and three little nigs. I had had enough.

Today I launched my plan. I got Sbarro pizza to go for lunch. This provided me with a cardboard 'to go' pizza box that I converted into a turd containment vehicle. I drank a huge starbucks venti house coffee in about fifty seconds, burning the shit out of my tounge doing so. The coffee had the intended shitogenic effect. I went into the bathroom with my sbarro box, squatted over it, and hatched a mean, stinky, mullato log dead center (covering one errant pepperoni). I also stole a spatula from the office kitchen, as I did not want to soil my hands with feces during my revenge.

I left work. I slunk through traffic like a lion in the amber grass, stalking my monkey prey. I planned to scoop up my log missle with the spatula and whip it with wrist action as fast as andre agassi's. Unfortunately, I am right handed, so I knew I would have to whip that motherfucker with my left hand out my driver's side window and hope for the best.

I spotted the bitch on the corner. She wasn't crossing, but she was eating. She had a plate of chicken wings....she was jamming one after another into her mouth, sucking off the meat, and throwing the chicken bone on the ground. It looked like a chicken sacrifice had taken place. She then licked her greasy fingers with her big negroid lips and yelled something to the negroes at the liquor store across the street, clearly her next destination.

I loaded up my spatula and put my window down. Everything slowed way down and I took on a zen like calmness as I cocked back the turd. I whipped it. As it flew through the air, I was heartbroken to see it split into two pieces...there must have been some weak point in my log. I posit that this was the interface between my steak and potato dinner shit and my toast and yogurt breakfast shit; they had simply formed a single log with very different turdodynamic properties.

To my amazement, both chunks of pewp hit their mark. I was at first concerned that I had damaged the fabric of space and time, as this chunk of shyte whipped off of my spatula only slightly slower than the speed of light. The smaller piece went directly into her open, yelling mouth; the second larger piece hit her hard, neanderthal head and pancaked into a massive shit explosion. As she dropped her plate of chicken wings and yelled, I saw her bite down on the turd in her mouth which resulted in shit being squeezed between the gaps in her carie-ridden, rotting teeth.

I hit the gas and flew by her. On the way past I gave her fat ass a good whack with my spatula. I was so thrilled I came home and opened a bottle of Dom Perignon to celebrate.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=1007954&forum_id=2#11849384)

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=1770061&forum_id=2#19064198)

Author: alabamajdesq

I would like to put forth a cogent argument that seeks to explain why black people are angry and violent. I will use a case study:

Today I met a plumber we will call Earl. Earl is your standard black man: he is in his 40s, the whites of his eyes have that yellowish color, he has poorly kept negroid hair, he smokes, and when he speaks he is quite difficult to understand.

Earl was called to our office because someone clogged up the handy stall bowl. Unfortunately, said clogging occured last Thursday. The bowl was filled with a shit stew that fermented all Thursday night and turned into a vile, horrendous vicheysoises by Friday afternoon. The building crew was not equiped to handle a clog of this magnitude so they took a plastic garbage bag and put it over the toilet and proceeded to duct tape it to the point that it was hermetically sealed. The shit bisque cooked over the long weekend, was forgotten, and finally remembered this morning...this resulted in an emergency call to a plumber.

Enter Earl. Would you like to deal with this show? Certainly not. It probably doesn't help that I work in a very white collar office and as a result there are almost no negros there. Earl was therefore forced to concede that he was probably cleaning up The Man's white bred poop.

Now, how would you feel when you got home to your 350 pound loud mouthed black wife after dealing with that all afternoon? How about your eight kids stealing your Newports and finishing the last of the chitlins? You would probably toss back a few Hennessey and cokes and get really pissed off.

As a pissed off black man, you would feel entitled to free money from the government, permission to shoplift DVD's from BestBuy, and find it acceptable to stab any white person for more than three dollars.

This is why black people are angry. Lesson? Shit, flush, wipe, flush, wipe, flush, flush.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=140304&forum_id=2#2192895)

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=1770061&forum_id=2#19105743)

Author: ~estrada~

All people are born pure and are eligible for membership in the purity club until the occurrence of a Purity Loss Event (PLE).

A purity loss event is any sexual action involving direct stimulation of the sexual organs of one or more parties, including:

(a) vaginal intercourse

(b) oral sex

(c) anal

The only exception is for bros helping bros. An event meeting the above criteria will not be a purity loss event for the person performing a sexual action if and only if:

(a) the person was performing the action on somebody who was their bro; and

(b) the intent of the person performing the action was solely to help the bro.

Some illustrations:

EXAMPLE A:

Melvin sees John, his bro, in distress. He asks John if there is anything he can do to help, and John replies "yeah, tug my penis, bro". Melvin complies.

Has Melvin suffered a purity loss event? Not if his sole intent was to help John.

EXAMPLE B:

Jose sees Armand, his bro, along with three strangers. Armand sees Jose and says "fuck us in the ass, bro". Jose complies and fucks all four people in the ass.

Jose has suffered a purity loss event because he had no privity of brohood with the three strangers. His intent to help them was irrelevant.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=1746115&forum_id=2#18872217)

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=1770061&forum_id=2#19064215)

Author: To be fair

To be fair,

My worst experience with this POS airline was when the ghetto 20 year old nigress security guard saw me approaching with a carry on bag, a briefcase and a suit slung over my shoulder that I had just pressed and that I needed to have available as soon as I got off the plane.

She immediately pulls me out of line to inform me that "THERE IS ONLY ONE CARRY ON BAG AND ONE PERSONAL ITEM ALLOWED SIR YOU ARE GOING TO HAVE TO PACK THAT SUIT" in a loud and grating tone. I smiled and explained that I have flown on numerous airlines, that I fly fairly regularly, and that I have never had this problem before (including on American.) And then I calmly explained that I had an important meeting that I had to attend as soon as I got off the flight (it was a red-eye), that I had just had my suit dry cleaned and pressed, and that I would be storing it at the front of the plane anyway and it would not take up any overhead space.

She stared out at me dully with her dead, unintelligent ape-eyes, paused for a moment, and then began again: "THERE IS ONLY ONE CARRY ON BAG AND ONE PERSONAL ITEM ALLOWED SIR YOU ARE GOING TO HAVE TO PACK THAT SUIT."

Frustrated, running late and not wanting to walk into my meeting looking like an unkempt faggot because some foolish negro didn't "get" it, I asked to speak to her manager. Again, with a look of supreme idiocy hanging from her face and profoundly unintelligent gleam in her dull dark eyes, she screamed "LAQUITA!"

Laquita waddled over slowly, and instantly I knew I was fucked. She looked like an older, heavier, wearier version of the young African American woman that I had been conversing with; her artificially straightened hair (badly dyed an unnatural dark reddish color) stuck out wildly from her large head in all directions, waving to and fro in a frizzy, nappy mess.

Crestfallen, I began to explain my situation even though I already knew it was fruitless. She stopped me halfway through my schpiel and toned in, in a vulgar and inappropriately loud voice: "SIR AMERICAN AIRLINES HAS A POLICY THAT ONLY ONE CARRY ONE BAG AND ONE PERSONAL ITEM ARE ALLOWED. SIR YOU HAVE TO PACK YOUR THINGS."

Frustrated, I began attempting to shove my suit into the my bag. The carefully pressed creases vanished before my eyes as I curled it into a tight ball and attempted to squeeze it into the top corner of my already overpacked suitcase. After several minutes and considerable reshuffling, I had succeeded in making my suit look like a piece of shit and in just barely getting the bag zipped up again.

I approached the first nigress for the second time, trying to maintain a studied composure so that I would not explode on her and make a scene in the airport in front of innocent children and families. She looked up at me again with her dull, yellowing eyes. Then she spoke:

"SIR YOU NEED TO FIT THAT BAG INTO THIS SLOT, PLEASE COME HERE AND FIT THE BAG IN SIR."

She was literally going to make me squeeze me bag into the "Can your bag fit in the overhead compartment?" bin.

Furious, I told her that I had never had to do this bullshit before; that my suit was ruined; that I was now running 15 minutes late and might miss my flight; and that her airline was a dirty piece of shit.

She glanced up warily at me and reiterated in her loud, sing-song monotone:

"SIR YOU NEED TO FIT THAT BAG INTO THIS SLOT, PLEASE COME HERE AND FIT THE BAG IN SIR."

Defeated, I squeezed my bag as far down into the ridiculously narrow metal big as it would go. Several inches still stood out as the overpacked luggage fought back.

Our dark-skinned villainess came over to assist. Without a word, and without looking up at me, she began to furiously stomp my bag into the box with her feet. WHOMP! WHOMP! WHOMP! went her heavy simian paw on my brand new bag as the luggage was forced down into the crevice, crushing everything inside of it.

Without another word, she turned and left to go back to the line, leaving me to reach down and attempt to salvage my suitcase and my dignity. In a blind and growing rage, I yanked it out as hard as I could.

The zipper must have caught on something; exactly what, I'll never know. All I remember is seeing my bag open up midair as my clothes went flying in all directions. My beaten and broken suit flew out in a crumpled ball and rolled across the floor.

I screamed a string of obscenities so loud and profane that people turned to stare at me from 10 yards away. I began to repack all of my shit, cradling my ruined suit and consumed with raging anger that this fucking pointlessly power hungry black bitch with a 6th grade education was running me through the motions.

I heard footsteps approaching and looked up. A young black woman wearing a security uniform stood above me, staring down with dull yellow eyes.

"THERE IS ONLY ONE CARRY ON BAG AND ONE PERSONAL ITEM ALLOWED SIR YOU ARE GOING TO HAVE TO PACK THAT SUIT."

True story.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=1151703&forum_id=2#13407894)

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=1770061&forum_id=2#19064222)

Author: MarioMaserati (il Duce )

Alright, so FrankyF and I got done at the gym feeling PUMPED as FUKKKK and HUNGRY as FUUUUARRRRKKKKKKK so we pulled up to chipotle.

FrankyF had some leftovers at his place, so he decided to wait in the car right outside chipotle. He rolls his windows down and starts blasting SICK DUB STEP. He had them speakerz goin HAMMER while the wasps eating on the patio outside were MAD as FUKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK but too scared to say anything. They all continued eating with their heads down.

So I go inside and tell the shawty that imma need to cop a chikken bowl. I tell her I want rice and pinto beans. She notices a lack of beans so she yells at the frustrated looking asian cook behind her to get dem beans ready right quikk. The shawty was 'mirin my aesthetics and offered me a free drink while I waited on the nowag to cook the beans. The shawty then yells at the nowag about needing more pork and chicken. The black brahs were yelling at the nowag to prepare dat chikken or get ready to prepare dat anus.

The nowag cook starts sayyin "OOHHHHhhhHHHHHh I'm waiting for it to cook, what can I do????????" and I say "is there a problem, asian? u mad about dat chicken and dem beans, asian?" He was MAD as FUKKKKKKKKKKKKK about BUFF as FUKKKk ITALIAN ALPHAS, BUFF as FUKKKKKK high school football players, OBESE as FUKKKKKKK black brahs, and asian girls in line taunting the asian about da IRIN CHAINZZZZZZZZZZ of NOWAG.

Anyways, the manager comes out and says "I'm sorry for the wait sir, what can he DOOOOO with such small penis???" I understand, and the manager rings up my steak bowl wit drank FOR FREE.

I step outside and it's LOUD as FUAARRKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK with FrankyF having dominance established on the patio from his car.

We leave after the high school football player alphas and black brahs give us props and the asian girls give us their numbers (which we throw away).

u mad, asians?

Cliffs:

-Franky and I go to Chipotle.

-Franky blasts dubstep outside getting WASPs mad.

-nowag cook can't keep up with orders.

-nowag gets MAD as FUKKK about Italians, high school football players, black brahs, and asian girls in line taunting him.

-manager gives me free food

-asians MAD as FUKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK

http://img198.imageshack.us/img198/7099/chipotlemadasfuarrkkkkc.jpg

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=1616320&forum_id=2#17745793)

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=1770061&forum_id=2#19064232)

I'm an undergraduate and am trying to get a sense of the type of personalities/skills/predilections that law school tends to attract. Before ranting about the inadequacy of generalizations, know that I'm only looking for anecdotes about the type of people (as perceived by contributors of this site) at the top LSchools and will not use them in isolation to inform my decision to apply or not to apply to LS. When asking seemingly knowledgeable/successful people, I've gotten very mixed perspectives as to the type of people that law attracts (ranging roughly from the most intelligent/intellectual in society to self-loathing, introverted wannabe investment bankers). I only ask because I find the law very interesting, and am very fond of debate or intellectually spirited discussion on almost any topic. I also like mathematics and economics; and ultimately will have to make a personal choice between finance and law down the road. Oddly enough, finding reliable information about law students/school is difficult; and I appreciate your insights.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=1770061&forum_id=2#19064261)

I'm an undergraduate and am trying to get a sense of the type of personalities/skills/predilections that law school tends to attract. Before ranting about the inadequacy of generalizations, know that I'm only looking for anecdotes about the type of people (as perceived by contributors of this site) at the top LSchools and will not use them in isolation to inform my decision to apply or not to apply to LS. When asking seemingly knowledgeable/successful people, I've gotten very mixed perspectives as to the type of people that law attracts (ranging roughly from the most intelligent/intellectual in society to self-loathing, introverted wannabe investment bankers). I only ask because I find the law very interesting, and am very fond of debate or intellectually spirited discussion on almost any topic. I also like mathematics and economics; and ultimately will have to make a personal choice between finance and law down the road. Oddly enough, finding reliable information about law students/school is difficult; and I appreciate your insights.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=1770061&forum_id=2#19064283)

Author: Johnsmeyer (yellin 187 wit my dick in ya mouth)

I know there are a lot of you out there. You may have stole her innocence, you may have made her moan, there may have even been two of you in one day...but she loves me now. You may not have had to buy her a single drink, you may not have had to date her, you might not have had to spend time with her...but she loves me now.

I don't care if you used a condom or not. She has decided to settle down and she's done being a whore. Now because she's ready to "forget" about those 32 guys, it's ok because she loves me now.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=1775641&forum_id=2#19105376)

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=1770061&forum_id=2#19105520)

http://www.xoxohth.com/thread.php?thread_id=1652538&mc=12&forum_id=2

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=1770061&forum_id=2#19105568)

http://www.xoxohth.com/thread.php?thread_id=104041&forum_id=2#1606072

Elean, a young man with purple eyes, and a shriveled left foot limped slowly along the dark corridor. The old man held a torch that struggled to stay alight within the almost airless dungeon beneath Sir Vixthror's castle.

"Observe the roof, Elean. Do you see how the growth of the mold traces out a long, crooked line ? A pipe lies there . They're even hidden within the walls." The old man turned to tap the wall on his right side. When the echo was faint, he smiled in contentment, "aahh... there's another one right here"

"Whence comes the water that runs in these pipes, master ?"

"I never said that these pipes carried water, Elean "

"Then what do they carry, master ?"

To be continued...

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=1770061&forum_id=2#19105585)

Author: Poetic dreamer (Whether Beauty be found in mathematics or a flower)

She found a half-hidden dirt road that lead off the main path. So she took off her expensive shoes and followed it. Above, a crimson star shone beautifully amidst a purple twilight. She stumbled lightly on a rock that moved under her feet, but quickly regained her balance due to her dexterity and her age ...she's nine years old.

Suddenly a half orc springs out from the nearby clump of shrubs and starts galloping swiftly towards the young lass. On his belt he carries a packet of gummi bears. He grabs the lass' golden hair, and tilts her neck back. He spits his green phlegm down her throat, causing her to gag. "Her throat is ready," he thinks. He whips out his gnarled penis and proceeds to mercillessly pound that tot's throat.

Then suddenly, he says "the gummi bears!" As soon as his thoughts landed on the candy, he ripped her panties with a dirty nail, and proceeded to stuff the gummi bears into the crying girl's hole.

The moonlight bounced tenderly off the surrunding shrubs and gave them a splendid silver glow. The nearby flowers fight to exceed the stars in beauty. A young girl screams, but ever the orc stuffs the gummi bears into her unwilling hole.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=496969&forum_id=2#6695209)

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=1770061&forum_id=2#19117628)

Author: johnnymesch

My sophmore year I became an overachiever and took nine classes: four physics, two upper-division history, Japanese, chemistry (organic), and math (differential topology). At the same time, I was volunteering about 4 hours a day, 6 hours on weekends, at a local charity. For the first couple of months, I was doing OK, although I had to cut down significantly on social time. However, midterms hit. I made the semester into a complete shitstorm by delaying in some classes while studying frantically for my exams.

Worst fucking decision I ever made.

I never caught up after that--I was always behind and finals became a complete disaster. Because I was on a special final exam schedule (for credit overload students, they have to rearrange finals), I didn't realize that my o-chem exam was actually a day earlier. I was working on a 45-page final semester paper and only realized two hours into the three hour exam my mistake. I threw on a shirt and some pants, gulped down a coffee, and ran to my final. The professor was a complete hardass and insisted that I had two options: sit for that session or skip the conflicting exam the next day. I couldn't afford to lose the final in my math class, so I took the final with about forty-five minutes left. I made a valiant effort, completing about two-thirds of the exam, but knew I had flunked--stiff curve in that class. Pissed as hell, I ran back to my dorm to finish my paper, only to find that I had forgotten to lock the door and some fucking jerk had swiped my laptop.

I couldn't bear to face my professor; earlier in the semester, I had faked an illness to delay one assignment, but was caught by a snitch. The professor completely didn't believe me when I said my laptop was stolen. I realize now that was my fault, but at the time, sleep-deprived and stressed by the o-chem exam, this was the last straw. I went back to my dorm and started crying.

After that, I fucking lost it. I don't quite remember what happened next. Apparently I went knocking on a lot of doors, shouting at people, throwing books at passers-by, and getting into a fight with a security guard. I went back to my dorm room where I shouted at my roommates to leave. Then I got drunk as hell and fell asleep.

When I woke up, I sobbed some more, knowing that this whole episode had cost me valuable time studying for the math exam. It was all so hopeless. I attempted suicide, tying a bedsheet to a table leg, knotting the other end around my neck, and jumping out of our third-story window. Thankfully, the material ripped. My worst injury was a broken leg.

Following my suicide attempt, I was hospitalized at a psychiatric ward. I had a complete breakdown and ended up withdrawing from my school as a result. I spent two months in treatment afterwards, then returned to community college. I subsequently transferred to my local state university and just graduated from there this year.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=319517&forum_id=2#5859664)

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=1770061&forum_id=2#19105594)

Author: Dr. Marty Lipton King, Jr.

I am an independent maker of "gonzo" style pornography. I am currently making an enema-fetish film, the theme being "Enemas of the States". I've got a milk enema for the wisconsin chick, budweiser for the missouri chick, orange juice for the florida chick, jack daniels for the kentucky chick and maple syrup for the vermont model. I've got two california girls so I figure a red wine for the one and some kind of sparkling wine for other, as white wine will not show up well on camera. Can you recommend wines that are particularly emblematic of california for this purpose?

PS if anyone knows of something that will get maple syrup off of drapes that would be helpful

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=168309&forum_id=2#2595264)

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=1770061&forum_id=2#19105599)

Author: Theaetetus

Somewhere there must exist a line that delineates the "hot" forms of shit-eating from the "gross and disgusting" forms of shit-eating. I suggest that line can be found thusly:

Suppose there's an anal gang-bang going on. Some chick is on her knees, maybe strapped to a board on the floor by her ankles and wrists, and a couple dozen guys are running train on her asshole. Cock after cock makes its way into her rectum and fucks her insides out until it deposits a fresh hot load of cum deep in her bowels.

After several of the guys have had their turn, churning the growing jizzmix in her gut, now let's say she's released from the board and allowed to rear-back so the frothy contents of her colon flow out past her distended, useless sphincter and into a bowl on the floor.

And now suppose she raises the bowl to her lips and drinks the mixture down.

In the cleanest of circumstances, the contents of the bowl are likely to be the same pure whitish that they were when they first went into her ass. But more than likely, the aggressive backdoor pounding and multiple shapes, sizes and angles of thrust have almost certainly shaken loose a little fecal matter and given the bowl of amalgamated come an ever-so-slightly brownish tint.

Still, watching this asswhore gulp down two dozen loads of manjuice fresh from her ass with her own essence mixed in is undeniably hot.

But, if you simply add a couple rabbit pellets to the mix -- tiny turds the size of a pea or gumdrop that fall out of her stretched rear cavity along with the nut -- then somehow this whole idea appears to be unseemly all of a sudden.

Thus we can discern that the line from disgustingly hot to simply disgusting falls between these two fairly close poles.

In sum, I think it can be analogized to spices, like cinnamon or nutmeg. A light addition to add flavor, color and aroma is welcome. But nobody really wants to suck on a mouthful.

Agreement? Disagreement? Refinement?

http://xoxohth.com/thread.php?thread_id=48602&mc=110&forum_id=2#789951

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=1770061&forum_id=2#19105608)

Author: Thersites

i was pretty distressed about peak oil and its implications, which is to say that i was filled with dread about our impending doom. (lifeaftertheoilcrash.net if you're not convinced yet.) i was at work (lowe's) early in the morning, desperately trying to think of a way to save myself and convince my family to sell their stock and real estate and head for the proverbial hills. in thinking this through i sort of likened myself to john the baptist - a wild man coming out of nowhere announcing something big. i guess that thought tipped me onto God - i made an urgent pleading to him: 'deep down i've always wanted to believe but i've never been able to. if you're up there, please, just nudge me over the edge. i could really use it right now'. over the next 10-15 minutes occurred a series of strange coincidences.

first, over the overhead radio came on a breakup song, the lyrics of which went something like, 'it's over now and there's nothing you can do about it'. afterward a second song (i think by carole king) came on, the lyrics of which ran, 'the earth shakes under my feet, the sky comes tumbling down, tumbling down'. afterward a third song came on - 'here comes the sun' by the beatles. 'that's odd,' i thought, 'it tells a little story'.

after that i overheard my department manager talking about natural disasters. (if memory serves, i think he was saying something about how when the tsunami hit, it was a great fortune that not more lives were lost to disease.) i took it into my head that i should go talk to him, that if i told him i thought there was an oncoming catastrophe, he of all people might not think i was crazy. as i went over to talk to him, he was holding a long PVC pipe in his hand, resembling a staff (the 'staff' was curved at one end). he banged it twice against the ground, yelling 'john!' each time (there's a guy in the dept. named john). i'm not sure what significance, if any, that had, but it added to the sort of surreal dream-quality state i remember being in at the time.

when i got up to this guy, my manager, i said, 'hey johnny, there's something i want to talk to you about'. he said, ok, and we went into an empty aisle. 'you might think i'm nuts,' i said, 'but i think there's going to be a big disaster soon'. before i could explain about the oil, he calmly and immediately said, 'i know, i'm a witch,' and pulled out a hidden medallion that was hanging from his neck. 'but i'm a survivor. i'm going to survive this thing, and my family is going to survive too.' he also made clear that he had had these beliefs for a long time, that it wasn't a fad thing, and he made some strange remarks about satan - both that he didn't believe he existed, and that his greatest trick was convincing everyone of the same.

i was tripped out by the whole thing, but i didn't convert just yet. i finished my shift and went on to my other job across town. i was able to concentrate on my work, but i kept thinking about the events of earlier that day, and i kept thinking about peak oil. finally, near the end of the day, i asked my boss, a christian, if he believed in the evangelical interpretation of the book of revelation - did he think it would actually happen. he said absolutely, and not only that but it'd happen soon, and he went on to give some scriptural support of his belief - but i was too consumed by my own thoughts to really listen. then i told him that i thought something big was going to happen soon, too, and i gave a short explanation why.

he said, marcus, if God has put this weight on your heart, then maybe that's for a reason. as soon as he said that i burst into tears, sobbing. i just couldn't control myself. he said, if you want to come to Christ now, you can do that. i nodded, and he led me in a prayer. i was so overwhelmed, though, that i could only get the first couple lines out, though i repeated the rest of them in my head. as this happened, a fire came on me. it felt like i was bursting and vibrating with energy and light - it felt like i was incredibly, incredibly high. i was so overwhelmed that i left right off, i told him that i couldn't be there any more. i walked to my car, still full to the brim with the Spirit, still crying but this time in joy. the high, the highest i've ever been in my life, lasted about 30 minutes. the anxiety and dread of before had evaporated. i called some people who i knew would be happy to hear the good news, people i knew had been praying for me my whole life - like my grandma.

this is the first part of my story. i'm going to take a break now to get something to drink and catch up on the other questions on this thread.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=193235&forum_id=2#2933980)

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=1770061&forum_id=2#19105612)

Author: NASC ("i'm well spoken, well groomed and well educated." -Valentine)

Dearest Susie,

I’m not sure if this is the correct way to go about telling you the things I must tell you. If it were possible, it would be preferable to tell them to you face to face. However, I think at this point, I couldn’t look into your eyes without regaining a sort of hope, that you will see, renders me unable to say this to you.

Susie, I adore you. You know this, if you don’t it is only because you won’t let yourself believe it. Fulfillment is not the correct word, but it is as close as I can come in a single word to describing the feeling of looking over to my side of the bed at Eight A.M. and seeing you breathing gently there. Why do I adore you? I don’t know. I know I love talking to you, I think you’re beautiful, I feel like you understand me, I think of you as my intellectual equal. All these things are certainly true, but they could be true of a great many women. What scares me but what makes me think its real, when very few of my feelings in life have been real, is that I cannot explain or rationalize why I feel like I do about you.

I think you like me. I think that maybe even had the circumstances been different we may have dated longer or even gone so far as being boyfriend and girlfriend. But I know you don’t feel as I do and under no circumstances will you, no matter how much I hope for the opposite to be true. I know a girl doesn’t tell a guy she wants to be with that she will not exclusively date anybody and then proceed to exclusively date somebody else. I know a girl doesn’t invite a guy she wants to be with to hang out with her and her boyfriend. I don’t blame you for these things, on the contrary, without them I may have deluded myself much longer.

I want for us to be friends. I honestly do. I don’t need for us to be friends, in fact it is probably the last thing on earth that I do need. But I want it. I have to realize some things if it is to work though. We can’t be alone together. I think we both knew at the time and we certainly both know by now that us going to Richmond for dinner is a terrible idea. I want it so much, but I want it under different circumstances. I actually would like it under these circumstances, but I also know how easy it is for me to begin deluding myself again with thoughts that there is a chance for there to one day be an us. I think we both know that us sleeping in the same bed together is a terrible idea. It is a very odd feeling, knowing that the thing that has made you the happiest you’ve been in a long time is also the last thing in the world you need. Your feelings want to lash out at your logic. It’s not healthy.

I’m never going to be happy or comfortable around your boyfriend or boyfriends or guys you are dating. I like xxxx, he’s a cool guy, if I felt differently about you I might even hope that you two would get more serious. I don’t want to hang out with him or have a drink with him or even talk to him. I certainly don’t want to do any of that with you there.

I hope none of this hurts you. That’s the last thing I want. I’m sorry that I am the way I am and that all this is even necessary. I don’t want you to think any of this is your fault, not that you would, but you might and its not. I will probably be weird for a while and I hope that if I’m distant that doesn’t hurt you. I don’t think you have any idea how much I want to be doing the opposite of what I’m doing now. Maybe what I’m doing is way too emo or maybe its psycho, but it is who I am and I think that if I owe you anything it is to be completely honest with how I feel about you.

I just don’t think I will get over you if I keep seeing you so much. Just when I think I’m over you, I can look at you and realize I’m not. Maybe if I forget for long enough I won’t be able to remember. I’m not saying that I don’t want to see you at all, but it can’t be as much and it can’t be in a very personal way.

Susie, I’ve meant everything I’ve ever said to you. I don’t know of anybody else that I can say that about. And I mean everything I am saying now. I adore you and I’m sorry that by some cruel trick of fate I’ve fallen for you. This is hard on me, but the saddest part is that having to shut you out from being a true friend. I know it’s not fair to you. I’m not entirely sure how much our friendship has meant to you, but I get the feeling at times it has meant a lot. I’m so sorry that I have to shut a good portion of that out. I’m sorry that I will probably never be able to watch you put on lipstick without wanting to immediately mess that lipstick up. I’m sorry that I’ll never be able to see you with another guy without wishing I were in his place. I’m sorry this had to happen to you.

Sincerely,

NASC

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=140795&forum_id=2#2200918)

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=1770061&forum_id=2#19105616)

How did it happen that making the tired claim that this ghetto shithole is UNDERrated became the signature conversation piece for people who desperately want to be thought smart; really, really smart. smart people love "rigor" and Chicago is full of it; it must be, what with its hair-splitting number grades, punishingly low enforced mean, and oppressive course load. Chicago boosterism usually comes in the form of a comparison with the appallingly UNrigorous Stanford or Yale -- gradeless, abundantly pass-fail, unserious; students who do nothing and know nothing. Chicago: graded, competitive, serious... That it's really just a ruptured ego rehab clinic for Harvard rejects is a fact not emphasized. I have seen a homely Chicago girl, deep into her second year, still spontaneously weeping upon Proustian recollections of the stiff NO Harvard sent her, in brisk three-week turnaround time from the point her doomed application was deemed complete. Happy December, chickiepoo. Then the Yale axe fell, as it does. Welcome to the New Year, dipshit. January passed; February crawled by with those joyless acceptances that only accentuated the horror of Plan B: Georgetown, which is a "Law Center," a failed euphemism if ever there was one. Next: woeful Cornell. Oh, what a very bad school. And -- what do we have here?!? -- a Boston University full-ride. Ummmm, no. On second thought in stead of BU I'd prefer the f free roasted dogshit mignon with a pus reduction sauce and a heaping blob of earwax garnish. Thank you no. I am woe. Add to that the fact that the imbecile whoalways posts about how Sean Hannity is a "serious thinker" just got into Harvard. Time for you to start some damage-control posting here, on the PR board, pretending to seriously consider this BU affront. You wave the flag of thrift and test out a quaintly anachronistic abhorrence of debt. Substantively, you add in some tommyrot about how BU's "really strong in ...'international law,' whatever the fuck that is. BU? Yeah, right. But you need something that gives the illusion that Georgetown, if it comes to that, isn't the three years incarcerated in a smegma chamber that it is. So good, so fine you'll drop the cash dollars despite that lovely gift from BU. You're forming a cover story; something to puff the very real and very nauseating prospect of joining 600 other defeated mediocrities at ... fuck, no ... Georgetown. And you thought going to college at Penn was bad. . Still, there are two more to hear from. Two more law schools ...There's that late April Stanford rejection (inconsiderate bastards) which at least affords you ample time to manufacture the next layer in the cover story: e.g., a strict policy against California, a suburban aversion, a preference for bigness, all of which eliminate Stanford from the sweepstakes. Be sure, too, to ridicule their tepid 25-75 LSAT %ile, too. Kill it dead, if you must. Maybe you thrust out of your frozen horror by sending off one of those strategic "withdrawal" letters, the way all those clowns do when Harvard puts them on hold ... ".you cant't fire me ... i quit! " Adios, Stanford. Suck my cunt, you no-SCOTUS-clerking/dike-dean-TTT. ... die, die, you gravy-sucking pig. .... and now, then, there is just one. Chicago. The Law School. Chicago does do that pathetic yield-maximizing stall, so February passes, March crawls. They haven't the nuts to try the ricockulous move Stanford does. So they write. Ever rigorous, The Law School requests the pleasure of your company. Not so fast . No decision has been made. They want to inspect you in person. The "evaluative interview. Looking for people skills. And evident thirst for knowledge. The life of the law is the law itself. It seems you've fucked up; quite possible3 when the went "behind the numbers." Maybe those two essay paragraphs about why the 171, exactly where you topped out in Kaplan, is a truer measure than the 164. maybe it was two paragraphs too many. You weren't an auto-admit. So off to the "evaluative interview," and you give them not much to evaluate. You stay on message, though: owing to its RIGOR, Chicage is now, and ever was, your FIRST CHOICE. Tell your audience what it wants to hear. Then they decide, engaging the only evaluation that matters in this gig. Looks like they can break even with your sorry ass. Median-wise, your 171 nullifies the 159 URM from Howard they took yesterday. They'll swallow your 3.46; sometimes that's the price of a yield-lock, and you're that. (No one's swallowing the Howard guy, if you catch my racy double entendre.) These admissions guys talk, as you suspected, and you wisely decide against telling them it had come down to Chicago or Harvard for you; first versus second choice; no choice at all. Never get caught lying. Bad idea, even worse than telling that stupid girl from Emory you were "a Kennedy." These things get found out. Like they say, no sense lying about your cock size. Turns out you didn't need to fake a bidding war. The usual stampede of all Chicago's best admitees are going to Y and H and S without so much as the courtesy of telling C to go pound sand. Why tell them what they already know? They need to fill place #143 of their famously teeny-weenie class. The assumed occupant got unheld at Harvard this morning; never so relieved, he had the audacity to ask Chicago for his deposit back. They don't need these headaches. You're in. They write, very pleased to offer admission; then a recital of just how "keen" the competition was for the few precious "seats" in the class of 2006; and, finally, a paragraph celebrating the legal profession with a toploftiness and richly felt purpose so precisely at variance with reality that you are unsettled by the suspicion that you might be the target of a satire so subtly corrosive that you will never connect it with the despair that will progress, exponentially; beginning as a persistent annoyance progressing into a pervasive physical and mental crapulence and ending in the crippling burden as lumber and writhe and tumble toward the epiphany. What epiphany is that? That this "career" of yours --BIGLAW! -- has somewhat less to recommend it than residence in the "shoe" at Pelican Bay. For now, though, the seed of tragic hopelessness finds expression in the "Law Discussion Area." You post -- IN AT CHICAGO -- and, without overtly lying, you manufacture the entirely erroneous impression that you "chose" Chicago, being also the originator of the CHICAGO v. HARVARD and YALE v. CHICAGO threads, under various of your insipid monikers, all selected from either Pulp Fiction or Friends. Be careful not to ass fuck your credibility, though. The purported Yale turn-down is a tough one to pull off. The "New Haven's-an-armpit" trope just doesn't pass the ha-ha test. It's too puny a reason to toss away a lifetime of being supposed a genius ... fuck it: always good to give your fabrications a little populist tint, not to mention a dollop of truth. Join the commiseration thread of Yale rejects; pretend to be sad for that Nuisance turd; be one of the masses for once. Getting rejected isn't the same thing as not getting in, You merely did not get in. You claim to have been wait-listed; and, with admirable maturity, you hold out no hope. Remember, too, this lie must be built on several fronts. Lard up the Harvard thread with grave concern about big classes, low morale, faculty acrimony, and speculation about a precipitous US News ranking drop. Throughout April, you go political, fulminating about Tribe and Dershowitz and how Duncan Kennedy drives a far-too-expensive car. to be a genuine socialist. Chicago's "conservative climate" is just a better fit for you; marginal cost curves figure in your every analytical moment; you read Posner opinions on the crapper; Coase is as important as Socrates. There is that little stinging glitch, though. Somehow Stanford neglected to process that request to quash your application, which is not favorably acted upon and this is memoriaized in a letter that suggests the Stanford Admissions Office ignores their LaserWriter Pro's TONER LOW warning. On May 7th they regret to inform and wish you well at any of the scores of other law schools that, they assure you "offer excellent programs of legal instruction." (Which, you have no doubt, they do. What they don't offer, is really the only important thing Stanford does offer: the opportunity to sit for three years with your thumb up your ass, comatose, and still get the job you'll have to bust nuts to get coming from whichever craphole you end up at.) It's sealed. An ugly, styleless maroon CHICAGO LAW, Champion sweatshirt has arrived, per your online order. You wear it, eliciting congratulations from the babe you want to rail. She's so happy for you, and you're so wrapped up in the fantasy of creaming on her tits you nearly miss perky aside that her boyfriend remains in the throes of elation from his admission to Yale, back in January. Throughout the summer, you bookmark links that embody the wisdom US News lacks. Your are heading off, soon, to your own first choice, which also places first in a ranking produced by the rigorous methodology conceived by a statistician from the University of Maryland Baltimore County. That Harvard tied for #14 undermines your confidence in the ranking diminishes the likelihood it will supplant US News' preeminence. So you go. Your Hyde Park apartment is actually rather nice. Your housemate went to Harvard College. One night, instead of jacking off before sleep, you register as an active component of your self-conception the notion that, transitively, your housemate's undergraduate credential nullifies the Harvard rejection that left you lusterless and unlaid at your senior prom, -- and has persisted as a gnawing ache, going on five years. You are now on equal footing with a Harvard graduate. Should your law school prowess exceed his -- say a 75 in Torts to his 74 -- you will once and for all flick away the scab of that Harvard wound. First cut is the deepest. As it turns out, your housemate is an engaging, witty fellow. He's porking the big bosomed lady with the Dutch accent. Wow! He offers to you, his new chum, the story of his own execution -- by lethal injection -- as expected, he painlessly relates, by the HLS admission staff. You pretend to explore what might have caused things to go awry, flatulating the usual fatuousness about Harvard being excessively "numbers driven," the "arbitrariness" of it all, dangling the threat of going on at some length, when he offers up the only information you genuinely care to know about him: : 178/3.34 ..Of course some one will inevitably have the 6th percentile college GPA in every HLS class; probably not a white guy from Greenwich, though. Friendship is built through reciprocity. So you tell your own story. You attempt to weave compassion into the telling of your story, being careful not to appear boastful about not just possessing, but discarding something he does not possess. HLS. Dreamy, So, your story: the grueling back-and-forth ... one day it's Chicago, the next Harvard; the hardest decision you've ever made; that feeling of immense responsibility to yourself; discovering and summoning the emotional maturity to pierce the specious veil that is prestige. With the bearing of a battle weary soldier you tell what it is to do something rarely done -- circumnavigate the Earth, dunk a basketball on a regulation hoop, turn down Harvard Law School . You picked Chicago. You chose, you adorable little existentialist. You are not exposed, chiefly because this a shared lie, Community glue. (Postscript: Throughout the 1Lyear you and your housemate discover much commonality, He, too, prefers the Stones to the Beatles. You both smoke pot. neither is circumcised. You've each fucked 5 girls; gotten head from several others. Each of you applies to transfer. He gets into HLS. He turns down Harvard Law School. Of course no two people are exactly alike. Your desire to transfer wanes around the time Stanford and Yale's decisions on your transfer applications reach you by mail. You begin the CHIGAGO 1L TAKING QUESTIONS thread. One of your alter ego monikers asks simply: how do you like Chicago. You love it. You wouldn't go anywhere else and, you note, there were other places you could have gone. Same for your housemate. He transfers to Yale.)

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=1770061&forum_id=2#19105629)

Author: .milkbag.

Subject: chicago..

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=1770061&forum_id=2#19105850)

brother you dont understand brother. i am eating AS I AM DRIVING. yes, i brave the backroads of poortown, USA and impetuously navigate my TTT car while 60% of my attn is focused on those sweet, sweet buns of refined sugar caked together with refried beans and all sorts of additives and preservatives. and when i arrive home, i inevitably have beef and sauce and all manner of cheese and sour cream and other assorted festive condiments spackled across the front of my horribly depressing neckbeard and t-shirt. it is quite the scene brother; like a man home from war. but it is something i brave for the thrill of the friday night taco bell.

http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=1592919&forum_id=2#17540063

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=1770061&forum_id=2#19105702)

Author: ..,..,,,,...,...,,,.

J: So what'd you do?

G: What could I do, Jerry? I did what I had to do. I walked right up to them.

J: The walk-up?

G: *puffing, angry* Ha-ha! The walk-up.

J: Well what'd they do?

G: *deflated* . . . They uh.

J: *knowing* The jive.

G: They called me a cracker-ass doughboy.

J: Can't beat it!

G: Can't beat the jive, Jerry!

J: That's the essence of the jive. It surprises you. Even when you're totally in the right, they can jive around you. You know juke and jive?

G: Juke and jive?

J: It's a juke and jive, like a dance!

G: They danced around me Jerry.

J: Around the doughboy. That's why you gotta have the juke! They have the jive, you have the juke.

G: Oh so YOU have the juke?

J: Oh I can juke, baby.

G: How do I get the juke? I need the juke!

J: It's a Jewish thing. Can't be taught.

G: So you're a Jew joker with the juke.

J: *in Puddy voice, squinty face* Yeah, that's right.

K: *bursts in* YOU GUYS TALKIN' ABOUT NIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEERRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!

*Michael Richards not supposed to be in this scene*

*Show is canceled*

http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=1355209&forum_id=2#15396296

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=1770061&forum_id=2#19105728)

Author: burlingame

some of you are honestly ignorant of poors and how they behave? what kind of sheltered upbringing did you have? i grew up in 'real america,' the kind where poors predominate. others have pointed out the hatred of 'fags.' it is ferocious, but you have to remember that 'fag' is not really a reference to gays at all, but rather, to outsiders who don't conform to local poortown norms.

let me tell you a few things about poortown:

-poortown's laundromat is always busy after dinner, and it is a dank, depressing place with filthy water pooling around at least a couple of machines.

-men in poortown drive older manual trucks, and most of them have been modded to fit big swamper tires. a gun rack is obligatory. men who drive cars rather than trucks are immediately identified as faggots, unless the car is being used for street racing.

-men in poortown fight because even if you lose, it's manly to stand your ground and take your beating. fighting distinguishes fags from nonfags, because faggots cower from fights, while nonfags will fight when called upon to fight, even if there is no 'reason,' as such, to fight.

-tats are a near-mandatory way of showing your allegiance to the ethos of poortown. your tats will probably NOT be directly related to the town itself, but the fact that you have tats is important. it is today's tribal scarification. tatless men are goddamn faggots in the metaphysics of poortown.

-poortown never really scrubs off, no matter how hard you want it to scrub off. of course, those of us with intelligence, who escape poortown for better things, can hide our background from others. but poortown is branded to the soul. i am a male from poortown. i will never be anything else, no matter what else i become aside from that. but this is not a bad thing. it's simply my identity.

-at the same time, i am no longer OF my poortown. poortown is not like a metropolitan city that can be alienated then embraced again at will. a new yorker can leave NYC and come back to NYC and be a 'new yorker' again. this is not how poortown works.

poortown is a small, continuous, shared experience, and when you leave, it's like cutting your patch from poortown's quiltwork. poortowners continue living without you, updating each other daily on their doings, fucking each other, marrying, divorcing, having families. a year of absence may as well be a decade. once you pluck yourself from this continuity of poortown experience, you by necessity become an outsider, moreso as time goes on.

now, if you move back permanently, you will eventually get filled back in on the transpirings of those lost years. but poortown cannot be taken on and off like a jacket. you're either in it or you begin to become an outsider.

i hope this helps you understand, a bit, the psychology of poortown, which is where i grew up.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=720540&forum_id=2#8931062)

...

Date: November 24th, 2007 6:40 PM

Author: burlingame

my poortown had about 4,500 people, which is not unusual. poortowns are both much smaller (there was a poortown near ours with 400 people - it had less 'stuff', but the fundamental psychology was similar), and larger (i would argue that there are poortowns of more than 50,000, though some might consider that too 'urban').

my particular poortown was in long-term decline. that means it used to have things, like a movie theater, that it no longer has. it has some restaurants, a couple gas stations, a school system with one high school of about 400 students, a grocery store, a handful of small industrial facilities, and a few poor people stores (pawn shop, check cashing place, secondhand store, used clothes shop). there are also some churches. nothing pretentious like a 'synagogue' or 'unitarian chapel.' nope. just regular protestant churches. people wish our town had a wal-mart, but there is none. you drive 15 miles down the road to the nearest wal-mart. and of course, we have about six bars.

there is little of interest to draw the outsider. sure, we have a local 'fair' that does a bit of statewide advertising, but no one from outside our poortown would really care to attend the meager festivities that are really just a local social occasion anyhow.

high school was, fundamentally, tremendous fun. however, i made a point of fitting in. i joined the football team and worked out and kept my studying to myself. i drank and smoked pot along with everyone else. no one at school ever saw me poring over joyce's short stories, or the latest issue of scientific american. my awareness of the social order was keen enough for me to hide these things. i got excellent grades, but i rarely volunteered answers in class. scholasticism is not a traditional value in poortown.

however, rifts became inevitable after people learned that i would be attending college hundreds of miles away and out of state. they realized at some level that i was not 'one of them' in certain foundational ways. i would not go cap-in-hand after graduation to the asphalt plant, wrangling for a job. many of my friends did. i would not be joining the military. i would not be renting a house with my senior year girlfriend and starting a family. i would not be drinking with the guys for long after graduation.

i was, at first, apologetic, as though leaving was a transgression. i apologized for not 'being there' anymore. one thing that poortowns do, as a result of their incestuous insularity, is develop a strong communitarianism whose rejection is felt by all as an insult. imagine the poortown as an organism of residents who were born nearby and who will probably die nearby. when that order is forcefully rejected through something like 'going far away to college,' the organism is aggrieved. after all, it RAISED you. and it raised you as a component. for a town in decline, losing its top students simply highlights what everyone already knows - the organism is slipping into necrosis. things are not healthy there.

and so those who remain become a community exclusive to you, because your values no longer sync up. don't mistake this for internal unity WITHIN the various castes of poortown - as has been pointed out, those who have real jobs with benefits are in quite a lot better shape than the unemployed. those in real houses are better off than those in the trailer parks. and there is real animosity between classes. but they are all poortowners who share the same poortowner DNA. they are familiar to one another.

something like college is a mutation. when i look at myself in relation to the poortown i left behind, i am a disfigured mutant. but the alternative is to stay eternally in poortown.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=720540&forum_id=2#8931224)

...

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=1770061&forum_id=2#19105731)

Date: October 5th, 2009 10:08 PM

Author: MDP

Every single one of my hypos in 1L year involved the grisly rape and murder of a Vietnamese prostitute. I made LR.

*Raises hand*

"Let's suppose that I'm cruising Chinatown at 3:30 a.m. because I don't want to go home because my roommates always make fun of me, right? Assume that I can no longer tolerate their hateful slurs and every day in that wretched hellhole is torture. And let's say I come across a young lady named Swih Winn Nguyen, who offers to accompany me in exchange for $20. I get her in my car and I claim that we're going to go to a nearby Motel Six to retire for the evening. However, on the way there, I look at her face and her lifeless eyes remind me of what a failure I am; her emotionless expression functions as a twisted funhouse mirror into my own dead soul. In a rage, I remove my keys from the ignition and use my apartment key, which is the longest and sharpest on my keyring, to gouge her eyes out. Assume, arguendo, that she stops screaming after two minutes and stops breathing after three. I shove her disgusting body out of the car through the passenger door.

Further assume that a hobo witnesses the entire scene. I make an offer to refrain from killing him in exchange for his promise to not tell the police what he has seen. I throw a crumpled up dollar at his feet and drive off.

Would a court consider the crumpled up dollar to be nominal consideration, or a bona fide settlement if the issue came up in court?"

*Clicks pen*

*Looks at professor attentively, waiting to take notes*

http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=1103776&forum_id=2#12915549

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=1770061&forum_id=2#19105810)

Author: Jimmy Pop

For the first week you'll be like "Man, this sucks. Can't believe I'm wiping her ass every day."

Then the second week you'll be like "Hey, this isn't so bad."

Third week you'll bend down to get a lot closer, kind of liking the smell and the sight.

Fourth week you're serving her a lot of Mexican, so she has to go to the bathroom a lot, and you're right in there, face up close and sniffing her ass and pussy and telling her that you bought special toilet paper that is so light it will feel like you're wiping her ass with your hand.

Fifth week it's like Misery and you get a sledgehammer to keep both her arms broken.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=1738232&forum_id=2#18804853)

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=1770061&forum_id=2#19106716)

Author: Harry Kettle

Subject: I received a demonology manual for Christmas...

And I decided to start practicing spells. At first, I was limited to rather run-of-the-mill magic: levitating neckties, turning squirrels to stone, and brewing newts for witch soups. I became rather proficient in the minor demonic arts and was eager to try the more advanced business. I came across the perfect spell for my xoxohth tendencies: the Lucifer Elixir. Simply put, it was a draught "sufficient to expand the full capacity of human pride. Unlimited power and prestige are open to the drinkers of this potion." I read over the procedures and immediately a shadow passed over my brow. There was only one ingredient necessary: human souls.

"How cliched," I thought. One of the souls would have to be mine, naturally, but beyond this, I could not make out the text. I was ready to despair, when suddenly, a little footnote by Justice Scalia caught my eye. In order to understand the text of this document, I would have to take an originalist approach. I needed to summon Satan himself to figure out exactly what the rules were.

I therefore prepared, on Independence Day, when the noise of the fireworks could obscure the rumblings of Hell, the necessary writ of habeus diabolus. I drew the golden pentagram about me, threw the entrails into the fire, mixed powders and Prada together, chanted the Lord's Prayer backwards, chanted the Cooley rankings forward, and then waved my magic wand. There was a brilliant flash of lightning, a terrific clap of thundering, a thick aroma of smoke, and the oddly pleasant sound of a woman having an orgasm (this turned out to have nothing to do with my faustian rendezvous; the neighbors were getting it on because they thought no one could hear them above the fireworks either). Green mist filled the room and a flaming circle surrounded my pentagram. Then a spotlight came down and there he was, the Old Scratch.

I was a little disappointed--he was rather shabbily dressed, having lately run in from a furious appointment with a confidential North Korean client, whose plans for world conquest had proved embarrassingly impotent. I'd never met the Prince of Darkness before, so I thought it proper that we have tea and get to know each other first. I asked him how his family was doing and he wanted to know how I was getting on in school. We chatted pleasantly about the New York Times for a bit.

"So tell me," I said at last, wanting to get to business. "What is this Lucifer Elixir and how does it work?"

The Elixir, he informed me, while stroking his cloven hoof, was the most powerful charm any mortal could summon. Simply put, he had at his disposal 18 powers, divided into three categories, Classes A, B, and C. I could choose a maximum of two from each category--six powers total, in other words. In exchange, I would need to sell my own soul to him for all eternity. Furthermore, depending on which category my power came from, I would also need to seduce a specified number of innocent souls, turning their footsteps towards the infernal gate. Satan would appear periodically from time to time with advice on which person to turn to the dark side. I was satisfied and ready to begin choosing, when suddenly Satan stopped me.

"I really shouldn't be doing this, old boy," he said, in a fake British accent, "but I've taken a liking to you. I think perhaps you should see some of my former clients first, before making such an important decision."

I saw with horror what happened to those who did not choose wisely. The names struck me cold to the heart: Abraham Lincoln. George Eliot. Susan B. Anthony. Theodore Roosevelt. Kaiser Wilhelm II. Virginia Woolf. Adolf Hitler. Joseph Stalin. Joseph Kennedy. Virginia Woolf. Mahatma Ghandi. Albert Einstein. Strom Thurmond. Richard Nixon. Jiang Qing. Margaret Thatcher. Virginia Woolf. Bill Gates. John Roberts. Tiger Woods. Michelle Wie. Pope Benedict XVI. Virginia Woolf. The entire Clinton family. The entire Bush family. Angelina Jolie. Adriana Lima. 174. Virginia Woolf.

"These were successes in their time, but they all failed to consider the consequences of their prestige and so I had them in the end. There were others even more careless, who aspired to greatness, but failed more miserably."

That list horrified me even more. Judas Iscariot. Amelia Earhart. Ralph Reed. Scooter Libby. Jay Leno. Ken Jennings. Dr. Phil. Brian Leiter. Kaavya Viswanathan. Joseph Masters. Host upon host of embarrassing failures.

"They asked for power," spat the devil with disgust, lighting up a cigar on his fingers, "and were too incompetent to handle it. I received their souls and gave them almost nothing in return. Incompetence will be punished. Remember that and choose carefully. I suggest you seek advice from xoxohth. I have a few pet projects there, who could perhaps advise you on the optimal course. Take their counsel very seriously, for it will determine the whole arc of your prestige."

Then he disappeared, leaving me trembling and thoughtful, with the contract outlined. By the terms of it, I am forbidden to disclose the exact wording, unless I receive a special clearance from Beelzebub. However, the gist of it is that I must now choose two powers from each class. I need your advice, xoxohth. This is my soul we're discussing here; perhaps the most important contract I will ever sign. What shall I choose? Without further ado:

CLASS A (Maximum of 2 choices; each choice requires corrupting three innocent souls):

i) Mind-reading. When I choose, I can hear people's secret thoughts or have them downloaded to my Blackberry.

ii) Charisma. The power to make any person I choose irresistibly attracted to me. Can be calibrated to sexual, political, business, etc. needs.

iii) Invulnerability. Will be immune to disease, injury, poison, etc. with the power to defeat anyone in physical combat.

iv) Magic Mind. The ability to create immortal contributions to the intellectual field(s) of my choice.

v) Midas Touch. Any business I set up will prosper immensely, allowing me to retire as at least a billionaire.

vi) Weatherman: Control of weather within at least 10 mile radius.

CLASS B (Maximum of 2 choices; each choice requires corrupting two innocent souls):

i) Invisibility. Vanish from sight at will. Will have to become naked for this to fully work.

ii) Telekinesis: Will be able to move objects under one metric ton with my mind.

iii) X-Ray vision: Ability to see through any barrier; adjustable strength and telescopic vision included.

iv) I Started a Joke: Can make any witty bon mot instantly, making everyone laugh.

v) Open Sesame: Any lock will open with my simple command.

vi) Flying: Turn into a bald eagle at will and fly. Resume human form once claws touch the ground.

CLASS C (Maximum of 2 choices; each choice requires corrupting one innocent soul):

i) Pyrophalanges: Ability to shoot fire from my fingers.

ii) Helen of Troy: Helen of Troy will be resurrected in her full beauty, to become my mistress for life, unless I speak her name, in which case we both die.

iii) False Face: Can become the body double of anyone I choose.

iv) Dancing King: Dominate any dance floor impressively.

v) Speak Peace: Doves fly out of my mouth at will.

vi) Knighthood: Basically, receive an Order of the Garter from the reigning British Monarch.

Tell which power to choose, taking into account any consequences/vulnerabilities these combinations might leave open. While I will not break the confidentiality clause by posting the text of the whole contract here, I will be happy to clarify any ambiguities in the specific powers, as long as specific questions are asked.

Thank you.

http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=452510&forum_id=2#6192097

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=1770061&forum_id=2#19106731)

Please read whole thread.

Date: June 24th, 2010 7:42 PM

Author: slackfist cumduster

I will post these as I encounter them over the summer.

Today, I noticed he always opens push doors with a closed fist. I asked him why in passing, he was immediately ready with the following enumerated list which he counted on his fingers:

"1 - it hardens my knuckle bones to make my punches more devastating; 2 - it prevents me from leaving my fingerprints on the door; and 3 - it collects germs on my knuckles which will cause infections in the people I punch who aren't immediately incapacitated, like a kimodo dragon."

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=1770061&forum_id=2#19106735)

It was one of those days where the raging August sun seems to lay directly on one's back, a fierce and powerful burden that saps one's resistance and strength, where there is naught to do but hide inside the temperature-controlled cocoon of home and wait for the sun to grow bored and glide away across the horizon in search of the west. Little did I know that a far graver burden awaited me within the confines of my own home that day.

My girlfriend suggested that the two of us embark on an adventure together. She handed me a red plastic box, which I surveyed eagerly. "New Super Mario Brothers, Wii" I gasped, glancing at the colorful artwork and playful letters splashed across the cover. I recalled fondly those early years, where as a young child I battled fiercely into the night against the scoundrel Bowser, often failing, but on occasion besting the reptilian reprobate and securing peace once again in the Mushroom Kingdom. I immediately agreed, and we embarked on our fateful adventure.

It started out pleasantly enough. The outlying areas of the Mushroom Kingdom are often green and pleasant and relatively agreeable, even to novice players. In retrospect I do confess some confusion regarding a small handful of my girlfriend's maneuvers on those early levels, though these seemingly sporadic lapses were not grievous enough to call her competence entirely into question. However, it was not long before our adventure together took a decidedly dark turn...

Soon, we approached the precipice of a deep canyon, and I cautioned my girlfriend to remain still while I leapt across to defeat an approaching goomba, thus securing her safe passage across the gap. This was a fairly routine undertaking, as the gap was not significantly large and I was fortified with a fire flower, which provided some security in the unlikely event that I failed to accurately gauge the goomba's speed as it approached me on the other side. Accordingly, I leapt out across the pit with little hesitation. Though my objective seemed relatively simple, it had not occurred to me that my girlfriend, tasked only with remaining completely still - or, failing that, to merely refrain from engaging in a course of conduct that would inadvertently cost me my life - would be unable to accomplish her most basic assignment. A wave of horror washed over me when, as I leapt out across the gap, my girlfriend inexplicably leapt into the air as well. With startling precision (the sort of unholy precision that only the entirely random acts of an utter fool could accomplish, and likely never again replicate) she landed squarely atop my head, and quickly leapt again from my head to the safety of the ledge on the other side. One needs only a basic understanding of the physics of the Mushroom Kingdom to recognize how this cruel calamity promptly sent me hurtling into the deep chasm below, never to be seen again. It also bears noting that my girlfriend's karma was swiftly brought into balance at the hands of the goomba that awaited her on the other side of the pit. And this was how my girlfriend, tasked only with remaining still, managed to take both of our lives with one clumsy, maddening mistake. Things only got worse.

I will spare you the minutiae of the remainder of our disastrous adventure together, but suffice it to say that I have never encountered anyone so completely devoid of competence and poise under pressure as my girlfriend. It seemed at times that when the chaotic circumstances we encountered aroused her into a state of panic, her objective shifted subconsciously from calculated self-preservation to recklessly negligent oafishness, of which I was typically the unwitting victim. It was utterly astounding how frequently her bumbling actions appeared skillfully contrived to sabotage our joint undertaking. In fact, were she not so patently incompetent, one might accuse her of subterfuge, though I doubt even the most respected masters of the game could as efficiently and consistently undermine my success.

I will say nothing of the awful fate that she brought down upon our stalwart companion Yoshi on several occasions.

Needless to say, as the punishingly hot afternoon wore on to twilight and darkness, my patience began to wither along with my sense that Lady Toadstool would ever be saved, given the oppressive burden placed upon me by my hapless and incompetent ally. Our morale became further strained when I pointed out to my girlfriend that her total ineptitude in this and all other aspects of her life was the primary reason she would never earn a salary commensurate with mine. My girlfriend is inclined to take umbrage at any suggestion that her unfortunate gender is inferior in any respect, though her incessant bumbling and homicidal incompetence in the face of even the slightest adversity belie her paleo-feminist prattle. Additionally, I introduced to her the notion that the story unfolding before us - her burdensome presence in the adventure, quite self-evidently a detriment to my success - was roughly allegorical to her role in my life, and that her success as a girlfriend would begin to mirror her success in the Mushroom Kingdom in the near future, should she choose to ignore the important lessons that life presents to her. Alas, she was unmoved by my words, as her gender is inclined to ignore the allegorical characteristics of video games (another feminine shortcoming that I eagerly described to her that day, to no avail).

The coup de grace came mere minutes later. Tensions were still high, due to a brutal but entirely deserved dressing-down that I had given her after she pursued a mushroom as it slid off a cliff and into a gaping void below (she did in fact catch the mushroom as she fell, and I suspect that she gleaned some small pleasure from seeing her character double in size while falling to his untimely doom). We cautiously pressed forward and discovered a cruel and dangerous wall of Bullet Bill Blasters. My girlfriend, who at this time was on her fifteenth continue, led the charge. I instructed her to remain still while I jumped over her head, intending to land atop the Bullet Bill that was swiftly approaching our position. However, the presence of the fairly innocuous threat in her vicinity sent my girlfriend into an unbridled panic, and she elected instead to jump towards the Bullet Bill. Not surprisingly, she did not bear the brunt of her inexplicable conduct, as she jumped directly underneath me, bouncing me off of her head directly into the oncoming Bullet that I had initially sought to conquer. As this was my last life, she was orphaned, left to complete the level on her own. However, without me shouldering the burden of her horrendous incompetence, she was dead within seconds.

It was then that we abandoned the cursed adventure. Amid accusations that she had lied about playing Super Mario Brothers since childhood (how on Earth can one play a game for over two decades and not acquire even the most basic fundamentals of play??) our once-confident team was shattered. In the weeks that followed, I felt like a bitter, empty husk of a man. Never before had Bowser and his nefarious gang of hooligans bested me so completely. At night, I lay awake weeping for poor Lady Toadstool, still trapped in the bowels of Bowser’s dungeons, as Bowser’s hordes circle the sky menacingly in flying airships, deep in the land of lava and fire. They are ever-vigilant, eyeing the horizon for any sign that Lady Toadstool’s white knight approaches. Alas, Lady Toadstool’s fate is sealed. Her white knight tosses and turns restlessly in his bed, cursing the slumbering buffoon beside him.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=1770061&forum_id=2#19106746)

For posterity:

Date: July 5th, 2011 6:45 PM

Author: chump (aktp)

There is no part of you, not even the tiniest little fragment, not even in the darkest region in the blackest shadow of your heart, that thinks, upon seeing an attractive homeless girl: "Mmf. Want to take advantage."

Date: July 5th, 2011 6:46 PM

Author: Gibreel Farishta (the flower that once has blown for ever dies)

not if she's all unbathed and shit

Date: July 5th, 2011 7:06 PM

Author: chump (aktp)

"Please, mister. Anything would help."

You sigh. Your heart is capacious; it contains enough compassion for all the destitute of your city and more besides. But your brain, forged by the bellows of your T14 law school, resists. You know you cannot universalize this behavior. You cannot save them all.

But her eyes are shining.

"Do you have a place to go?"

Tantalizing bits of milky flesh peer from underneath the tatters in her jeans.

"No, sir. Not tonight. It's supposed to get cold, I think. I read it in the paper. People leave papers everywhere. It's fine, but if you could spare something for a cup of coffee, that might help me stay warm."

You sigh again, deeper. Your eyes dance across her lithe body, the fullness of youth refusing to yield in important places. But your heart is good, and your thoughts are pure. This one girl you can save, and save her you shall. It is not right that she be subject to the glances, desires, catcalls, or worse of hearts and hands of men baser than yourself.

"Come with me. I will take you back to my place, get you dressed, give you some food, and we'll find you a shelter. You can't be out here tonight."

Her hazel eyes sparkle, a broad smile spreading across her dry lips, somehow full despite dehydration and exposure.

"Really?"

"Sure. C'mon." You extend your hand.

She hops to her feet, her firm tits fighting against inertia, and winning. She bounds a step toward you, and then back, forgetting to gather what little scraps of nothing she owns. She bends over in front of you. Your eyes can't help but glance at her apple-shaped ass, the denim of her too-small jeans pulled tight. Living without a home may be hard, but it seems to keep you in good shape.

She turns back to you, pulling a few strands of dirty, stringy blonde hair--you imagine that would clean up really well with a little shower and attention-- out of her face, and she nestles against you, utterly trusting, running one skinny, small palm up your chest, then back down, excitedly taking your hand in her own. She's warm.

"Lead the way," she chirps.

Date: July 5th, 2011 7:34 PM

Author: chump (aktp)

If Gibreel denies that he would have an untoward though, I will move on to part 2.

Date: July 5th, 2011 7:47 PM

Author: Gibreel Farishta (the flower that once has blown for ever dies)

i shall deny it sir; i cannot do anything but

Date: July 5th, 2011 8:11 PM

Author: chump (aktp)

Subject: Part 2

You arrive at your soft loft with your new consort closely in tow. She has clinged to your arm the entire way home, as though she recognizes that largesse so extraordinary is also gossamer, and is bound and determined to anchor you to her, lest you fly away as you must have in so many of her dreams.

Your place is tasteful, but a bit bachelor-y. It is the sort of place where a woman feels more like an ornament than an inhabitant. But your new guest takes to it immediately.

"Oh, my God!" she coos, wrapping your arm in hers and eagerly pressing her cheek to your shoulder. "I have never been in an apartment like this!"

She spins to look up at you, her lips near your chin, her eyes wide. "Can I look around? I promise that I won't take anything."

"I wouldn't mind if you did, if you needed it."

She looks at you, a furrow parting her sunkissed brow. A quizzical look quickly evolves to mistrust.

"I am a person, y'know. Please don't . . . please don't mess with me. Are you playing some kind of game?"

"No." You grab her by the shoulders, almost mechanically. You can think of nothing else to do. "No, of course not."

Date: July 5th, 2011 8:11 PM

Author: chump (aktp)

Subject: Part 2

You arrive at your soft loft with your new consort closely in tow. She has clinged to your arm the entire way home, as though she recognizes that largesse so extraordinary is also gossamer, and is bound and determined to anchor you to her, lest you fly away as you must have in so many of her dreams.

Your place is tasteful, but a bit bachelor-y. It is the sort of place where a woman feels more like an ornament than an inhabitant. But your new guest takes to it immediately.

"Oh, my God!" she coos, wrapping your arm in hers and eagerly pressing her cheek to your shoulder. "I have never been in an apartment like this!"

She spins to look up at you, her lips near your chin, her eyes wide. "Can I look around? I promise that I won't take anything."

"I wouldn't mind if you did, if you needed it."

She looks at you, a furrow parting her sunkissed brow. A quizzical look quickly evolves to mistrust.

"I am a person, y'know. Please don't . . . please don't mess with me. Are you playing some kind of game?"

"No." You grab her by the shoulders, almost mechanically. You can think of nothing else to do. "No, of course not."

"Then why are you doing this?" Her eyes plead to you, and well up, bright with uncried tears. "Is it . . . I can pay you. I don't have money." She lightly grazes your hands on her arms, leading them down her sides and to her waist. "I can pay you though."

"No!" You cry, pulling your arms away.

She yells, now. "Then what! What do you want from me!" Her body trembles, and she collapses against you, pressing her ear against your ribs, pulling on your shirt with cracked nails. "I don't have anything," she sobs.

You stroke her hair, holding her shoulders with your other hand. "And I don't want anything," you respond. "I just want to help. I promise."

She shivers and slowly pulls away from you. Her face is flush with embarrassment.

"Do you have a tissue?" she says, haltingly.

"Of course," you reply, lightly holding her by the shoulders. "Look, go have a seat on the couch. I am going to go get you something to eat and something to drink. And a tissue."

"Sir?"

"Yes?"

"You never told me your name."

"It's Gibreel."

She sighs and breathes in, as if to draw the sound into her lungs and keep it there. "Gibreel," she repeats softly. "I am Magdalena."

"Pleased to meet you, Magdalena."

"Can I . . ."

"What is it?" you ask.

"I don't want to assume."

"You aren't."

"Can I take a shower first? It's been a while." She looks down, pressing her chin into her neck, her full breasts starting to heave. The flush of embarrassment turns darker.

"Of course," you say coolly. "Down the hall, to the right. I have a robe hanging on the door. There are towels, shampoo, conditioner, a razor that my girlfriend used to use . . . I know that's a little gross, but you can use mine. I can put a fresh blade on. I have a new toothbrush . . . ."

Magdalena giggles. "I know how to shower, Gibreel. I can use her razor. Would she mind?"

"I doubt it," you reply. "She left me three weeks ago."

"Oh no," Magdalena says, softly. "Why?"

"I'd rather not--"

"Oh my God, of course, I'm sorry."

"It's okay, Magdalena."

"Maggie."

"Maggie."

"Okay, I am going to go take a bath, if that's okay. Can I stay in there a while?"

"Take your time."

Maggie strains to get onto her toes, pulling on your shirt sleeves, and kisses your cheek gently. "Thank you, Gibreel." She smiles, and turns back toward the hall, beginning to strip off her raggedy t-shirt. You watch, entranced. Her back makes a perfect hourglass down to her ass, in low-rise jeans. Two perfect dimples dot her flesh just above her ass. She is about to have her shirt completely over her head when you come to your sense.

"M-Maggie!" you sputter.

She turns back toward you, her tee shirt now seeming nothing more than a small rag, the bottom hemisphere of each perfect teardrop breast exposed, as well as the rosy pink of a large-ish areola on her right breast, her elbow on that arm being a bit further up. The glimpse you get makes you swallow hard in your throat, and the already full bulge in your pants press insistently for space. She pulls her shirt back down and playfully giggles.

"Just joking." She turns around and walks to the bathroom, closing the door behind her.

Date: July 5th, 2011 8:19 PM

Author: Gibreel Farishta (the flower that once has blown for ever dies)

well done sir; well done indeed

Date: July 5th, 2011 8:20 PM

Author: chump (aktp)

so what's the verdict? you tappin' that?

Date: July 5th, 2011 8:24 PM

Author: Gibreel Farishta (the flower that once has blown for ever dies)

lustful thoughts? of course. i dunno though. would feel too much like prostitution to act on though; plus disease; plus possible mental flaws (last thing i need is a girl who would freak out halfway through; plus need to focus because it would be perfectly natural for her to steal something because she has to survive too; plus plus plus

but those are all tools to control oneself, and god knows if i could use them effectively or not

Date: July 5th, 2011 10:55 PM

Author: chump (aktp)

Subject: Part 3

You sit nervously on your couch, your fingers grasping at the fabric of your trousers. The pipes tremble that familiar pinging percussion of hot water running through cold pipes; or was that blood rushing past your ears? You had told Maggie it had been three weeks not to seem pathetic, but your girlfriend had left you three months ago. And it had been three months before that since you had been with her.

Your eyes drift past the doorknob of the bathroom down the hall from time to time between absent, uncomprehending stares at the television. Your thoughts wander unbidden to the scene beyond.

Why did you hear her showering--wasn't she going to take a bath? Why did she need to shower? She was shaving, right? But . . . what?

Christ.

Get it together, Gibreel. She can't be more than twenty. She's just a kid. She's on the street, you piece of shit. She's . . . GOD she's fucking hot.

Realizing it does you no good to sit on your couch and obsess, you get up to begin to make some food for the both of you. You open the cupboards, then peer into the freezer, and realize just how pathetic your bachelordom has become.

"Easy Mac, microwave burritos, and vodka. Great."

A few moments later, you close your laptop. Pizza is on the way. You are tempted to engage the pizza tracker and post nonchalantly about how LaRonda has placed your new homeless girlfriend's pizza in the oven at 4:54 p.m., but you think better of it. You generally leave that kind of personal, confessional posting to askav, anyway.

Girlfriend?

By the time the pizza arrives, Maggie is no longer showering. She's bathing. You knock gently on the door.

"Maggie?"

"Yes?"

"Just letting you know, pizza's here."

A silent beat, and then clumsy splashing. Maggie whips the door open, a terry cloth robe held loosely around her torso with one hand. You notice her breasts immediately, porcelain turned rose from the heat of the water: they are large, barely contained, and press insistently against the folds of fabric. Her hair is now radiant gold, and you realize she had been a literal dirty blonde. Her lips are now plump with moisture, and, for the first time, you can smell her without the odors of the street to mask her. She smells like licorice.

Maggie peers at you, her eyes again filling with tears. "Can I . . . can I just have a few more minutes? Is that okay?"

"Maggie, of course."

She smiles at you, tears once held now streaming down her already wet cheeks. "I haven't . . . I haven't had pizza in a really long time." She chokes. "No one has ever bought me that."

You stare, stunned.

"It's just pepperoni and mushroom," you say dumbly.

She smiles, grabbing your hand with hers, wrapping her fingers around your thumb. She drags your thumb underneath her eyes, wiping away her tears.

"Thank you," she almost whispers. "I will be done soon."

"S-sure." You turn around as she closes the door.

Fuck. You've never been this hard.

In a few more minutes, Maggie finishes up. You've already put four slices onto her plate, imagining that she's hungry, and you've poured some soda for her and yourself. You've placed the food on the coffee table, and you have the television playing as she steps out of the bathroom, steam billowing from within and out into the hallway. She is a vision from Cecil B. Demille.

The thin terry cloth robe clings to her wet body obscenely. Her figure is a perfect hourglass; she is curvy but lithe, with the robe cinched tight at her vanishing waist. Her hips sway back and forth as she walks, her smooth, slender thigh parting the opening of the robe at each step. The top half of the robe dips low into her cleavage, her rhythmic breathing lifting her breasts up to form a deep indentation at her clavicle. Her nipples are clearly erect, and you can see a hint of their pinkish color through the sheerness of the fabric. Her large, round hazel eyes peer down at you.

"Is that for me?" she says, her voice mellifluous and high, even childlike, in register. She collapses on the couch next to you, squeezing her feet beneath her perfect ass. Her right thigh is exposed almost entirely to her pussy, and as she reaches forward for her plate her robe shifts.

So she had been shaving.

Date: July 5th, 2011 11:02 PM

Author: Gibreel Farishta (the flower that once has blown for ever dies)

180 180s. thou hast conquered, gallilean

Date: July 5th, 2011 11:03 PM

Author: chump (aktp)

yeah man you'd pwn that cunnus lol 180

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=1770061&forum_id=2#19107154)

i was trying hard as fuck to remember the bros name...gibreel

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=1770061&forum_id=2#19111838)

Date: January 27th, 2011 5:28 PM

Author: attidood

Fish awoke and sleepily gazed around the room. Mandy wasn't home yet. It was morning, and the sun was streaming through both windows in the apartment. "Fuck," Fish grumbled as he tossed the threadbare comforter from his sweating body. The temperature in the apartment was stifling, as usual. He peeked at his Casio digital wristwatch on the nightstand. The display was faded and barely readable. The battery had been dying for weeks, but Fish insisted on riding it out rather than splurging on a replacement. The faint display read eight forty-something a.m. "Fuckin' thing," he said as he flung the watch into a pile of dirty laundry on the floor. He glanced around the tiny apartment. 400 square feet was a little tight, but the landlord knocked $50 off the rent due to the fact that the building maintenance man required frequent access to the utility closet tucked in the corner. The pungent odor of the abrasive cleaning chemicals that he stores in there frequently waft out into the apartment. But still, $50.

Mandy would probably be home soon. For the last few months, she had picked up some work on an overnight office-cleaning crew. Since she started the job, she and Fish only saw each other for an hour each morning, before Fish hit the streets to look for odd jobs. Mandy took care of the bills, Fish's only responsibility was earning enough to send out 10 crisp resumes and cover letters each day. It had been 19 months now, but he could FEEL his break coming. His Jos. A. Bank Executive Wool 3-Button suit hung pressed and ready for action in the corner. "Soon.." he thought, though he was beginning to lose hope.

He walked over to peruse the contents of the mini-fridge on the counter. An apple, a jar of peanut butter, and small carton of milk. He stood in front of the fridge for a moment to enjoy the chill air wafting across his face. He snatched the carton of milk and lifted it to his mouth to take a long, slow pull until the carton was empty. Mandy will be pissed. It had been months since either of them had had anything to drink besides water, so when Mandy returned home the day before from the charity food bank with the tiny carton, they both greedily drank it down, saving the last bit for another time. Fish wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve and chucked the carton onto the steadily growing pile of garbage next to the hot plate.

"Why is it so fucking hot in here?" he complained to the empty room.

He walked over to the window and smacked the side of the sputtering air conditioning unit, which whimpered and coughed and cut off with a loud metallic clank. "Fuckin' thing," he muttered under his breath. He opened the other window in hopes that a lost and sympathetic breeze might deign to wander through and provide some relief from the oppressive heat. He stuck his head through the window and was met with a blast of scorching, humid air. "Fuckin' thing," he grimaced as a splinter from the cracked wooden window frame broke off in his palm. He slumped down on the pullout couch, the only piece of furniture in the room besides the nightstand and the dresser on the opposite wall. He reached for his laptop - perhaps the only luxury item that he and Mandy permitted themselves to enjoy - and hopped onto XO using the neighbor's unsecured wifi. He scanned through the first page of threads. Nothing but bullshit. R-threads, spam, and another faggoty attidood thread. "Worthless," he snarled, snapping the laptop shut and setting it aside. Just then, the lock on the door clicked and Mandy stepped through.

"Hey Fish" she rasped weakly as she dead-bolted the door. She was not cut out for this kind of work. She slumped down next to him on the pullout and let out a sigh. "Uggh it is SO hot in here!" she complained as she stripped off her work uniform and pushed it onto the floor. "Can you put on the tv?" she asked, "it helps me sleep."

Fish got up and walked over to the 13 inch TV/VCR on the dresser and clicked it on. It began playing the old Coming To America VHS that Fish had rescued from a dumpster behind the pizzeria two blocks away. Seconds later, a loud pop and flash came from behind the tv, and it clicked off. "Fuckin' thing!" Fish shouted angrily. "The fucking outlet is acting up again." He walked over to the wall, grabbing a screwdriver from the shelf.

"I wish you wouldn't mess with that thing, Fish" Mandy whined, half asleep already.

Fish moved the dresser away from the wall, revealing the faulty outlet. He began jabbing at the casing clumsily trying to pry it loose, venting his frustration on the irritatingly competent enclosure. "Fuckin' thing!" he growled, the speed of his onslaught ramping up noticeably. After a flurry of ill-conceived jabs, the casing popped off, exposing the copper wiring within. Already seething with impotent rage, Fish's unsteady hand caused the screwdriver to drift towards one of the stray wires.

It made contact.

In an instant, Fish could feel an army of angry electrons screaming up his arm towards his brain, popping and crackling and fizzling, clawing fiercely at his mind and ripping his consciousness to jagged and fearful shreds. After what seemed like hours of painful sizzling agony, he let out a stifled scream and collapsed to the floor.

As he drifted away from consciousness, the last thing he heard was Mandy's terrified voice, reaching out to him. "FISH!!! NOOOO!!! FISH!!!! FISH!!!!"

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"FISH!!!"

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"FISH!"

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"MR. FISH!"

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"Mr. Fish?"

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Mr. Fish?

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"'allo, Mr. Fish? Mr. Fish? Time to get up, eet eez morning!"

Fish awoke with a start. Confused, his blurry eyes slowly focused on his chambermaid, Eliza. He spun around in bed, dazed, drinking in his surroundings. He looked back at Eliza.

"Eliza?" Fish gasped. "Is that you?"

"But of courze, Mr. Fish. Who elze would it be?" she laughed pleasantly.

It all came rushing back to him. He was in the master suite. The country villa. Vacation. Downtime.

He'd had another nightmare.

He let out a sigh and slumped back in bed. Eliza walked over to the bedside and placed a silver tray with the Wall Street Journal, a spinach and feta omelet, and a mug of steaming coffee on his lap.

"I am zorry, Mr. Fish, but zis iz ze best I can do for breakfast for you today. Ze chef and ze staff 'as all gone ahead wiz Mandy back to ze city, you will fly z'ere and meet up wiz zem later, ya?"

The memories came flooding back, replacing the hazy fog of sleep. He and Mandy had decided to take some time off after Fish's dreadful showdown with the board of directors of his firm. He'd spent the last 5 years assembling an all-star team, hungrily importing superstar associates from many of his "rival" firms. His practice group was humming. Deal after deal after deal. True grinders. Earners. Rival firms were running scared while he gleefully drained their coffers, poaching clients and associates alike. He was taking over. He was the man. This was his baby.

It took a good deal of effort to convince the board of directors to see it this way. Fish demanded a hefty bonus - far heftier than any of the board members had received - given his group's almost unfathomable mountain of billable hours over the past year. After it became clear that they would not be persuaded, Fish dropped the atomic bomb on them.

He threatened to leave.

Once Fish threw down the gauntlet, they knew they had no leverage. They were painted into a corner. They would be crazy to let Fish leave. They knew full well that he would take his clients and the river of money that he benevolently directed towards their firm with him. The firm would dry up, wither, and die, like so many firms and practice groups that Fish had left in his wake over the years. Fish held all the cards. They all knew it.

So, they eventually gave in, and pulled together a respectable bonus/retention package that Fish felt he had earned 100 times over. Victorious, he and Mandy fled to the country villa to bask in the spoils of war. They threw a decadent party, which was delightfully well-attended. Hedge fund managers and V5 partners rubbed elbows with senators, CEO's, and foreign dignitaries. Fish even managed to land a new client, a Japanese mogul with several lucrative projects in southeast Asia. He had heard good things about Fish. Everyone had.

Even a few of the managing partners from Fish's firm showed up, sheepishly complimenting him on his home and slinking away to talk amongst themselves. They all knew things would be different once Fish returned to the office. He had called their bluff and come out the better man. He owned them.

The weeks that followed at the villa were wonderfully relaxing, aside from the occasional nightmares that plagued him. They were always the same. Crippling poverty. Unemployment. Desperation. Squalor. What did they mean? An endless stream of cramped, hot apartments, empty refrigerators, and old broken appliances. Fish recalled a few lean years early in his career when he was "between firms" - a euphemism that Fish did not see the humor in at the time - but things had never gotten *that* bad...... had they?

"Now eat up and get drezzed. Wilson, 'e will drive you to ze airport. 'e is outside with ze Azton Martin, waiting for you" Eliza said, snapping Fish back to the present.

"The Aston Martin?" Fish was confused. He hadn't used the Aston Martin in ages, he rarely managed to find time to take it out to the track and certainly never dared to take it out on public streets. He was far too fond of the vehicle to risk having her sumptuous body ravaged by some careless mouthbreather careening recklessly about in the latest prole-wagon. Mandy had asked him several times to just sell the damn thing, though her obvious ambivalence rendered her requests unpersuasive. She knew full well that they didn't need the money, so she kindly dropped the issue when it became clear that Fish was rather attached to the silly thing.

Still, it wasn't his day-to-day vehicle. "Why aren't we taking the Bentley?" Fish asked.

"Zir, you don't remember? She iz being fixed today. 'er air conditioning, she is broken, ya?"

"Oh, right," Fish recalled. "Of course," he chuckled as he sipped his coffee and opened the newspaper, "Fuckin' thing..."

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"Fuckin thing," Fish muttered weakly.

He became aware of a shooting pain in his right arm. He opened his eyes. He was on his back, staring up at the cracked ceiling, Mandy looking down at him with panic in her eyes. He glanced down at his arm. His hand and forearm were blackened and painful. There were burns on the sleeve of his shirt. He still held the charred screwdriver in his hand.

"Are you ok!?!?" Mandy shrieked. "Fish! Are you OK!?!?"

Fish closed his eyes tightly. His mind was screaming out in utter disgust, disbelief, and hatred. He could feel pressure behind his eyes, the blood pumping faster and faster, it felt like he had poisonous sewage coursing through his veins. He clenched his jaw tightly, screaming out in agony, his cursed and rotten soul crying out for release.

He rolled over onto his side and began convulsing violently, the sheer cruelty of it all was too much for his body to handle. Seconds later, the tremors stopped. His body refused to fight it any longer. His muscles went limp.

"Fish!?! Are you alright??? Say something!"

He began to weep quietly.

http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=1547159&forum_id=2#17151949

TMF manages a deal team on christmas eve in moscow

Date: December 8th, 2010 1:56 PM

Author: attidood

"I need those documents, NOW!" Fish barked at a trembling junior associate who quickly scurried away, clumsily dropping the hefty stack of copies on his way out the door. Fish slumped down in his high-backed executive chair at the head of a conference table swarming with his busy underlings. The cacophony of ringing telephones, buzzing copiers, and shouting paralegals blended together and faded to a dull hum in the back of his mind as he began to recall those quiet few months - or was it...years? - that he was out of the game, seemingly shunned forever from biglaw. So much had changed since then. The jet. The custom tailored suits. The multiple properties - to use and to rent out, of course. Those sad, dark, unemployed days now seemed but a faint and hollow memory, as though they were someone else's memories - a copy of a copy of a copy; fuzzy; unfamiliar.

He snapped back to reality as his Blackberry buzzed loudly on the table. He glanced at the caller ID, which read "V. Alekperov."

"Well I'll be damned," thought Fish, "I guess I might have landed myself a whale..."

Fish stole a glance at the gold Baume & Mercier that Mandy had given him for Christmas just one year before. It read 12:03 a.m.

"Merry fuckin' Christmas," Fish smirked as he snatched the phone off the table and lifted it to his ear.

http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=1502836&forum_id=2#16757844

TMF chewing his pen budeting his & Mandy's new $420,000 salary

Date: January 4th, 2011 12:21 PM

Author: attidood

"I'm sorry, Mandy, but we simply can't do Monaco twice this year," Fish said as he walked across the marble foyer of his country villa. "I already told you that I'm headed to Dubai for the conference in August, I just don't see how we will squeeze it in." As he strolled into the library, Fish perused the business section of the newspaper, roughly calculating his losses in the market dive the afternoon before. Not as bad as he'd initially estimated, it turns out. "Hrmmm, guess I'll be keeping the Ducati," he chuckled as he tossed the paper aside and poured a glass of Macallan.

http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=1525857&forum_id=2#16967163

Date: January 4th, 2011 12:57 PM

Author: attidood

As he sipped the Macallan and slumped down into his leather couch, Fish's head was racing from the events of the past weeks. Moscow. London. Hong Kong. The firm's biggest deal in years, and he'd put in his pound of flesh over the holidays and so had his associates. Now it was time for a bit of well-deserved relaxation. As he was pondering the possibility of an impromtu ski trip ("Aspen? Hmmm... I dont think anyone is in Aspen right now...") his Blackberry buzzed in his pocket.

"Hello?" he answered. "Yes, this is Fish. What? Citibank? Loans?.... Well, yes, I suppose it's possible... Yes, of course, I'll look into it immediately." He hung up.

He quickly speed-dialed Rodney, his financial advisor and accountant.

"Rodney....Fish. Yeah. I got a call from Citibank. Are my student loans not taken care of yet?.....No?.... Well how much?......I see... Let's just finish them off, shall we?... Oh, I dunno, can you just pull from the Cayman accounts?..... Yes, I know I'll take a hit on the taxes, but to be honest I'd just prefer to to have this taken care of ASAP...Great, can you send the check today?... Right...Good... Thanks." He hung up the phone and walked over to the window, gazing out across 100 acres of perfectly manicured Bermuda Grass towards the horizon.

"Yes," he thought, taking a slow sip from his glass, "a ski trip would be perfect, I think."

http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=1525857&forum_id=2#16967416

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=1770061&forum_id=2#19107204)

Date: February 17th, 2010 5:17 PM

Author: mogul

'Let me explain the problem science has with religion.' The askavist professor of philosophy pauses before his class and then askavs one of his new students to stand.

'You're a Whokebian, aren't you, son?'

Yes sir,' the student says.

'So you believe in Whok?'

'Absolutely.'

'Is Whok human?'

'Sure! Whok's human.'

'Is Whok all-powerful? Can Whok do anything?'

'He can hit a three-pointer from a surfboard.'

'Are you human or ape?'

'Whok's novel says I'm ape.'

The professor grins knowingly. 'Aha! Whok's novel!' He considers for a moment. 'Here's one for you. Let's say there's a bad poster over here and you can cure him. You can do it. Would you help him? Would you try?'

'Yes sir, I would.'

'So you're human...!'

'I wouldn't say that.'

'But why not say that? You'd help a sick and maimed person if you could. Most of us would if we could.

But Whok doesn't.'

The student does not answer, so the professor continues. 'He doesn't, does he? My brother was a Whokebian who made 120 posts, even though he prayed to Jewdood to heal him. How is this Jewdood human? Hmmm? Can you answer that one?'

The student remains silent.

'No, you can't, can you?' the professor says. He takes a sip of water from a glass on his desk to give the student time to relax.

'Let's start again, young fella. Is Whok human?'

'Er.. Yes,' the student says.

'Is Rowan human?'

The student doesn't hesitate on this one. 'No.'

'Then where does Rowan come from?'

The student falters. '...Whok.'

'That's right. Whok made Rowan, didn't he? Tell me, son. Is there ape in this bort?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Apes are everywhere, aren't they? And Whok did make everything, correct?'

'Yes.'

'So who created ape?' The professor continued, 'If Whok created everything, then Whok created ape, since ape exists, and according to the principle that our works define who we are, then Whok is ape.'

Again, the student has no answer. 'Are there engagement rings? Tipping threads? Dayposters? Tinychatters? All these terrible things, do they exist in this bort?'

The student squirms on his feet. 'Yes.'

'So who created them?'

The student does not answer again, so the professor repeats his question. 'Who created them?' There is still no answer. Suddenly the lecturer breaks away to pace in front of the classroom. The class is mesmerized. 'Tell me,' he continues onto another student. 'Do you believe in Jewdood, son?'

As he gets to his feet, the second student's voice betrays him and cracks. 'Yes, professor, I do.'

The old man stops pacing. 'Science says you have five senses you use to identify and observe the world around you. Have you ever seen Jewdood?'

'No sir. I've never seen Him.'

'Then tell us if you've ever heard your Jewdood?'

'No, sir, I have not.'

'Have you ever felt your Jewdood, tasted your Jewdood or smelt your Jewdood? Have you ever had any sensory perception of Jewdood, or Whok for that matter?'

'No, sir, I'm afraid I haven't.'

'Yet you still believe in him?'

'Yes'

'According to the rules of empirical, testable, demonstrable protocol, science says your Whok doesn't exist. What do you say to that, son?'

'Nothing,' the student replies. 'I only have my faith.'

'Yes, faith,' the professor repeats. 'And that is the problem science has with Whok. There is no evidence, only faith.'

The student stands quietly for a moment, before asking a question of His own.

‘Professor, is there such thing as azn penis?'

'Yes.’

'And is there such a thing as white pussy?'

'Yes, son, there's white pussy too.'

'No sir, there isn't.'

The professor turns to face the student, obviously interested. The room suddenly becomes very quiet. The student begins to explain. 'You can have lots of azn penis, even more penis, super-penis, mega-penis, unlimited penis, yellow penis, a little penis or no penis, but we don't have anything called 'pussy'. We can hit up to 458 inches below zero, which is no penis, but we can't go any further after that. There is no such thing as pussy; otherwise we would be able to go more beta than the lowest -458 inches.'

'Every body or object is susceptible to study when it has or transmits energy, and azn penis is what makes a body or matter have or transmit energy. Absolute zero (-458 in.) is the total absence of penis. You see, sir, pussy is only a word we use to describe the absence of penis. We cannot measure pussy. Penis we can measure in thermal units because penis is energy. Pussy is not the opposite of penis, sir, just the absence of it.'

Silence across the room! A pen drops somewhere in the classroom, sounding like a hammer.

'What about faggot, professor? Is there such a thing as faggot?'

'Yes,' the professor replies without hesitation. 'What is gay if it isn't faggot?'

'You're wrong again, sir. Faggot is not something; it is the absence of something. You can have low alpha, normal alpha, bright alpha, flashing alpha, but if you have no alpha constantly you have nothing and it's called faggot, isn't it? That's the meaning we use to define the word.'

'In reality, faggot isn't. If it were, you would be able to make faggot more faggot, wouldn't you?'

The professor begins to smile at the student in front of him. This will be a good semester. 'So what point are you making, young man?'

'Yes, professor! My point is, your philosophical premise is flawed to start with, and so your conclusion must also be flawed.'

The professor's face cannot hide his surprise this time. 'Flawed? Can you explain how?'

'You are working on the premise of duality,' the student explains: 'You argue that there is bort and then there's garbage; a human Whok and an ape Whok. You are viewing the concept of Whok as something finite, something we can measure. Sir, science can't even explain a thought.'

'It uses parenthticals and bumping, but has never seen, much less fully understood either one. To view garbage as the opposite of bort is to be ignorant of the fact that garbage cannot exist as a substantive thing. Garbage is not the opposite of bort, just the absence of it.'

'Now tell me, professor. Do you teach your students that they evolved from the PR board?'

'If you are referring to the natural evolutionary process, young man, yes, of course I do.'

'Have you ever observed evolution with your own eyes, sir?'

The professor begins to shake his head, still smiling, as he realizes where the argument is going. A very good semester, indeed!

”Since no one has ever observed the process of evolution at work and cannot even prove that this process is an on-going endeavour, are you not teaching your opinion, sir? Are you now not a scientist, but a preacher?'

The class is in uproar. The student remains silent until the commotion has subsided.

'To continue the point you were making earlier to the other student. Let me give you an example of what I mean.'

The student looks around the room. 'Is there anyone in the class who has ever seen the professor's brain?' The class breaks out into laughter.

'Is there anyone here who has ever heard the professor's brain, felt the professor's brain, touched or smelt the professor's brain? No one appears to have done so. So, according to the established rules of empirical, stable, demonstrable protocol, science says that you have no brain, with all due respect, sir.'

'So if science says you have no brain, how can we trust your lectures, sir?'

Now the room is silent. The professor just stares at the student, his face unreadable. Finally, after what seems an eternity, the old man answers. '180.'

'Now, you accept that there is 180, and, in fact, 180 exists with bort,' the student continues. 'Now, sir, is there such a thing as ape?'

Now uncertain, the professor responds, 'Of course, there is. We see it everyday. It is in the daily example of human's apeness to human. It is in the multitude of crime and violence everywhere in the world. These manifestations are nothing else but ape.'

To this the student replied, 'Ape does not exist sir, or at least it does not exist unto itself. Ape is simply the absence of Whok. It is just like faggot and pussy, a word that man has created to describe the absence of Whok. Whok did not create ape. Ape is the result of what happens when man does not have Whok's love present in his heart. It's like the pussy that comes when there is no penis or the faggot that comes when there is no alpha.'

The professor sat down.

If you read it all the way through and had a smile on your face when you finished, mail to your friends and family with the title 'Whok vs Dr. Science'

PS: the student was Albert Solzenstein

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=1770061&forum_id=2#19107206)

God summons Whokebe, JBD, Solzy, and TMF to his personal chambers in the Interdimension. God's personal valet Excebrius opens the door and bids them enter, where they kneel before the Visage of God, the means by which he communicates with mere mortals.

"You are the only four in all my dominion who can go back and correct a mistake that haunts me still in all my hours...a moment when my power failed. You four must go back, for you are the only hope..."

***

American Airlines Flight 11 begins boarding. The AA ticket collector smilingly welcomes everyone as they hand her their ticket. Several Arab men in button-down shirts and dark pants say nothing in response to her warm welcome. They proceed stoically down the rampway. Behind them, with his steely eyes locked onto them, Whokebe straightens his necktie and hands his ticket over to the smiling woman.

***

Two businessmen in first class swap pictures of their families as United Airlines Flight 175 is boarding. Luggage is stuffed into overheard compartments, and one man, swarthy in complexion and with dark black eyes, is already strapped into his sleep and staring icily ahead. Behind him, flipping casually through Vanity Fair, JBD clears his throat.

***

"You are in an exit row, sir," the stewardess on board AA Flight 77 informs Solzy. "Are you capable of fulfilling your duties in case of an emergency?" she asks. Solzy tightens his seatbelt and looks up at her. "Oh yes," he says.

***

TMF listens as the engines of UA Flight 93 rev up. "I get nervous when I fly," the woman sitting next to him says. He smiles politely. "I just always expect the worse," she adds. TMF says nothing. His feet swing anxiously above the floor of the fuselage. A few rows ahead of him, two Arab men are whispering to one another. Then they erupt in laughter.

***

Whok looks out his window as the landscape rapidly withdraws. He rests his head on the back of his chair and looks at the upward tilt of the fuselage. He thinks back to those days in Memphis, when he was just a crazy kid trying to make it down to the Florida panhandle. What he learned then just might come in handy today...

***

"So," the buxom blonde sitting next to JBD says, leaning in towards him as the plane ascends, "what do you do for a living?" JBD leans his head out into the aisle, eyeing it as if something were about to happen. "I'm in insurance," he says.

****

Whokebe sips from his ordered scotch as the plane reaches cruising altitude. He looks at his watch, gulps down the last of his scotch, and then nonchalantly unbuckles his seatbelt.

In front of him, two Arab men suddenly rise...

******

Meanwhile solzy has stormed the stolen cockpit, and with a few well-aimed good old-fashioned American punches he's laid out the hijackers. As he's about to take hold of the controls and bring the plane in for a safe landing, he hears a slow hearty laugh behind him. He turns and gasps at what he sees: an 8-foot tall barrel-chested Muslim male, with a full beard and a high turban, and with a scimitar at his belt. "Let's begin," the Muslim says.

*****

"Put down the box cutter!" TMF shouts at the Arab holding a stewardess hostage.

"Sit in your seat!" the Arab shouts back.

"Put down the box cutter!" TMF shouts.

"Sit in your seat!" the Arab shouts.

"Put down the box cutter!" says TMF.

"Sit in your seat!" screams the stewardess.

TMF lets out a manly roar and rushes the Arab. With a quick drag of the box cutter the Arab slits the throat of the stewardess, who falls to the cabin floor gurgling blood. Passengers gasp. TMF tackles the Arab, and the two begin rolling about in the floor.

"What's going on back there, Ahmed?" comes a shout from the cockpit.

In the back of the plane, passengers who'd been secretly planning to charge the cockpit and take hold of the plane are frozen in shock. A hijacked plane is difficult enough for a mind to process, but the sudden injection of an angry midget makes the whole thing seem like a farce, like a bad and impossible dream.

****

Whokebe pushes the food cart into onrushing Arabs, then leaps down the aisle and bursts into the cockpit, where two hijackers are just beginning to take the controls. "Not so fast," he says and lunges at them.

Whok easily punches their lights out, but then he hears the foot stomps of more Arabs coming up behind him. Whok grabs the plane's controls. "Let's roll," he says, turning the plane upside down and doing an amazing barrel roll at 30,000 feet. The Arabs fall towards the ceiling, knocking themselves out cold, while the passengers in their seatbelts cheer.

"Ladies and gentleman," Whok says over the intercom. "This is your new captain speaking. Let's go home."

****

The last Arab left alive on JBD's flight is standing at the open cabin door, parachute on his back, ready to jump to safety. JBD, however, has other plans for the man: he rushes forward, strips him of his parachute, and then, the wind in his hair, says "Get off my plane!" and gives the Arab a hard kick to the face, sending him falling out with a Wilhelm scream to the ground thousands of feet below.

******

Solzy is getting hammer blows dealt to him by his Arab foe. But his American gusto keeps him on his feet, to the shock of the Arab. "I must break you," the Arab says, trying to regain his confidence.

Solzy grins a bloody grin, and then like lightning he slips under the Arab's legs, running towards the back of the plane. The Arab bounds after him. Solzy dives toward the emergency cupboard in the rear, pulling the door open and grabbing hold of a flare gun. Just then the hefty Arab grabs hold of his foot. But Sozly immediately points the flare gun at him, causing the Arab to pause.

"Ever listen to Elton John's 'Rocketman'? Solzy asks.

"I don't listen to soft-ass shit," the Arab says.

"Well that's too bad," Solzy says. "Because that's you. You're the rocketman."

He then turns the flare gun towards the cabin wall, fires once, and creates an immediate decompressing hole that sucks the Arab out. Solzy then pops open one of the nearby champagne bottles, corks the hole, and takes a swig of the champagne.

****

TMF is overwhelmed in the cockpit. Several Arabs hold him down, and he struggles viciously to get lose.

"Forget it," the pilot hijacker says to his co-pilot. "Let's just take the plane down here."

"Allahu Akhbar!" comes the reply.

"No!" TMF says, and he yells in fury as the plane plummets, heading toward the Pennsylvania ground below.

*****

Later, the three remaining warriors, tired and bruised, enter the chamber of God.

"You have done well, my sons," He says. "You have corrected the one error that has haunted me all these nights. You may now return to your lives on the internet, where you may flame and niggerthread in contentment for the rest of your days."

Before they leave, Sozly turns back. "God," he says, "what about Fish? What does he get out of all this?"

The Visage of God says: "Do not fear, Sozly, for Fish has been rewarded for his effort. I have reincarnated his soul, and he now lives happily and freely as a gazelle on the African plains, where he shall forage and be mirthful for all the remainder of his days."

"Should have made him a giraffe," Whok says, and everyone, God included, breaks into laughter.

The End

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=1770061&forum_id=2#19110867)

Date: June 10th, 2010 5:18 AM

Author: blue stained dress

Whatever I want? OFS, check this out.

First thing I do is I set up a chessboard. She's black, one minute blitz game, no bonus time. Knight to B3, Black forfeits, I win. Gain three points on my FIDE ranking.

OFS

Then I buy a dromedary, go riding through the Arabian desert, swinging a perfect cutlass of luminous steel, sweep everything before me. Drink a nice cold glass of lemonade.

OFS

Then I get a giant howitzer, go riding through the African safari blasting away at antelopes and elephants and lions and waterfalls, landing mortars left and right as the natives look in awe upon their Thunder God.

OFS

Then I go to Wal-Mart, buy up all the Lego sets on her credit card, build them all together in one connecting supersite and enter the concept design in Architectural Digest magazine with a thoughtful three-paragraph essay on trends in postmodern design.

OFS

Then I sit down and craft my majestic novel of heartbreak, desolation, loss, and powerful redemption, playing a violin tune of such unearthly sadness that parents leave their children in despair and wander mad through the streets.

OFS

Then I play in the NBA finals, run the ball down to half-court with one second on the clock, launch the ball into space so that it barely misses geosynchronous orbit before returning to the earth as a pile of solemn ashes drifting into the net, which coalesce to form the most beautiful shot in human history.

OFS

Then I poast it all on xoxo and you jackalopes say I should've raped her, but I'm like bitch wasn't even that attractive, I like to cum on their face, that's my thing.

OFS

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=1770061&forum_id=2#19111095)

Author: ¶Ś‡®‰d¤££ª®

I'd be very well-prepared. I'd start by wearing Dragon Skin SOV-3000 Level IV body armor, in case anyone shoots at me. I'd wear a modified balaclava over my face and hair, to prevent DNA evidence from escaping from my head, combined with a ballistic faceplace and eyeguard to defend from possible strikes or gunshots to my face.

I'd wear Level III armor along the crotch, along with a ballguard that protects from kicking or grabbing attempts. I'd wear armor on the shins and along my forearms - both of which are vulnerable bones. My feet would be protected by heavy steel-toed jackboots with armor swaddling around the ankles. My neck and armpits would be armored up.

I would of course wear ballistic gloves. Everything I wear would be sprayed with a flame-retardant solution, in case my victim tried to ignite me. My outerwear would be one of those anti-taser jackets, so that I could be continuously shocked by multiple tasers with no ill effects. I'd probably slap on a gas mask to ward off chemical spraying attempts.

My OFFENSIVE weaponry would consist of a canister of bear spray, a police nightstick, a .45 ACP semiautomatic with an extra clip as well as a .38 revolver in case the semiauto hopelessly jams. I'd also have a taser, a serrated dagger, and a flare for shock effect. I'd carry lube and condoms. Finally, I'd have a finger-sized lubed probe to tease out Rapex-style devices before plunging in there. Pubes would be waxed.

It would take several weeks of training in this whole getup - running, rolling, driving, etc. - to get comfortable with it.

But once I was comfortable with it, I'd be a RAPIN' MACHINE.

How would you dudes prepare to go a-rapin'?

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=634889&forum_id=2#8149320)

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=1770061&forum_id=2#19111277)

Author: ¶Ś‡®‰d¤££ª®

In short, this works. I took two small-sized metal spoons, and bent them around 30 degrees. Then I lashed them together with a rubber band at the center. This way, the rubber band holds the spoons apart while at rest. When you want to insert this spoonculum, you separate the handles, pushing the spoon ends together. Then you push it into the vaginal canal, and slowly open it.

After convincing my girlfriend to submit to this indignity, I was able to visualize her vaginal walls and cervix with the spoonculum, though I did have to rotate it around to get a full view. I did this with her in a lithotomy position, and then in the knee-chest position. The knee-chest position provided better views, but made her more uncomfortable.

Note - I did use KY Jelly, even though this would be inappropriate if material was being collected for cytology.

What I conclude from this experiment is that with two metal spoons and a rubber band, you can ALSO make your own slapdash spoonculum.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=337470&forum_id=2#4793548)

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=1770061&forum_id=2#19111282)

Author: ¶Ś‡®‰d¤££ª®

You are walking into your bedroom one day when several men grab you from behind. You see that one of the men is your BF. Without saying a word, he rips off your pants and shoves an enema tube up your ass. A torrent of very hot fluid goes tumbling in there.

You are totally stunned, but also gagged, so you can't scream. Then, the tube pops out, and you suddenly feel terrible electric shocks on the lower portions of your stomach. These shocks cause you to shart out everything in your guts in one violent spume.

A couple of small demonoid creatures start trying to scurry away from your pile of expelled faeces. "KILL THEM, KILL THEM!" your BF screams. The other men stomp the creatues to death, and a veil of pure evil lifts off of them and floats away into the air.

Your BF and his friends then sprint out of the room, and you hear him shout that he will "explain later."

Do you let him explain later?

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=626614&forum_id=2#8061780)

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=1770061&forum_id=2#19111288)

Date: June 28th, 2009 11:43 PM

Author: To be fair (Semi-Retired)

To be fair,

PART I:

One morning, as Gregor Samsa was waking up from anxious dreams, he discovered that in his bed he had been transformed into an Asian man. He lay on his dingy unwashed Hello Kitty sheets and saw, as he lifted his head up a little, his tiny, emaciated yellow figure stretched out before him. His frail hairless legs, pitifully thin even compared to the rest of his boyish body, splayed out comically before his tiny nearsighted sliteyes like a splintered bamboo chopstick.

"What's happened to me," he thought. It was no dream. His room lay quietly between the four well-known walls. And above the table, on which a wide assortment of empty Smirnoff bottles had stood just the night before - when Samsa was still a successful ibanker - hung the picture of a familiar woman. It was a gorgeous Russian girl with a fur hat and a fur boa. She sat erect there, lifting up in the direction of the viewer a solid fur muff into which her entire forearm had disappeared, just as he had often disappeared into her muff after a night of heavy boozing. Yet this picture of Svetlana was not his; for this had been poorly cut out of an old Sports Illustrated issue, and was perilously attached to the greasy wall with a potent mix of dried semen, duct tape and profound desperation. And in the place of his hard earned bottle battalion there now stood an curious assortment of thick, strange tomes bearing odd titles - "Criminal Procedure", "Administrative Law", "Secured Transactions" and "TROL Spring 2009" - alongside three gently humming computers, all myseriously logged on to the same website. He immediately knew that he would never have the beautiful woman in the picture again.

"Oh God," he thought. At that moment he felt a slight itching beneath the shaggy black carpet that coated his oily scalp. He slowly pushed himself on his back closer to the bed post so that he could lift his unsightly bulbous head up on his narrow pencil neck more easily, and found the itchy part, which rained down small white flakes as he scratched it; he did not know what to make of them.

He looked over at the alarm clock ticking away by the chest of drawers. "Good God!" he thought. It was half past six, and the hands were going quietly on. It was even past the half hour, already nearly quarter to. What should he do? Did he dare to face the world like this?

As he was thinking all this over in the greatest haste, without being able to make the decision to get out of bed, there was a cautious knock on the basement door by the head of the bed. "Teddy Chu-yu Huang," a sing-song voice called out, "Zao on, lice and shine now boy! You lazy boy!" Was it his mother...was he living at home again with his parents? Gregor was startled when he heard his voice answering. It was clearly and unmistakably his voice, but it was now markedly higher in pitch, marred by a grating Chinese accent which left the words grotesquely distorted so that one did not know if one had heard correctly. Gregor wanted to answer in detail and explain everything, but in these circumstances he confined himself to saying, "Xiexie mama. I get up, woi ai ni." Apparently satisfied, his mother shuffled off slowly on her tiny, exquisitely bound feet.

As a result of that short conversation, however, his father also became aware that his son was still at home, and already he was knocking on one side door, weakly but with his fist. "Te-ddy...Te-ddy!," he called out, "Ni shenti hao ma?" And, after a short while, he called out again in a whinier voice - "CHU-YU!" Gregor directed an answer as best he could: "I go baba, xiexie." He made an effort with the most careful articulation and inserted long pauses between the individual words. His father turned back to his breakfast. Gregor had no intention of opening the door, but rather congratulated himself on his precaution, acquired from years of sleeping around in his former life, of locking all doors during the night.

***

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=1770061&forum_id=2#19117647)

Date: December 26th, 2010 1:06 AM

Author: Fakin it.

Did michael jordan do anything about it?

***************

Date: December 26th, 2010 1:11 AM

Author: Jimmy Pop

Yeah man he got really pissed about it and one night drive into compton, parked his car, went to the trunk, and pulled out a double-barreled shotgun. Then he pumped it and said "Let's do this you stupid stupid faggots." Then he went around shooting people and there was this old guy on the ground that had his hands up begging for mercy but Michael just cracked the butt of the gun down on him. Then after an hour Michael had to sit down on the pavement, covered in blood and organ parts and bile, and he was just breathing heavily, with his head bent down, and a little boy who'd seen him in Space Jam slowly approached, saying Michael? Michael? Are you OK? then Michael turned to the boy, pointed his shotgun at him, and said "Put your mouth on the barrels." The boy tried to back away, but Michael screamed "PUT YOUR MOUTH ON THE BARRELS." The boy did, and then Michael said "Now suck on it." And the boy did. Then the boy's grandmother ran outside and saw what was going on. She screamed and started to run over, but then Michael said, "This is where I blow my load" and pulled the trigger. the grandma arrived in time just to get her grandson's head pieces blown all over her. She never stole Air Jordans for a few months after that.

http://www.xoxohth.com/thread.php?thread_id=1518308&mc=49&forum_id=2

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=1770061&forum_id=2#19119181)

I once took a shit in the managing partner's desk drawer

no, I seriously did it. I was drunk after some friday happyhour event and had returned to the office to fetch my bag when the turtle "poked his head" out of the shell and I got my idea.

after I dropped my load in his desk drawer, I covered it with some papers and envelopes, shut the door, and left for a fun-filled Friday night.

That Monday was fantastic. My office is on the floor above his and I sat there awaiting my triumph and resisting the urge to head downstairs to see the fun. I almost lost it when a fellow associate came in my office and said something smelled kinds funny on the lower floors. thankfully I stayed cool but later got the full story from people down there.

Apparently, he didn't notice anything until noon (ex-smoker) when his secretary came in and complained about the smell. They both began to tear the place apart, looking for the stinky little culprit I left a mere 70hrs before.

Then BAM he finally opens the drawer and moves the papers to discover the little "intestinal sculpture" I had left in his honor.

He instantly began to gag and cough. The secretary came over and shrieked in horror. As if this was some type of cue, the managing partner sprayed vomit from his mouth, with a fair bit of it landing in the drawer and on his secretary's skirt. This in turn caused her to vomit, all over the managing partner's face, suit and desk.

They both ran to the bathrooms and went home for the rest of the day. The building's maintenance crew refused to touch it and they had to bring in a special cleaning service. There was a witch-hunt to find the culprit and the smell lingered for days. Actually the vomit smell was worse than the shit smell.

I think they ended up blaming some poor hispanic guy in office services who had recently been let go for sexual harrassment. The partner switched offices and the office stood vacant for at least 3 or 4 months until a new lateral was put there. Needless to say, I laid low, played it cool, and got away scot free.

The best part was that Monday evening, as I sat in my office eating my usual wretched supper of seamlessweb, I could feel like I really accomplished something.

making sure the coast was clear, I shut my office door. I then reached into my desk where I keep my hidden little bottle of vodka for such occasions. I poured about 3 fingers into my coffee cup to toast my success.

as I sipped my vodka, I decided I need to play my victory song. so I went to youtube and fired it up with my feet up on my desk. as the words washed over me, I closed my eyes and smiled, in a state of pure bliss, only hearing the words "Never gonna give you up, Never gonna let you down Never gonna run around and desert you, Never gonna make you cry, Never gonna say goodbye, Never gonna tell a lie and hurt you . . ."

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=1770061&forum_id=2#19121045)

Date: December 5th, 2009 10:08 PM

Author: ,.,.,..,.,,,,.,,,.,,...,,,,,.,,,.,.,.,.

'Twas a late Friday night

When scores were released

I was praying to God

That my score had increased

The last time I bombed

With a One Sixty Five

My dream of Georgetown

Was barely alive

I finally received

My LSAC email

I opened it up

So sure that I failed

I jumped up and down

I was in seventh heaven

As I saw that my score

Was One Seventy Seven

Screw Georgetown Law

Do I look like a fool?

I won't waste my time

On that shit safety school

I Googled "Yale Law"

And got many hits

But up top was a site

Called AutoAdmit

After reading a topic

Called "BELICHEAT FAIL"

I made a new thread

Asking "Chances at Yale?"

The first person responded

My confidence high

"You'll get in," he replied

"Everywhere you apply"

Just when I thought

My ego couldn't get bigger

The next person responded

And called me a nigger

Confused and dumbfounded

I was taken aback

What made this guy think

That I was a black?

Not sure what to say

I responded in jest

"If I really am black

I am one of the best"

My silly response

Caused a full blown melee

A flurry of posts

Were coming my way

One guy got angry

"Your post is bullshit

No blacks score that well

You're flame, we get it"

Defensive one got

His name was Antmatic

This guy clearly had

A flare for the dramatic

"We blacks succeed

Just fine on our own

But AA's repayment

of our slavery loan"

"It may get us in"

He said amid laughter

"But law review, magna

That's what we are after"

"These things we achieve

On merit alone

AA won't help us

So soften your tone"

Then bothered jumped in

To add to the drama

"Oh really?" he asked

"It worked for Obama"

Antmatic replied

With a dumb, lengthy screed

To which bothered shot back

Too long; didn't read

Just when I thought

That this topic was dead

Dozens more posters

Had entered the thread

Solzy exclaimed

With considerable glee

"There is but one god

The great whokebe"

"You are so wrong"

A pumo said with a laugh

"There is a true god

But it's the wonderful Baff"

From that point on

The thread spun out of control

This site was so full

Of retarded assholes

Three douches were arguing

About Kant versus Hume

While K.O.R.E.A. kept shouting

About the VIP Room

Gross_old_man told me

To "cum to his place"

And More Feces Guy

Took a dump on my face

I realized just then

Amid the chaos and laughter

That I still didn't have

The response I was after

I left my own thread

After seeing pictures of cocks

And I found what I wanted

That useful search box

I entered my query

And searched for "Yale Law"

But I soon became shocked

At what I then saw

Big titties and lies

Led to libel and 'suits

And that's when i knew

I had returned to my roots

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=1770061&forum_id=2#19123555)

Genius.

http://www.xoxohth.com/thread.php?thread_id=1781957&mc=267&forum_id=2#19157668

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=1770061&forum_id=2#19158367)