"Battle *****" A True Story

#452-LE · 08-27-2010, 05:31 PM

best of craigslist: True Story: Battle Asses.

From Craig's List, enjoy........

True Story: Battle *****.

Date: 2007-05-02, 1:25PM CDT

Sorry, I don't have anything to post about layoffs or politics, but I DO have another story from the Public Bathroom. Enjoy.

You are my arch nemisis. I see you wandering around as I go about my IT Computer Nerd business: Tall. Middle Eastern. Pot Belly. We catch each others eye every now and then and give each other a slight nod. I know you, I know what you do and I am on to your games.

I saw you this morning, we made eye contact. You nodded and took another bite of whatever Death-*** producing garbage you fuel up on that makes the bathroom, smell like the inside of a dead monkey's colon, and nodded at me. I got you this time, fucker.

I give you my icey grin and nod back, then hurry back to my office. It's almost noon, and that's the time you like to run to the toilet and preform your daily *** JIHAD on all the people just trying to wash their hands. Maybe in your country there is no commen sense that would tell you that lunch time = hand wash time. People want to get clean and eat, not be fumigated with the high octane liquid **** attack you subjigate them too.

But I got you this time. Yeah fucker I GOT SOMETHING COOKING UP FOR YOU! Two egg sandwiches with cheese. Greasy sausage patties. A couple glasses of Tang. Some leftover Chinese food. A Twix. Root Beer Soda. Some steamed brocoli I had in the fridge. A Hot Pocket with peperonni and cheese. A Chocolate Poptart. And like a cherry on top ... a McDonald's Quaterpounder with cheese.

I never eat this ****, it's all greasy and ******* nasty, but today is the day I fight back. I go out for a quick mile jog and almsot die. My stomach feels like there are two midgets fighting to the death inside there. I walk back to work, *** clenched tighter than a virgin's thighs at Church.

Great. The hot chick from next door wants to chat. She assumes the sweat on my face and arms is from running. She doesn't realize that it's a cold sweat induced by my severe sphicter trauma. She finally shuts up and I stagger to the Death *** Arena.

You are there already in your favorite stall: The one right next to the ******* sinks. You stupid, socially retarded ****. Fine. You have yet to begin your daily purge of Middle Eastern *** Stew. I enter the stall next to you and drop my pants in preperation of the upcomming battle.

Your opening slavo is fired: A sloppy wet fart with a solid-shot closer. I laugh and show you the power of Advanced American Foodstuffs.

The tuba fart I unleash echos off the walls and shrinks my waistline about an inch. The guy at the urinal laughs as I slap the wall between you and I and say "Back to YOU, Kajid!". You are silent, I assume you know who I am and that the time has come for us to battle. I know you are summoning your intestinal fortitude for full out war.

You do not dissapoint me.

With a hissing "SSSShhhhhzzzzzzzzz!" you squirt out a deadly spray of *** juice that pollutes the air and makes my head swim. The pisser at the urinal is no longer laughing, he quickly zips up and runs for the door. He did not stop to wash his hands, instead opting to head for the hills. I cover my mouth and nose with my shirt and the black spots dissapear from my vision. My head clears. I am ready.

"AAaaaaaaaRRRRRGGGHHH!" I yell, as I drop Big Tim. That's short for "Big Timber" ... AKA "Mississippi Butt Log".

Quick-fire farts stutter out of my ***, as I push the monster log from the **** Dimension into our reality. The beefy, yeasty stench easily overpowers the Indian *** Gutter oder of your previous attack. Mega Turd hits the water in the bowl with a mighty splash, the reek is that of a dead whale slowly ripening in the hot, tropical sun. I catch my breath and wipe my brow, and start to pat myself on the back. I should have known the battle was not over.

The only thing I can think of is that you must has completly unzipped your *** to your elbow. That's the only way I could begin to explain the lumpy, creamy splashs falling out of your *** into the toilet. It sounds like you are pouring a gallon of strawberry shake with whole strawberries in it into the shitter. I see the hairs on my arms start to curl from the horrid stench wafting up from under your stall. I shudder and sway on my throne, unsure if I will survive.

I have no choice. I must employ the Deal Breaker. I hunker down and clench my hands together. My fingers twitch and entwine like a nest of snakes, almost like I am running through a series of ancient Ninja Hand Symbols. My feet lift up onto the toes and my legs start to shake.

"You want to play??" I growls. A low moaning comes from my stomach, like a dinosaur calling into a swampy, foggy night. "YOU GOT IT! AAAAAAHHHHHH!"

Like Cloud summoning The Knights of the Round in Final Fantasy 7, I summon the Excalibur of Turd Demons to destroy my enemy. Hot magma-like **** rockets out of my ***, releasing a noxious, sticky cloud of deadly recal perfume. I hear you gag and see your feet shuffle around, but you can't get away, can you? No. You can't.

Veins throb on my neck and temples as the turd monster tears itself from my bowels. My lips skin back from my now clenched teeth and I try not to scream. Your roll of toilet paper rolls into my stall. You must have torn it from the wall with numb fingers in an attempt to "Wipe and Scoot". Too late. MUCH too late!

Oders pound you with merciless fists: Rotten Fruitcake stuffed with boiled chicken ********. Hammered ****-logs served on a bed of week old white rice. Rosie O'Donnel's racid crotch farts. The smell of your mom's dank, hairy Middle Eastern armpits.

Your stall door bangs open and you stagger out. You take three unsteady steps to the door and can barely open it wide enough to slip out. I laugh at you before you leave. "Yeah! RUN, Fucker!" I yell, and laugh again. You say nothing.

It's all over except for the clean up. **** with me again, you **** filled Anal Terrorist. Me and my *** will be waiting.

PostingID: 323013997

fullmonty · 08-27-2010, 07:07 PM

Ahahahahhahahah epic!!

Cmike2780 · 08-27-2010, 07:15 PM

Omg! ...that was really well written.

cptspeed · 08-27-2010, 08:39 PM

Don't nobody go in there for bout 35 45 minute.

08-27-2010, 05:31 PM	#1 (permalink)
#452-LE Base Member Join Date: Dec 2009 Location: Behind Dulles AP Posts: 117 Drives: '09 370Z 7AT-Stg2 TT Rep Power: 15	"Battle *" A True Story best of craigslist: True Story: Battle Asses. From Craig's List, enjoy........ True Story: Battle ***. Date: 2007-05-02, 1:25PM CDT Sorry, I don't have anything to post about layoffs or politics, but I DO have another story from the Public Bathroom. Enjoy. You are my arch nemisis. I see you wandering around as I go about my IT Computer Nerd business: Tall. Middle Eastern. Pot Belly. We catch each others eye every now and then and give each other a slight nod. I know you, I know what you do and I am on to your games. I saw you this morning, we made eye contact. You nodded and took another bite of whatever Death-* producing garbage you fuel up on that makes the bathroom, smell like the inside of a dead monkey's colon, and nodded at me. I got you this time, fucker. I give you my icey grin and nod back, then hurry back to my office. It's almost noon, and that's the time you like to run to the toilet and preform your daily * JIHAD on all the people just trying to wash their hands. Maybe in your country there is no commen sense that would tell you that lunch time = hand wash time. People want to get clean and eat, not be fumigated with the high octane liquid attack you subjigate them too. But I got you this time. Yeah fucker I GOT SOMETHING COOKING UP FOR YOU! Two egg sandwiches with cheese. Greasy sausage patties. A couple glasses of Tang. Some leftover Chinese food. A Twix. Root Beer Soda. Some steamed brocoli I had in the fridge. A Hot Pocket with peperonni and cheese. A Chocolate Poptart. And like a cherry on top ... a McDonald's Quaterpounder with cheese. I never eat this , it's all greasy and *** nasty, but today is the day I fight back. I go out for a quick mile jog and almsot die. My stomach feels like there are two midgets fighting to the death inside there. I walk back to work, * clenched tighter than a virgin's thighs at Church. Great. The hot chick from next door wants to chat. She assumes the sweat on my face and arms is from running. She doesn't realize that it's a cold sweat induced by my severe sphicter trauma. She finally shuts up and I stagger to the Death * Arena. You are there already in your favorite stall: The one right next to the *** sinks. You stupid, socially retarded . Fine. You have yet to begin your daily purge of Middle Eastern * Stew. I enter the stall next to you and drop my pants in preperation of the upcomming battle. Your opening slavo is fired: A sloppy wet fart with a solid-shot closer. I laugh and show you the power of Advanced American Foodstuffs. The tuba fart I unleash echos off the walls and shrinks my waistline about an inch. The guy at the urinal laughs as I slap the wall between you and I and say "Back to YOU, Kajid!". You are silent, I assume you know who I am and that the time has come for us to battle. I know you are summoning your intestinal fortitude for full out war. You do not dissapoint me. With a hissing "SSSShhhhhzzzzzzzzz!" you squirt out a deadly spray of * juice that pollutes the air and makes my head swim. The pisser at the urinal is no longer laughing, he quickly zips up and runs for the door. He did not stop to wash his hands, instead opting to head for the hills. I cover my mouth and nose with my shirt and the black spots dissapear from my vision. My head clears. I am ready. "AAaaaaaaaRRRRRGGGHHH!" I yell, as I drop Big Tim. That's short for "Big Timber" ... AKA "Mississippi Butt Log". Quick-fire farts stutter out of my , as I push the monster log from the * Dimension into our reality. The beefy, yeasty stench easily overpowers the Indian * Gutter oder of your previous attack. Mega Turd hits the water in the bowl with a mighty splash, the reek is that of a dead whale slowly ripening in the hot, tropical sun. I catch my breath and wipe my brow, and start to pat myself on the back. I should have known the battle was not over. The only thing I can think of is that you must has completly unzipped your * to your elbow. That's the only way I could begin to explain the lumpy, creamy splashs falling out of your * into the toilet. It sounds like you are pouring a gallon of strawberry shake with whole strawberries in it into the shitter. I see the hairs on my arms start to curl from the horrid stench wafting up from under your stall. I shudder and sway on my throne, unsure if I will survive. I have no choice. I must employ the Deal Breaker. I hunker down and clench my hands together. My fingers twitch and entwine like a nest of snakes, almost like I am running through a series of ancient Ninja Hand Symbols. My feet lift up onto the toes and my legs start to shake. "You want to play??" I growls. A low moaning comes from my stomach, like a dinosaur calling into a swampy, foggy night. "YOU GOT IT! AAAAAAHHHHHH!" Like Cloud summoning The Knights of the Round in Final Fantasy 7, I summon the Excalibur of Turd Demons to destroy my enemy. Hot magma-like ** rockets out of my , releasing a noxious, sticky cloud of deadly recal perfume. I hear you gag and see your feet shuffle around, but you can't get away, can you? No. You can't. Veins throb on my neck and temples as the turd monster tears itself from my bowels. My lips skin back from my now clenched teeth and I try not to scream. Your roll of toilet paper rolls into my stall. You must have torn it from the wall with numb fingers in an attempt to "Wipe and Scoot". Too late. MUCH too late! Oders pound you with merciless fists: Rotten Fruitcake stuffed with boiled chicken *****. Hammered -logs served on a bed of week old white rice. Rosie O'Donnel's racid crotch farts. The smell of your mom's dank, hairy Middle Eastern armpits. Your stall door bangs open and you stagger out. You take three unsteady steps to the door and can barely open it wide enough to slip out. I laugh at you before you leave. "Yeah! RUN, Fucker!" I yell, and laugh again. You say nothing. It's all over except for the clean up. with me again, you filled Anal Terrorist. Me and my * will be waiting. PostingID: 323013997 __________________ '06 R6 track,'06 R1-LE track,'09 848 street, '11Duc Multistrada 1200ST, '07 STi T-back '09 GTM stg2 TT-370Z-7AT (470whp/ 422wtq @10PSI)

08-27-2010, 07:07 PM	#2 (permalink)
fullmonty A True Z Fanatic Join Date: Nov 2009 Location: Dirty Jersey Posts: 7,762 Drives: 370 Touring/Sport Rep Power: 33	Ahahahahhahahah epic!! __________________

08-27-2010, 07:15 PM	#3 (permalink)
Cmike2780 A True Z Fanatic Join Date: Jun 2010 Location: Long Island Posts: 5,059 Drives: slowwww Rep Power: 28	Omg! ...that was really well written. __________________ [09][MB][6-Spd MT][Touring][Stillen Gen III][K&N][Borla CBE][Evo-R] [ArchitTEK Photography]

08-27-2010, 08:39 PM	#4 (permalink)
cptspeed Track Member Join Date: Jul 2009 Location: tampa Posts: 799 Drives: 09 370z Rep Power: 16	Don't nobody go in there for bout 35 45 minute. __________________ FI CBE, 20" forged specialties rims, swift springs, boston subs, kicker amp, focal components

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