Your Experiences at the 2013 Mr Olympia

[syntaxmachine]

With your ticket for an "exclusive, one-on-one seminar with renowned bodybuilder and philosopher Kai Greene" printed straight from KaiGreene.com in hand, you head to the hotel room indicated on the little slip of paper and issue forth a tentative knock on the rosewood door. There is no response.

You think you hear a muffled noise of some sort from under the door -- a *moan*?

You project your voice and rap just a bit harder on the door: "Mr Greene? I'm here for your exclusive, one-on-one seminar at 5:00pm. I'm right on time and I'm hoping we might begin sooner rather than later, given the tight schedule for the pre-Olympia proceedings."

"YEAH MILTON, JUST LIKE THAT. FUAAAAA YEAHHH!"

What the fuck?

"Mr Greene? What the hell is going on in there?"

You finally notice that your knocks have resulted in the door being slightly ajar, indicating that it was never fully closed to begin with. You slowly press the door open, not sure what to expect. Then you see it....

[Wiggs]

lololololol. Dude, what are you doing?

[BigCyp]

lololololol. Dude, what are you doing?

Syntaxmachine has never fully grasped the funny.

[syntaxmachine]

Kai stands before you at the edge of a rickety bed, a stack of crisp white towels beside him. As you glance downward, you realize that one such towel seems to be hovering above his crotch -- how is it doing that? To your horror, it becomes apparent that a man is under that towel, performing some manner of suckling act upon Kai. A small slip of paper similar to the one in your hand rests beside his somewhat ashen, carpet-burned knees.

The obsidian-faced man glances back at you with an erotic glint in his eyes before returning to his duties: he apparently enjoys being watched. His puffed Hebrew lips engirdle Kai's meat bludgeon as it stretches his maw, making it look like he is trying to swallow a burnt Chipotle burrito in one go. Kai doesn't seem to notice your presence.

You quickly shut the door and leave the scene of the crime, marveling at your naivete in thinking that the ticket was really for a seminar.

Just my luck, you think to yourself. At least I could've happened upon Ava Cowan's nigh heavenly, heart-shaped ass plopped on the floor giving a ridiculously wet blowjob, not some random ass Hebrew getting the towel treatment. Then I could've tag teamed that trim with my hero in muscle, my ultimate fantasy.

Consoling yourself as you walk down the hall, you reach the conference room where the pre-Olympia festivities are to be held. Beyond the sets of chairs with slumbering, half-dead "athletes", you see a large, obnoxiously loud crowd congregating. What's causing all the commotion?

[OTHstrong]

Well my experience is your ass handing me 150 dollars, that's for dam sure 

[Raymondo]

Milton "enlightening" Kai Greene

[OTHstrong]

Milton "enlightening" Kai Greene

Milton is going to get a big ''I TOLD YOU SO'' when Kai gets forth place 

[syntaxmachine]

You see Phillip weaving his way through the crowd, somehow blocking out the schmoetastic cacophany of barely latent homosexual adoration; in the mosaic of noises you think you hear the phrases "rear glute spread" and "$200 per hour" muttered in quick succession, but that might just be your imagination running amok.

As you observe, it becomes clear that Phillip's minimal interclavicular distance makes his deft maneuvering a cinch; this is the sort of jiving and juking he did on the shiny courts of yore as a young, overconfident Hebrew. You wonder what drove him to leave that life and opt to inject simply enormous amounts of illegal compounds into the hard knots flanking his poopenschaft, all for the "once in a lifetime opportunity to revel in the glory of the faintly odorous thong," as a serene looking Taiwanese man once described the endeavor of competitive bodybuilding to you.

Where's the champ headed?

Before long, you are able to discern Phillip's target: as he emerges from the crowd with a perfectly timed pivot away from hipolito mejia's dank armpits, none other than a gaunt, possibly AIDS-ridden Jason Cutler sits before him, apparently talking to a fan.

"Thanks for your promotional efforts on the boards, Rob" you hear Jason say in a monotone voice as he slips a fair-sized clip of bills into the fan's hand.

Only after this is done does he shift his ever-blank, robotic stare up to Phillip.

You feel the tension in the room ratchet up exponentially: Phillip and Jason lock eyes like wild animals across the African plains do when they are about to initiate a fight to the death. Without moving his eyes, you see Phillip's massive balloon arms tighten their grip around his gem-laden manpurse.

Something is about to happen.

[Raymondo]

You feel the tension in the room ratchet up exponentially: Phillip and Jason lock eyes like wild animals across the African plains do when they are about to initiate a fight to the death. Without moving his eyes, you see Phillip's massive balloon arms tighten their grip around his gem-laden manpurse.

 

[arce1988]

 

[syntaxmachine]

Syntaxmachine has never fully grasped the funny.

Brutal thinking there's anything objective about "funny" either way; shocking thinking that being a one trick pony that shits out limerick-esque posts is the epitome of "funny"; epic absorbing of the mythology (Christianity) peasant immigrant parents inculcated in you, evincing a sub-par mind; ridiculous living in, producing for, and paying taxes to the country that treats your homeland as a quasi-colony and its people as mere mules; laughable posting an incredibly unclear face pic and proudly declaring team leanface membership.

You're out of your league here, bro. Stick to sucking booty's twat and doing play-by-play ownings of lesser members like dickjuggler181 -- things you are undoubtedly a pro at.

 

[JasonH]

Hahaha, I'm in stitches here!! 

[Kwon_2]

You see Phillip weaving his way through the crowd, somehow blocking out the schmoetastic cacophany of barely latent homosexual adoration; in the mosaic of noises you think you hear the phrases "rear glute spread" and "$200 per hour" muttered in quick succession, but that might just be your imagination running amok.

As you observe, it becomes clear that Phillip's minimal interclavicular distance makes his deft maneuvering a cinch; this is the sort of jiving and juking he did on the shiny courts of yore as a young, overconfident Hebrew.

LOL!

[Kwon_2]

You wonder what drove him to leave that life and opt to inject simply enormous amounts of illegal compounds into the hard knots flanking his poopenschaft, all for the "once in a lifetime opportunity to revel in the glory of the faintly odorous thong," as a serene looking Taiwanese man once described the endeavor of competitive bodybuilding to you.

LOL!!!