Dear Slate, I am calling you out.
Yes you, you unmotivated, post surgery, staph infection excuse for a man.
Or should I address you as cockbiter, a double asterisk pain in my ass. You know what the two asterisks next P
to your name means? It means you suck at the internet and need to retire to answering questions at Yahoo E
Answers, because your brown nosing candy land baloney crap doesn't fly here on Getbig, where the big boys come D
to get their feet wet.
Wet in the blood of your Alex23 "friend" you kidnapped who looks suspiciously
like Elizabeth Smart and has no idea that night when you slipped a GHB/rohypnol combination in to her apple cider, that she would in fact be doomed to listen to your typewriter mouth spew forth some of the most boring, unreadable, undesirable traits in a man, underlying homosexual tendencies, (not that there's anything wrong with that), under-stimulating of even the most primitive areas of the brain, such as the frontal lobe, which is also responsible the releasing of dopamine that is in turn related to the desire to be accepted by peers and authority figures. Which is most likely the reason you have not been banned yet.
Your uncanny ability to take what schooling your mother gave you before she packed up and shipped off to Thailand, where she could easily pass her transvestite looks off as a normal member of society, and find a man to father a real child,
since the withering apple core of a penis that had left her craving so much more, more fruitful, more seed bearing, more ripe, more exotic, more tasty, and mo' money bringing, with a side to side swag only a grandfather clock could hope to imitate, where was I going with this?
I got lost in thought describing a penis glorious enough for your mothers cavernous vagina to support full-time after it gave birth to you,
after she harbored you in her uterus for 30 years before you finally scraped together
what confidence you could off the left over sperms your father left for you to be friends with,
and birth your ugly self into the world, a try hard 30 year old with an umbilical cord only a mother could love.
I am not able to go into detail describing the lack of impression your penis had left on the doctors and nurses, but I can safely account that it was quickly reassured
to your mother as something that would not be hereditary.
Just in case you ever managed to finally have your
penis within 30 feet of a woman in the hard on and up right position, and some slim chance that woman just happens to knock herself out by walking in to a ladder because she's so completely dumb and at that same moment her skirt catches on a stray nail left by some careless Mexican roofer, who had probably drank one too many tecate's that day, and had seen this woman walk by earlier, and pondered what a lovely lady she was, and that
the creepy guy with a pillow in his shirt staring her down was either a lost mental retardation patient, or just some dude who didn't know how to properly dress himself when going out in public, having lived in a woman's vagina for 30 years.
So anyway, so she falls down because she knocked herself out and Pillowbiters boner went
into seek and destroy mode, but as soon as he walked 1 foot toward her the slight breeze created by his body moving forward in space-time caused enough friction to send his pleasure sensors overboard and immediately call for an evacuation of any potential seminal fluid that may be unlucky enough to harbor a single sperm to find its way out of only the second known hole to have semen pass through it on slates delicate flower of a body,
his, what doctors deliberated for 3 weeks to officially confirm to his mother, penis.
Now if that wasn't bad enough slate had to actually watch the movies Gacy, and Dahmer to pick up tips on how to actually get a young man to go home with him, so he may force them into creating a Getbig-Account, all platinum expenses paid, to convince you, the viewer that he in fact did have friends in real life, and that we were all fools for having assumed otherwise.
It might overshadow the fact that in his Zane-video, his apartment is devoid of any personal belongings.
After extensive research by back tracing I had determined slate actually had to pay an apartment leaser 300 dollars of his hard earned cash that he made selling repackaged Simply Lemonade his mother had bought him on the side of his street for a loss profit to his mother,
but profit to himself.
Slates business and math skills were never the best, probably from the lack of
education he received in his mothers uterus, except the times he could hear his supposed Daddy counting to two, how many times he had "told her", before feeling this magical tomb he was in hit the floor. Two seems to be the magic number with slate.
The number of times he has been bant, the number of gimmicks he has created in
the past year alone, the number of times he has made it to the grocery store without getting beat up by the local 10 year old kids who hang out near old man McHenry's abandoned farm.
Man those were some tough times for poor slate.
Can you imaging the kind of soul crushing humiliation he suffered getting beat up by kids a
third of his age, with god only knows how much larger of penises than himself. Of course they were having sexual relations with his mother, who wasn't at that time? It was the thing to do, in fact, if you haven't had sex with slates mother, you probably are not from the most inbred town in the western hemisphere, or actually have standards when it comes to where you decide to let your penis repeatedly drown itself in collapsing vaginal wall
and left over CN.
CN that had sustained slate for all those years, that had protected him from the
cruelties and harsh reality of the world that had tried so hard to evolve its life into something worth living for, only to see a thumb sucking, uterus wetting fool of a man plop on to the floor at his mothers feet, unbeknownst at the time to those who were there to witness this historic and scientific impossibility, that that man would in fact some day, die a virgin in a hole in the woods he dug himself with the severed hands of a woman who once winked at him, but really just had some dust in her eye as she walked by slate, because he made
Pig-Pen look like Howie Mandel in a Purel factory in the middle of a pharmaceutical lab in the middle of a vacuum chamber.
Yes, he is that incredibly dirty.
But we must not count the misfortunes that have befallen upon slate against him, after all it is not his fault he is so utterly pathetic, it is in fact a little bit of all of our faults. We created this monster by actually saying more than the only words he's ever heard, from the time he fell out of his mother's vagina, to the times he was rejected by and ultimately ended up murdering those girls, "Please God No".
Yes it is indeed an ironic twist of fickle mother nature that has groomed slate in to the class gerbil, for one we have all fed his ego with out carrots of encouragement for his antisemitic propaganda video aforementioned in this short
call out thread.
I think if we truly want to experience what slate has to offer as a human being, then we
must realize it is nothing.
Only then will we be able to find the apathy needed to erase his life from
existence, to conserve the miniscule amount of oxygen that will be replenished anyway, but who has time to sit around and listen to slate type in typewriter font, those kb's could be better served to make our avatars 1kb larger, or something that we actually care about. I mean, it's not like slate has anything funny to say, ever, except that he's severely misjudged, like OJ simpson verdicts. Except no one was there to witness his
heinous acts of retaliation by rejection of a woman for a younger man, more masculine man.
I once bet three dollars and fifty cents that slate could not purchase a ticket to a G rated movie because the 16 year old kid behind the ticket office was not convinced he was actually there to watch the movie and not fondle the young children who may accidentally brush up against him as he stood halfway in the walkway, in hopes that they would anxiously rush past him, creating an all too unfamiliar feel of euphoria, that is quickly replaced by the all too familiar feel of cold steel wrapping around his generously self inflicted scarring wrists as his face hits
the sticky theater floor, another all too familiar texture his face has come in contact with. I feel as though I'm just scratching the surface, much like slates penis when it comes in contact with his sex doll, which is more of a hodgepodge of melted wax over a life size barbie doll that he saved from the trash of some random girls house he had tried to break into that one time before he realized he didn't know how to open a door because he was so stupid.
But like it's this really nasty smelling of dry cum that's been there for years you
know, and you can swear you can almost see that one sperm his surgically implanted gonads had accidentally produced that one time, because he had taken a hot load earlier in the day and they tried to replicate what they saw the liver having so much fun with, and the little spermies face is just frozen there in a hard yellow crusty horror, the looks on his face like Han Solo frozen in carbonite, and the wax is all flaking off, and the hole he cut for the vagina has little fine scratch marks from his penis trying to penetrate a centimeter through, like a larvae trying to turn into a moth, except it dies before it makes it through the surface because it's so small and weak and disgusting that it literally dissolves itself as a natural defense mechanism from natural enemies, the vagina in this case.