Saturday, February 19, 2011
Pop Quiz: Guess What It Says On The Back of Clownboy’s Shirt
Clownboy wants you to come at him, bro.
But what does it say on the *backside* of Clownboy’s shirt?
Is it:
A. “You Jelly?”
B. “Bros Before Hos.”
C. “Pump Fists Not Gas”
D. “My Vocabulary Is Limited And My Anger Issues Are Unresolved”
He bought a bottle of Goose and can’t afford to finish the tat until stepdad gives him back his job at the pizza shop. If he can keep the sauce off his cocck. Son.
Hey. I don’t know these girls. Just give me and my rarely folliculated forehead a few minutes and we’ll figure something out. Son.
It says “And by ‘at me’, I mean “IN ME!!”
Son.
Does it say kick me?
Is there a way to NOT see pics like these and only read the comments? Geez that hurts my eyes.
“Fist bros not hos” ????
Rev glad to hear your off the meds Big Pharma is evil and I hope you’re doing better however you got any pych meds laying around that you might want to get rid of? having just witnessed these pictures my mind just went haywire and is on the verge of exploding.
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He has the shirt on backwards and it was meant to read
“Cum”
“On Me”
“Bro”
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And the back meant to say “Fist Pump My Ass”
Anybody find a link where I can buy that shirt?
John Largeman would knock him out Son!!! and then thank him for his T-shirts encouragement not that he would of needed much.
@Douchble Helix.
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I’m not sure but I think the link is http://www.mindlesspud.com or something to that affect
Ironically, sometimes while he is being fisted the churning action actually pumps his gas.
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Resulting in a sound not unlike a combat boot being reluctantly pulled from a sucking mudhole filled with algae and writhing tadpoles.
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Son.
Pictured is a rarely seen and rather impressive chain-peeing in two girl’s butts.
It reads: “I’m a catcher, not a pitcher”
Fedor Emelianenko celebrates his possible retirement by partying with bleeths in a Jerz bar.
Its a skanktrain where the caboose is a first class anoose.
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Oh bro, I would come at you so hard it would make your head spin. (See how gay that sounds, there is no possible way to ungay that invite. Accept your homosexuality already and stop bothering the ladies.) Not only am I not jelly of the skeezes you seem to attract, I am personally not fond of your outward appearance. I usually try not to just judge a book by it’s cover but one as ugly as yours makes me want to bring back the good ol’ fashioned book burnin’s from days of yore.
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We’re still doing Son, Son? At least we stopped calling everyone Boss. I sure as hell wouldn’t work for anyone here. No offense. Just sayin’.
What I find kind of funny is that he pumps gas for a living 80 hours a week so he can blow his entire paycheck drinking Goose and pumping fists.
Son. (No good comment, just had to get that out of my system).
But pleze use
a condom.
Do you think he’s from Oregon where youre not allowed to pump your own gas? We get it Oregon, you don’t need to use a douchebag to get your point across.
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Or does he have his girlfriend pump his gas for him? I pump my own gas. Should I be mocked for that? I want someone to follow this douchebag around and catch him pumping his own gas wearing that shirt. Then I want him set on fire. I realize that last bit is going to cost me extra. I’ll pay for it with the money I save pumping my own gas.
He has excellent taste in quality shirtware.
How dare you mock his environmental awareness?
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Oh, wait.
He’s talking about career choice.
@ Dark Sock 3:09 pm February, 19
It’s almost like that ‘Centipede’ flick.
[apologies if that is a line stolen from this site.]
pump dickk not gas
hots doggy baggin, eco douche, simplistic saying sounds like my type of party
Gorky Park D-Bag
Spends paychecks in Moscow clubs
Grabs tanned Irina.
To the newbies on the site: Some samples from the 11,000 plus comment “Samurai Scrote” thread a couple of years back:
Samurai Scrote once hang-glided naked on a picante-dusted Dorito into Connie Chung’s butthole while she was anchoring CBS Evening News.
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Samurai Scrote downloads blood from iTunes
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Samurai Scrote has shotguns for nipples.
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Samurai Scrote rides a go-cart made of cancer
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samurai scrote’s favorite hot pocket flavor is panda
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samurai scrote’s testicles are filled with even more testicles
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samurai scrote’s favorite DQ blizzard topping is oxycontin
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Samurai Scrote uses mules as drug mules.
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Samurai Scrote had his dog’s spine fused, and tortured him by licking his own balls in front of him
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Samurai Scrote has no love handles, he just has sex handles
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samurai scrote stuffs ground beef inside of leather seats for purpose of reuniting cattle
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samurai scrote drives a 57 plymouth fury covered in dolphin cocks.
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samurai scrote kick-fucked nancy reagan in 1979
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Samurai Scrote brushes his teeth with his other teeth.
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Samurai Scrote fathered seven Haitian children by twelve different women
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Samurai Scrote finger-fucked your wife at the dinner table while you were telling that stupid story about the time you saw Nick Nolte at the airport
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Samurai Scrote’s suit that he will wear in his casket is made from the foreskins of retired NFL slot receivers.
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When Geronimo rides into battle, he yells Samurai Scrote
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Samurai Scrote is the only person to perform every sexual act described at urbandictionary.com
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Samurai Scrote is the celebrity spokesman for Death
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Samurai Scrote’s favorite flavor of Jell-O is Scotch
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Samurai Scrote shits his name in snow
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Samurai scrote has a clitoris on each knuckle and he orgasms during fights
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Samurai Scrote’s glory hole doily has teeth.
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when Samurai Scrote has sexual congress it literally involves hundreds of old white men.
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Samurai Scrote stores his bacon in Maury Povich’s sex diaper
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Samurai Scrote always gets out of jury duty. Because he’s the defendant
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Samurai Scrote’s favorite beverage is Lumber.
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Samurai Scrote eats Elvis and shits Slayer
When Samurai Scrote was born 38 no. 2 pencils marinated in amniotic fluid clattered to the floor. No one spoke about it, ever.
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Samurai Scrote can smell his own nose
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Samurai Scrote coined the phrase “coined the phrase”
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samurai scrote set the cuyahoga river on fire and gave it a sports curse. when asked why, he simply replied, “whatever fits.” and punched the question asking man in the asshole
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samurai scrote wraps duct tape around hamsters. so they don’t explode while he’s fucking them
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Samurai Scrote’s microwave door has no glass
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Samurai Scrote cuts his pizzas with a bicycle
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samurai scrote has a vagina on the small of his back that is also a fully functioning 5 1/4″ floppy disk drive
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samurai scrote’s bath water turns to beef gravy within 5~10 minutes
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Samurai Scrote’s hairbrush is also his toothbrush.
Samurai Scrote has 100% success with Sex Panther
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Samurai Scrote forced the Pope to declare Dorothy Mantooth a Saint
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Random excerpt from the childhood diary of Samurai Scrote:
“Us kids were allowed to watch the men do this bloody work. They would hold the testicles tight underneath, slit the skin holding the testicle in, put their mouth down and get hold of the testicle with their teeth, lift it up a bit, slice it off with the knife in their other hand and then
spit the testicle on the ground. The man doing this had blood all over his mouth and face. There was a big heap of testicles in jellied blood and lamb tails all on the ground but the testicles were soon cleaned up by the many black crows that lived there
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In 1981 Samurai Scrote slapped the manhood clean out of Michael Stipe
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In 1953 Samurai Scrote levitated down the center of Main Street in Wichita, causing every toilet to flush in conjuction with Judy Garland’s orgasms for the next two years (17 times – 3 under a tub spigot)…..
….no one ever connected these events. Until now
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Samurai Scrote put his finger inside Tatum O’Neal as she slept in May 1983.
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samurai scrote has a barcode tattoo on the tip of his cock. if you scan it, it comes up $5.99..
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Samurai Scrote substitutes “D” batteries for meatballs in his spaghetti.
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Samurai Scrote uses the gel off of canned ham as anal lube
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samurai scrote drives a ATV powered only by guano and holly hunter’s tears
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Samurai Scrote prays to himself at church
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Samurai Scrote stirs campfires with orphans
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Samurai Scrote’s dander has subwoofers
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Samurai Scrote’s cock gleams in the night like a midget’s pistol
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if you run a record needle down samurai scrote’s asscrack it plays the last minute and a half of slayer’s raining blood
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samurai scrote eats live chinchilla sandwiches, using king james bibles as bread
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Samurai Scrote just bought a new oven; it seats 50
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Samurai Scrote welds cat teeth to his anus
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Samurai Scrote’s cock is so long it requires emergency exits.
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Samurai Scrote used to be male porn star “Jimmer SparkleCock”
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Samurai Scrote flosses with a coat hanger
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samurai scrote’s sweaty ballsack smells just like your heater when you first warm it up for the season
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Samurai Scrote owns a Stanley Steemer, and it’s steamin’ mad at babies
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samurai scrote had you on speakerphone when you told him about that hooker in reno
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samurai scrote fellated a walrus at sea world just to fuck with your kids
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samurai scrote hid inside a hollow rockwall at the cleveland museum of art’s “jurassic birds and their prey” exhibit and popped out during a 3rd grade field trip and skull-fucked the exhumed corpse of minnie pearl with a strap-on mrs. buttersworth’s bottle.
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samurai scrote performed cunnilingus on a Portuguese woman who had been pronounced legally dead ten minutes earlier and she came back to life with no memory of her past, a thick british accent, and no gag reflex.
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Samurai Scrote wrote a book about a tranny’s struggle with explosive diarrhea while wearing panty hose called “To Kill A Stocking Turd”.
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Samuræ Śçrøtœ sucker punches elderly women in their shame bacon
whoa this pop quiz ACTUALLY has an answer.
can’t all of life’s problems (such as and especially the problem of eradicating douchebaggery) have direct and easy answers too?
“You can’t ice me!”
I like his watch.
Pizza cutting Bicycle,,,hehe.
All the answers in life are in that Samurai Scrote thread.
Geez Dark Sock is on a roll. I forgot what I was gonna say.
After his long-anticipated retirement Sämüräï Scrötë felt as if his life had no meaningful direction, so he decided he would spend his remaining days serving the homeless.
So now, he lures them into his van with cheap wine and the promise of a back massage, then with swift, merciful brutality, dispatches them with a sharpened screwdriver to the brain stem. After carefully separating the pancreas and spleen, which are to be breaded and deep fried for appetizers, he slow-cooks the torso and extremities, separating flesh from bone. The resulting meat is shredded, seasoned and marinated in bar-be-cue sauce and served to his guests with coleslaw and a slide show chronicling his latest trip to Paraguay.
^That Samuri Scrote is such a nut!
Samurai Scrote’s erogenous zones are internal
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Samúraï Scrøte uses Mother Theresa’s withered Fallopian tubes as Krazy Straws for slurping Dolphin fætus gravy
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Samurai Scrote shines his forehead with bacon grease drawn from the privates of alpha goats
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Samuraį Skrøte can push his dry pinky up a weenie-dog’s asshole and not wake it up
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samurai scrote can start a car just by putting his cock in the tailpipe
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Sâmųræ ßçrôtë has a wallet made out of rat assholes. It says “Made Out of Rat Assholes” on it.
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Samurai Scrote can run 43 miles per hour without bending his knees
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Samurai Scrote won the Daytona 500 with a Zamboni
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samurai scrote’s favorite snack at the movie theater is black people, much to the dismay of others around him due to the loud sound they make when being chewed
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samurai scrote killed the radio star. with a tack hammer
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Samurai Scrote got into a fistfight with his own cock. And lost.
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samurai scrote has had one christmas tree his entire life. it’s a 9 foot fossilized tyrannosaurus cock that is always on fire.
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Samurai Scrote has corduroy flesh and it smells like old men masturbating in a ditch
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Samurai Scrote wears socks on his teeth.
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Şǻmǚřǽ Ŝcrœtə’s left nipple is an exact replica of Stacy Keach’s face. It lactates knuckles with mustaches.
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Samurai Scrote ingests pork through an oboe….Of Death. Now you gentlemen pause for a second and think about that. Now how do you feel?
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Samurai Scrote does not shave; he has knife fights with his face.
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Samurai Scrote keeps John Candy’s upturned skull on his desk, filled with strictly diesel.
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Samurai Scrote eats his own scar tissue for roughage.
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Samurai Scrote likes to taunt veal cows in the hours before their death.
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samurai scrote strangle-fucked a live baby panda to death in the ballpit at chuck e cheese.
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Samurai Scrote has manual bacon cranks where he can stab a pig, twist out a core sample of bacon, and let the pig scab over for a week. He has 8 pigs, and two bacon cranks. You do the math. Of Pork Pain.
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Samurai Scrote owns a Bulgarian Space Shuttle. As soon as he gets the asphalt shingles fixed he’s flying that fucker to the moon to rescue the remains of Louie Armstrong.
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In prison Samurai Scrote went by the handle “Piss Hammer”.
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samurai scrote can curdle milk just by winking at it.
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Samurai Scrote waterskiis without a boat. Uphill.
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Samurai Scrote survived a World War II concentration camp. Because he was the Commandant.)
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Samurai Scrote’s favorite vegetable is Bear.
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Holy crap, are you guys still talking about Samurai Scrote?
Samurai Scrote fucked his doctor with an erection lasting longer than four hours.
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Samurai Scrote drives an Econoline van covered in live screaming spider monkey heads.
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Samurai Scrote uses dead puppies as fabric softeners.
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Samurai Scrote has a pet bi-polar bear
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Samurai Scrote composed the irritating “By Mennen” three-note jingle.
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The modern combustion engine was modeled after Samurai Scrote’s birth.
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Samurai Scrote doesn’t spoon after having sex, he knifes.
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When Samurai Scrote was born every wall socket in Utah began emitting the low muttering sounds of Ernest Borgnine pleasuring himself with a tube sock.
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^I think that last one was a new one from ‘Sock…..
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Samurai Scrote’s giant cockk punched a hole in the roof of Cowboys’ Stadium, distracting Christina Aguilera and causing her to mangle the lyrics to the Anthem at the Super Bowl. Then the good Samurai slipped a finger unseen into her sphincter, causing her melismatic convulsions.
And since we’re bringing back the Revered Samurai Scrote, here is a little video treat (replete with “graffic” violence and some kickass guitar).
Samurai Scrote bitch-slapped Vanilla Ice so hard he turned into Eminem.
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Samurai Scrote does not sit down; he pulls the world up to his ass.
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Samurai Scrote achieved a historic breakthrough in 1972 with his seminal paper, “Afferent Neural Responses to Mechanical Distortion of the Testis of the Cat”, in which he observed the following:
“Compression in lightly anaesthetized cats indicated a pseudo-affective pain-like response to distortion of the testis.”……He also noted that “…a glancing blow to the testicle of the subject produced a burst of activity….
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On the hot summer night of Samurai Scrote’s birth in a country hospital two counties east of Memphis, the manicured grounds around the building erupted and spewed forth 7,000 pale hairless sexless headless and limbless human torsos. They circled the Hospital with a lewd fish-like writhing motion like an obscene river of 90- pound human maggots, making no sounds other than harsh bronchial rasps and barks from their exposed esophagii. Kenny J. Pettimore and Buddy Wallace had to bring a dump truck and front loader from the county barn to clean it all up the next day, cursing and smoking Marlboro reds the whole time.
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Samurai Scrote was the first to take a huge bite out of his 5th birthday cake. Except it wasn’t a cake; it was a pony.
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When Samurai Scrote no longer heard the rustlings of Death’s long black robes against his bed chamber door he carefully resumed his picking of groin sores and dropping their rust-red payloads of pus-glazed discs onto the salty Ritz cracker that was bound for his mouth.
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Samurai Scrote’s final twist of the red-slicked carcass produced a glorious pink hernia thrust through the gristle of the remaining abdominal wall; the dollop of squirted colon hung perfectly in the sunlight like a creamy crimson fecal grape.
In the distance a greedy seagull called, it’s lone emerald eye glowing like a peephole into Hell’s white hot furnace.
A continent away, Saul Kaufmann nervously scooted his wooden Eames chair back yeilding a rasping bark that sounded unanimously to the shareholders like unsquelched flatulence.
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the floor planks groan & give under a weight that is not just of a man, but, of dread itself. with a heavy clank & a rustle of tightly bound wild things does a satchel collapse upon the floor. wearily in my alcohol & opiated state do I eye the ominous shape shrouded in misery that has crossed this threshold of despair. as the dust settles around the new arrival am I able to discern the smoldering embers of hot burning, prying eyes. “do you have a name, stranger?” I weakly query. slowly, in a gravelly drawl he responds, “Scrote… Sam-moor-aye Scrote” then he chuckles a slow tormented yet devilishly entertained chortle. “I’ve come for your soul” he slowly mutters. sweat beads like double ought buck break out across my forehead & upper lip area as Jamon, my myan donkey, brays and dashes out the door heading for the starlit pampa. Scrote wheels & with the flick of his long gangly forearm slings a bifurcated lance through the base of jamon’s skull that finds an exit from a fractured eye socket. Jamon’s broken torso cartwheels to an abrupt end just past the splintered entry way. slowly, Scrote turns back to me & grins while suckling back a protracted drool. he whispers, “you, I will take with decidedly less effort!”
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As Billy Ray Culpepper sweated in the oppressive heat of Vickers Hydraulics factory floor, he balanced the half-burned Camel cigarette as he nimbly burred the ragged metal edges off of the hydraulic pump casting. The intense pain that had been growing in his throat for weeks suddenly intensified in blinding pain; without warning he pitched forth as if to vomit. Instantly a writhing mass that appeared to be covered in stewed tomatoes erupted from his esaphogus onto the steel burr strewn shop floor. The quivering mass appeared to be a naked toddler. The crimson figure bolted upright, bitch-slapped the still-wretching Roy, and shot out the coiling door into the Kentucky woods beyond. Thus began the 9th trimester of Samurai Scrote.
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In 1966 a Sherpa on the west face of Mount Everest sought shelter from a blizzard in a hidden cave. Within the sheltered cavern he found a still-wet and steaming shark cage, dripping with warm salt water. Inside was the picked-clean skull of Adam West, who inexplicably was in Los Angeles at the time filming the campy 1966 Batman movie. West’s empty left
Ocular socket was packed tight with Rick James’ pubic hair; the right socket had a mule cock
Lolling put of it at a lewd angle; the dismembered member displayed numerous ferret bites along the length of the shaft in a line that the sherpa recognized as Morse code, which upon later investigation turned out to be a direct line to Chuck Baris’s desk at the CIA.
The whole garish scene was illuminated by a single shit-stained lamp.
The sherpa quietly consumed a Zagnut bar, urinated in a corner of the cave, and walked back out into the howling blizzard to meet his end
Clem crept out of his Sun Valley double wide mobile home to investigate the wet slapping midnight noises emanating behind his tractor shed, the Remington 12 gauge trembling in his sweaty grasp.
As he rounded the woodpile Clem saw in the pale orange light of his pole-mounted metal halide yard light the hideous sight of a slim Caucasian male with close-cropped hair bordered with a cheap necktie EATING HIS OWN HEAD atop the busted John Deere bush hog. Nearby, a severed foreskin the size of a Mongolian meat loaf mindlessly humped a rotten squirrel with a lewd Lovecraftian action, like a raw sexual fuck-comma at the end of an unspeakable phrase…
Clem backed slowly away, back into his kitchen where he filled their jumbo Sunday Dinner crock pit with Big Momma’s secret Pepsi and Lipton-Cup-O-Soup meat marinade.
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Tomorrow they would eat like kings.
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Clem’s prophecy came only half-true before dawn, in a hellish rain of the entrails of his beloved…
Samurai Scrote has a detachable cock that can ride down to the corner store on a special unicycle and purchase beer for him. Nobody fucks with it as it goes about its business like a sniffing lamprey walking among us on the land.
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The man goes to bed early. He cannot sleep. Naturally he tosses and turns in bed. He gets tangled up in the sheets. He lights a cigarette. He reads a little. He turns out the light again. But he cannot sleep. At three in the morning he gets up. He wakes his friend by his side and confides in him that he cannot sleep. He asks for advice. The friend suggests he take a short walk to tire himself out a little. That he then drink a cup of linden tea and turn out the light. He does all these things but he still cannot manage to fall asleep. He gets up once more. This time he goes to the doctor. As usual, the doctor has a lot to say, but the man does not fall asleep. At six in the morning he loads his revolver and lifts it to his forehead. It is only then that he sees the slim figure of a man in a suit standing in the corner holding a lamp, studying him through a pair of sunglasses.
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“Master Scrote!”–those two words were all that Powell, Samurai Scrote’s faithful valet for more than twenty years, could force from his lips before the alien’s radioactive beam reduced him to a cyanotic blistered jelly of charred protoplasm that burbled and hissed as it dripped through the slats of the spacious redwood deck that extended from the northern side of the picturesque mountain A-frame that Scrote and the Koog ambassador had selected as the venue for their mutual repast, causing Samurai Scrote to wonder whether the alien was less gentlemanly than his unctuous praise of the Bernaise sauce would have suggested or that overcooking shirred eggs was not accepted with the same casualness throughout the galaxy as it was here on earth.
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Entropy gnaws at the walls, shaving them away molecule by molecule. Samurai Scrote calls it the Nothing. It’s as good a name as any.
“The Nothing is hungry today,” Samurai Scrote says cheerfully. It’s a nonlinear progression, so some days Entropy eats more than others. More or less, but it always ate. There are never days that it leaves us alone.
The problem was that to fix the timeline properly we needed to make multiple adjustments – but the first change would overwrite us. That meant leaving the timeline entirely and making the changes from the outside. We’re up to 1971 now, and the projections require us to drop some of the specially-designed care packages in ‘86, ‘90, and ‘03. The reality the projections were based on doesn’t exist anymore, so we can’t be sure how accurate they are.
“Almost charged,” Samurai Scrote chirps, teeth bared as usual. He might be going insane, but at least it’s the good kind of crazy. It might help if we talked to him, but somehow we can’t. That probably means we’re going insane too.
I can hear Entropy eating away at our bubble, eating but never full.
I can’t really hear it. I know there’s nothing to hear, just like I know that it isn’t a sentient thing, isn’t actually hungry or even aware. But thinking of it like that, crazy or not, is better than the truth that pulls at my sanity. It’s not alive because it doesn’t exist. It’s not even the vacuum of space, it’s the lack of existence that persists outside of time.
I’m willing to die to save humanity from extinction but I can’t stop thinking that when the walls finally don’t exist anymore even my soul will vanish, forgotten by reality itself.
There will remain only Samurai Scrote, and we are all just passing through.
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} ҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠͇ ̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍ ̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚͡ ͡҉ ҉̔̕̚̕̚҉ ~ ҉҉ ̔̕̚̕̚҉ ҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘� �̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌� �̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚� �# ҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠� �̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌� �̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚ ҉҉ ̔̕̚̕̚҉ ҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠͇ ̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍ ̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚͡ # ̎̏̐̑ ̕̚̕̚ ̔̕̚̕̚҉ ҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠͇ ̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍ ̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚͡ ͡҉҉̔̕̚̕̚҉ ͡҉҉̔̕̚̕̚҉ ҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠͇ ̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍ ͡҉҉҉ ҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠͇ ̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍ ̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚͡ ͡҉҉
̕̚̕̚ ̔̕̚̕̚҉◊ख़҉̵̞� � ̒̓̔̕̚ ̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̕̚̕̚ ̡̢̛̗̘̙̜̝ ͡҉O҉ ̵̡̢̢̛̛̛̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟ ̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠̊̋̌̍̎ ̏̐̑̒̓ ̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̕̚̕ ̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚ ͡ ͡҉҉ ۩◊} ҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠� �̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌� �̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚� � M͡҉ E҉̔̕̚̕̚҉ S~ ҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠͇ ̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍ ̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚͡ ͡ ҉҉ ̔̕̚̕̚҉� �̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌� �̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚� �# ҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠͇ ̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍ ̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚ ҉҉ ̔̕̚̕̚҉ ҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠͇ ̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍ ̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚͡ # ̎̏̐̑ ̕̚̕̚ ̔̕̚̕̚҉ ҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠͇ ̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍ ̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚͡ ͡҉҉̔̕̚̕̚҉ ͡҉҉̔̕̚̕̚҉ ҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠͇ ̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍ A̎̏̐̑L̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚͡ ͡҉҉G̔̕̚̕̚҉ ҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠͇ ̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍ ̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚͡ ͡҉҉
̕̚̕̚ ̔̕̚̕̚҉◊ख़҉̵̞� � ̒̓̔̕̚ ̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̕̚̕̚ ̡̢̛̗̘̙̜̝ ͡҉O҉ ̵̡̢̢̛̛̛̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟ ̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠̊̋̌̍̎ ̏̐̑̒̓ ̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̕̚̕ ̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚ ͡ ͡҉҉ ̓̔̿̿̿̕̚۩◊SAMURAI SCROTE} ҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠͇ ̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍ ̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚͡ ͡҉ ҉̔̕̚̕̚҉ ~ ҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠͇ ̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍ ̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚͡ ͡ ҉҉ ̔̕̚̕̚҉ ҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘Z̙̜̝̞̟̠� �̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌� �̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚� �# ҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠͇ ̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍ ̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚ ҉҉ ̔̕̚̕̚҉ ҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠͇ ̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍ ̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚͡ # ̎̏̐̑ ̕̚̕̚ ̔̕̚̕̚҉ ҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠͇ ̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍ ̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚͡ ͡҉҉̔̕̚̕̚҉ ͡҉҉̔̕̚̕̚҉ ҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠͇ ̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍ A̎̏̐̑L̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚͡ ͡҉҉G̔̕̚̕̚҉ ҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠͇ ̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍ ̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚͡ ͡҉҉
̕̚̕̚ ̔̕̚̕̚҉◊ख़҉̵̞� � ̒̓̔̕̚ ̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̕̚̕̚ ̡̢̛̗̘̙̜̝ ͡҉O҉ ̵IS̡̢̢̛The̛̛̖̗̘̙LAMPc̜̝̞̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟ ̠̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓ ̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̕̚̕ ̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚ ͡ ͡҉҉ ̓̔̿̿̿̕̚۩◊}҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝ ̞̟̠͇̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔ ̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿̿̕ ̚̕̚͡ ͡҉ ҉̔̕̚̕̚҉ ~ ҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠͇ ̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍ ̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚͡ ͡ ҉҉ ̔̕̚̕̚҉ ҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘Z̙̜̝̞̟̠� �̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌� �̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚� �# ҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠͇ ̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍ ̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚ ҉҉ ̔̕̚̕̚҉ ҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠͇ ̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍ ̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚͡ # ̎̏̐̑ ̕̚̕̚ ̔̕̚̕̚҉ ҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠͇ ̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍ ̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚͡ ͡҉҉̔̕̚̕̚҉ ͡҉҉̔̕̚̕̚҉ ҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠͇ ̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍ A̎̏̐̑L̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚͡ ͡҉҉G̔̕̚̕̚҉ ҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠͇ ̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍ ̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚͡ ͡҉҉
̕̚̕̚ ̔̕̚̕̚҉◊ख़҉̵̞� � ̒̓̔̕̚ ̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̕̚̕̚ ̡̢̛̗̘̙̜̝ ͡҉O҉ ̵̡̢̢̛̛̛̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟ ̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠̊̋̌̍̎ ̏̐̑̒̓ ̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̕̚̕ ̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚ ͡ ͡҉҉ ̓̔̿̿̿̕̚۩◊
Samurai Scrote’s duodenum is a registered weapon.
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Samurai Scrote teaches a series of philosophy classes to a herd of domestic wildebeest in Sacremento.
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Most of Samurai Scrote’s dinner engagements are canceled due to blunt force injuries.
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Samurai Scrote is considered partially responsible for the Boxer Rebellion. (subsequently he still wears briefs.)
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Samurai Scrote recorded the hit single, “Tube Sock Counterculture” with Roy Orbinson shortly after Roy’s death.
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Samurai Scrote has a transparent rib cage.
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Samurai Scrote can inflate his lungs with LP gas and spew a fourteen-foot death flame into abandoned apartment buildings.
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Samurai Scrote was nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize in 1979, but was disqualified for spraying automatic gunfire into committee headquarters.
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Samurai Scrote is rumored to be holding Lämp against his will, in a modified Port-a-Potty buried deep beneath the ground in a remote area of Bryce Canyon National Park.
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Samurai Scrote keeps his kidneys and gall bladder in a Ziploc baggie labeled, “Steve.”
Dark Sock is not watching the race I see. He prefers right handed turns.
Love me some Samurai Scrote comments.
The very last non-spam post on the Samurai Scrote comment thread was post number 11,222, by yours truly:
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” DarkSock said…
On July 11th 2010 Samurai Scrote’s asshole detached with an audible *pop* and began inch-worming it’s at across the floor heading due west. 8 months later an unsuspecting architect in the greater Los Angeles area would drop his morning double expresso latte in shock as what appeared to be a soiled rolled-up condom sprang off of the floor and began speed-raping his left eyeball with a lewd sock-foot-extracting-itself-from-a-deep-mudhole sucking fart staccato.
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FIN
Bro’s tatt appears to be the start of a tossed salad. And by tossed salad….
Just give me plus my seldom folliculated brow a couple of minutes plus we�ll figure something out. Son.
So the Dos Equis guy is really Samurai Scrote?
Right next to stupid-heart-sunglasses blonde’s face is a shapely nylon-clad knee. I find myself much more interested in how she came by those somewhat swollen pouty lips than I am in whatever some dumbass on the right hand of the picture is wearing. I think we may be seeing a poorly centered photo of a club skank sapphic moment that just HAPPENED to be pulled to the right by the gravity well of Clownboy’s forehead. Either that or I have an overly active imagination.
They may be bleeths, but the brunette is about to spank blondie.
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And I find myself in favor of that.