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CONKERSBADFURDAY

Member Since 22 Jun 2006
Offline Last Active Yesterday, 07:53 PM

Topics I've Started

We fucked up guys. We fucking fucked up. Fuck

29 September 2016 - 06:56 PM

Godfuckingdamnitmotherfuckerfuckingfuckingfuck

 

Our legacy is dying

 

DYING

 

We are no longer the first or even second result when googling Nintenporn. We are number nine. NINE. You know what happened to nine? he got fucking eaten by fucking seven. Piece of shit.

 

I hope you all realize this is what death feels like. I'ts cold and lonely and the tunnel closes upon nothing but empty Samus tits. They flab and fold because we've grown old, and now we're dead, so embrace the cold.

 

I hate love all of you.

 

Edit, at the same time this site is delivering on some serious Peach tits. Like goddamn them knockers

 

http://nintenporn.tumblr.com/

 

Super NSFW in case any of you idiots are that idiotic. (You know who I'm talkin' about ;) ;) ;) )


Aquaman Porn

20 July 2016 - 03:34 PM

Okay, so I do this comic book podcast called Comics Dash. It's sort of a mess, but it's my mess so fuck off. Anyhow, the running joke has been that Aquaman and Black Manta clearly want to fuck. The sexual tension between the two is insane in the current run of DC comics. Having gotten absolutely fed up with them not fucking, I decided it was my job to fix that. Below is the quick porno story i wrote which I'll be reading on the next podcast.

 

For reference, this is our latest podcast which Plant might like since we talked about beating off dead horses http://wethenerdy.co...ff-dead-horses/

 

So, onto the sex!

 

 

Aquaman closed his chamber door sporting a wide grin that would soon have a dick in it. His wife knew something fishy was going on, and that’s why he had taken a hook out of Bill Cosby’s hat—who once terrorized the ocean’s college campuses as the Morerape Eel—and asked Mera to toast the recapture of Black Manta. She had taken the bait. Now she was sleeping with the literal fishes, but in the metaphorical sense since she’d wake up tomorrow with probably a bad hangover and wondering why there was seamen on her back. But maybe not. Being a man of the sea, Aquaman had a lot of wet dreams.

 

The king of Atlantis made his way through his castle, descended a bunch of steps, and walked through a few gloomy hallways, stopping every so often to make sure he wasn’t being followed. His conchubine was in the dungeon, which meant he had to be careful. It would be one thing if Atlantis found out he was cheating on his wife, but a whole coddamn mess if they found out his lover was Black Manta.

 

Still, that made the whole thing all the more fun. Something about keeping your friends close and your anenemoies closer, though at this point, Black Manta was neither. What should one do with his lovers?

 

Aquaman rubbed at his crotch, which was stiffer than a sturgeon’s nose, and knew exactly what he should do with his lover.

 

“Sir?” the two soldiers stationed to guard the undersea terrorist said. They looked on edge because Black Manta always escaped. Always. It was all part of the plan.

 

“I must question the prisoner,” Aquaman said in his most offishal voice. “Please let us be until I call you back.”

 

“Yes sir” both said, happy to be free of the most cursed post in all of Atlantis. Aquaman watched them round a corner, their shoulders relaxed and their spears clanking against the stone floor. Soon they were out of sight, heading to the break room. Aquaman listened, herring their footsteps fade into the background.

 

“Please tell me you aren’t wearing orange and fucking green,” Black Manta said sharkastically. He was facing the wall and not wearing a shirt.

 

“Have to.” Aquaman said as he closed the door. “I look brilliant in orange and green.”

 

The undersea terrorist laughed, his voice deep and sexy because he was deep and sexy. “You look like a clownfish.”

 

“Shut up and kiss me.”

 

Black Manta tuna round and soon he and Aquaman were wrapped in a pike embrace and staring into each other’s walleyes. Black Manta’s were like green pools of ocean water, and Aquamans were blue or some shit. Back Manta then kissed his lover, so gently that it was like a ghost upon Aquaman’s lips.

 

“I missed you,” the scarred terrorist said.

 

“Always. But did you have to kill eight people this time?”

 

Black Manta tugged at Aquaman’s crotch. “You know it’s more fun this way.”

 

Aquaman grabbed at Black Manta’s bass and brought him close so their crotches were rubbing together. Even with his pants still on, he could feel Black Manta’s black manta throbbing lustily. Aquaman leaned in close and whispered into his lover’s ear: “It is better this way.”

 

Black Manta knelt and unbuckled Aquaman’s ugly green pants. He then placed his finger on Aquaman’s tridick and ran it from the tip to the base. It didn’t take very long because Aquaman had a small penis, but still much bigger than the Flash’s who fucking sucks and should be ashamed for existing.

 

“That feels good,” Aquaman said.

 

“This will feel better.”

 

Black Manta opened his mouth and began salmonating all over Aquaman’s member. Aquaman groaned.

 

“Don’t even think about it,” Black Manta said between suckerfishing. “I’m just lubing this up so you can stick it into my trench.”

 

"Never!” Aquaman said, but he blushed because it totally happened one time. He had a hair triggerfish when it came to ejaculating.

 

When Black Manta finished, he turned around and pulled his own pants down, exposing his dark fishlight.

 

“Stick it in and oyster it around,” he said in his deep, sexy voice because he was still deep and sexy in case you forgot.

 

Aquaman obliged. He thrust his throbbing member into Black Manta’s halibut, forcing it in so far their balls slapped together. His lover made a face, and Aquaman knew it would stringray a bit. Black Manta was still getting used playing the role of beta. It had to be this way though, because Aquaman was a king and, despite having a small penis and suffering from premature ejaculation, could not a bottom. That would just be orcaward.

 

It only took a few quick threshes before Aquaman was breaching his salty chum into Black Manta’s tight carphole. “Ugh,” Aquaman groaned, pleasure shivering through his loins.

 

“My turn,” Black Manta said, turning around. His penis was huge and already dribbling precum.

 

Aquaman knelt down and opened his mouth, goblin sharking as much of the penis as he could. Like Black Manta with anal, he wasn’t very good at deep throating.

 

“Just relax,” Black Manta said. “You don’t have to take the whale thing. And if it gets uncomfortable, let minnow.”

 

Aquaman wasn’t normally koi, but Black Manta could somehow make him blush with ease. He felt his face heat up, and Black Manta began to laugh.

 

“You’re cute like this.”

 

On his knees and with his ugly green pants still around his ankles, the king of Atlantis suckerfished the worst terrorist the sea had ever seen to completion. A salty, warm spray filled his mouth, and now the last question was: Should be squid it out or swallow?

 

With a light shrug, Aquaman gulpered it down. It wouldn’t do to have the guards come back and find an empty cell filled with cum. That would raise some strange questions.

 

Black Manta sat back down on his cot, and Aquaman sat next to him. For the next twenty minutes, the two cuddlefished together, happy to be in each others’ company. Then it was time for Aquaman to leave, though not before hiding the key to his secret lover’s cell underneath the cot.

 

“Until next time,” he said.

 

“Until next time,” Black Manta said.


Wayward Son

09 July 2016 - 01:24 PM

I wrote this poem thing something like two years ago, maybe further back, and told myself it was publishable. I'd hang onto it for that right moment. I then forgot about it. Well, today I recalled it (thank you Kansas (the band)), and reread it. Dayum is it pretentious. Perhaps the most pretentious thing I've ever written. Not publishable, but hopefully interesting. It's so "in my own head" that it maybe reads like nonsense.

 

The Pledge

The chains the chains
Hark and hear the chains
The savior’s come the angels sing
Hark and hear the chains

 

I hear them well this sunny strife, oh glory, soundswept chains! He comes he comes, oh bless his heart, to cure us of our pains. In crude we bleed and stone we stand for penance harsh yet just demand, but sorrow sighs, forgiveness cries; I hear him in this land! Let Nowhere be a Somewhere now, a loving place an Eden found where we can all please live as one away from sin and summer’s degradation.

 

The chains the chains
Rattle in the light
The Wayward Son is come at last

Hark and fix our blight

 

The sun shines far in red disgrace, a cooling forge a listless face. A once awash in sin and rape when tempers flared and minds erased, it brought upon a vivid heat that burned away all grace and sleep. But now it cracks and melts away, ending now an endless day—the Journey starts this night. Our Savior brings a frozen love, a happiness and winter found, so hear me now, the Wayward Son! He’ll whisper gone the devastation.

 

The chains the chains!

 

The Arc is near and arcing here while chanting with cold metal. See the thermals rise in joy; salvation spites the Devil. Apostles wrought and with them brought creations for a world so fraught with sin and longing for a cure, a something better something more: to stop the faultiness of man. And now the fabled ship of life in shipment knifes its way across the sand with calling swells so far from Hell, halleluiah, please hear our reformation!

 

See the sea of might!

 

Massive ship with missing mast is pulled with love and windless mass. Crossbeams stretch with arms out wide, bringing to us children life. Above, above, I see him there! Our Wayward Son is brilliant fair in everything he’s bound to do, perfection marked with happy tears. See the sun bow down to him, setting red and burning dim. The heat is gone at final last, the Wayward Son has stopped our past with presents for our future too: He brims with glaciation.

 

He sings away the sins we cast!

 

Now the happy children move in dancing circles all but prove how right we were to raise our songs and voices high in praising thanks to noble heights. Stuck no longer in our ways, we move at last to setting days, to fix ourselves to fix our world, a second chance with brand new swirls. The sand now gleams in brilliant orange, copper flakes that rise and shake to joyful bursts from chilling works of wonder. The Wayward Son has stopped at last to perfect jubilation!

 

Hark this Godly knight!

 

The chains they fall as we all bow to he who saved us all from imperfection. We ring around his ship so vast in spiral furls of penance asking for the night to stay for cold to love and dreams to sway forever in our hearts. He looks at us with golden eyes that well with tears and kindness wise; his mouth gapes wide in wailing song that shifts the wind and makes the night turn long forever the correction. His piercing sound of searing love starts our hearts and fixes desperation!

 

The chains the chains
Noble wonder chains
The savior came he angel sang
Hark and praise the chains

 

The Turn

 

The chains the chains?

 

Nowhere is alive at last, found again and starting fresh; a brand new name of Wandering Child in reference to perfection mild a savior of all nations. Shadows in cast outer glows, I see this city thrive and grow while stars rain down in heavens sky like rivers made of silver. And there the ship is resting peace while all our world awakes from sleep, for Journeys start and Journeys end, but mind that not my weary friends, for tonight we all are one absolved in limitation.

 

Wrong invades the right?

 

But something isn’t quite so right, for joyful praise is lacking might. Apostles see and nod and weep but sing with us they cannot reap the wonders under stars which glide upon this night. I go to them; they turn away with stoic love and nothing say their eyes which crack and burn to pressures I may never learn in life. And yet I yearn to comfort them, for they brought wonder savior’s din which cured us all and fixed the Fall with perfect invocation.

 

His wailing heart is broken vast?

 

Worry is expanding here, a swelling heat with busy fear. Apostles search in frantic dance for missing love and hopeful chance to leave but forced to stay as Nowhere lives in great dismay again. There he sits, the gold is gone, replaced by fear and tarnished bronze, huddled in a darkness deep so pale and small and filled with grief that shakes him with a violent hand whose wrists are red and broken in. Singing screams hold laceration.

 

Hark this painful night?

The Prestige

 

To the Arc we now must go, lost in thought and body too. Apostles come in silent black, worry free but troubled yet the night still shines in iron deep with silver stars and magic free to fix our world forever. My Wayward Son begins to quake as we approach his rightful fate when wrongness bleeds in brightness hot like burning suns all casting rot to never speak again. Life it dies as corpses writhe of children small in mutilation.

 

The chains the chains
Bleeding on in spite
The future died relive the past
Hark this sorrow sight

 

We bring the dark. We bring the cold. We flee the sun forever old. An Eden once lived in this world, a flourish full with greens and blues where cities dwelt and grew and bred, but all is gone. All is dead. The Wayward Sons bring life to us in glory false, salvation lost forever. The Cosmos watches in disgust, our lifeless ball of death and dust which circles in the nether. Inconceivability bites in savage molestation.

 

The chains the chains
Slaving needed chains
Our saviors live and die and sing
Hark and fear the chains

 

 


Plant has bad tastes. Also, Half-Life 3: coming today!

22 May 2016 - 06:02 PM

As someone who's never played either of the first two games, I don't get why they're loved so much. I just see some Tenchi-Muyo-lookin' muh'fucker, but there must be something that makes his games so good. Is it just the story, or are they games that were "good for their time" or "ahead of their time" and nowadays they're just cult favs?

YA DON'T FUCKIN' SAY?


Streams

07 March 2016 - 07:53 PM

Before I begin: Those of you that actually read my fiction/poetry know that I tend to write to music. You also know that the music I tend to write to is by a rockin' mofo named Thomas Rakowitz. Well, earlier in the year he put out an instrumental EP titled, Streams Volume 1, and I’ve started a project about it.

 

This is chapter one. I'm considering giving this a new name when it's done since the original idea and the execution are vastly different. For now though, it works.

 

 

Chapter 1: We’re a Long Way From Home

 

“All streams run to the sea, but the sea is not full; to the place where the streams flow, there they flow again.” ~ Ecclesiastes 1:7

 

Rain was a long ways from home. She had been walking all morning, mostly humming to herself and skipping when the mood struck, and now she wished she had brought more snacks. All her Oreos were gone, and she was down to her last juice box. She supposed it was her fault for eating all of the cookies right away, but she also supposed it was impossible to only eat just one.

 

The sky was cloudless and a piercing shade of blue, and Rain couldn’t have asked for a nicer day for her adventure. She knew that real adventurers could tell the time based on the position of the sun and moon, and since she was on one herself, she decided to try. She considered the sun and the length of her shadow, looking back and forth, and then she checked her wristwatch. Her shadow did the same. It was a few minutes after 11:00.

 

Rain was going to the sea. Her teacher said that all streams eventually lead to the sea, and Rain had always wanted to see the sea. She had seen pictures of course, some she had drawn herself (her mother had put the best ones on the fridge) but she had never been there. Even at eight, Rain knew that seeing and being where very different things.

So she had grabbed her Lilo and Stitch backpack, filled it with cookies and juice boxes, and set off, following the little stream that ran through the edge of her family’s farm. She figured she’d be back by lunch time, though now she wasn’t so sure. The sea should really be on the horizon by now. Rain shrugged because it wasn’t a problem; it was a beautiful summer day, and she still had one juice box left. It would last her until she got to where she needed to go.

 

The stream gurgled around a little bend as it dropped half a foot in what was easily the prettiest waterfall in all of Oklahoma, and Rain decided to take her shoes off and soak her feet in the cold water. She started humming again as birds skimmed the surface, looking for bugs and fish to eat, and checked the map she had drawn the night before. It was on a white piece of computer paper and expertly colored in crayon. She had started with her own home and fields, which she knew like the back of her hand, and then the Jordy’s farm and finally the Casper’s. She was now nearing the edge of the Casper’s farm, and her map said the sea was just ahead.

 

Rain nodded because her map wouldn’t lie—she had drawn it after all, and she wouldn’t lie to herself—and stood up. It was time to go.

 

For Rain, this adventure was more than just her desire to see the sea, though that was a big part of it. No, this was serious. The stream was shrinking. Rain played it every day during the summer, which made it hers even if it did cut through at least six other farms, and she paid very close attention to it. It was growing smaller. When she had first learned how to swim at four, it was practically its own sea, but now she could swim across it in a few minutes and even touch the bottom with her toes if she stretched them hard enough.

 

Rain was afraid it might disappear entirely if someone didn’t do something about it.

 

“Are you lost, little girl?” a voice rang out in a sing-song fashion.

 

“Who’s there?” Rain called back. She wasn’t afraid since she was still near the Casper’s farm and knew the family very well, even if she didn’t recognize the voice.

 

“Turn around. You don’t want to step over the threshold.”

 

“Sure I do,” Rain said, though now she was a little worried. This sounded like an adult, and an adult would make her turn around and go home. An adult would yell since she was very explicitly told to not leave her house until all her chores were done, and she hadn’t done any of them. She also wasn’t supposed to wander into other people’s yards without permission.

 

When the voice made a soft, hacking sound and a grey cat with purple stripes walked out of a tall patch of grass, it’s ringed tail standing tall and proud, Rain forgot all about the angry adult.

 

“Oh hey kitty!” she called, already taking a slow step towards it, one hand outstretched so she could pet it. “Who’s a good girl? Are you a good girl?”

 

“Ugh,” the cat said. “Why is it always children? Listen little girl, you can still go back. The threshold is—”

 

“You can talk!” Rain blurted out. She had never met a talking cat before, though she supposed since she was on an adventure, anything was possible. She watched enough cartoons to know that. “What’s your name?”

 

“You’re about six steps away from being stuck here. Turn around now and go home.”

 

“Are you one of the Casper’s cats?” Rain stamped her foot. It was just like Jody Casper to have a talking cat and not tell her. If she had a talking cat, she’d tell everyone! Well, maybe not everyone, but she’d tell Jody. Maybe.

 

The cat sighed in such a heavy fashion that it flopped over onto the ground. “Why is it always children?” it sang to itself.

 

Seeing an open opportunity, Rain walked over and began to pet the strangely-colored tabby. The cat’s fur was so soft that it couldn’t be a farm cat. Rain should know; she had had three farm cats, and they were always filthy, especially Peanut Butter who was perpetually caked with something that most certainly was not cake.

 

“What are you doing?” the cat asked, now purring.

 

“How come you can talk?”

 

“All cats can talk.”

 

“My cats can’t talk. I should know, I talk to them all the time. They never say anything back.”

 

“That’s because you’ve never asked them anything worth responding to.”

 

“Oh.” Rain wasn’t entirely sure what that meant, but it sounded rude. “You aren’t a very nice cat, are you?”

 

“If you don’t turn around in two more steps, you’ll be stuck on this path,” the cat said again. It stopped purring.

 

Rain got up and took two more steps south, following the stream. “Good,” she said. “This is the path I need to be on.”

 

The cat responded with another sigh and a bad word.