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View Poll Results: Vin Diesel Gay | |||
Yes | 91 | 64.54% | |
No | 50 | 35.46% | |
Voters: 141. You may not vote on this poll |
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#91
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Re: BBV and Poetry
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Yes he has Parkinsons, it was a horrible joke. I thought you said she had fat legs? I am a fan of such wimmins. Are you in school for poems or out or autodidactic? Monty Cantsin is the BBV Poet Laureate but we should form a Grand Counsel of Poemememts and have HU Triolet Contests for Rolls. [/ QUOTE ] I am an autodidact, who is Monty Cantsin?, I'm down for the HU Trioletements, but must warn that I am currently mucho busto. A HU Haiku Slamement might be cool too. Brag; I was the National Haiku Champ in 1998 and 99, and got a Haiku published in Time Magazine, that esteemed Literary Journal. |
#92
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Re: BBV and Poetry
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Brag, Beat, Variance At its best without much sense, bastard haikuments. [/ QUOTE ] easily your best (only good?) post |
#93
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Re: BBV and Poetry
Haiku are easy.
However they should not rhyme. On the turn, checkraise! |
#94
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Re: BBV and Poetry
all-in with a straight
the dealer yawns, burns and turns buried by a spade |
#95
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Re: BBV and Poetry
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all-in with a straight the dealer yawns, burns and turns buried by a spade [/ QUOTE ] don't be a racist absolutely no need to call a spade a spade |
#96
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Re: BBV and Poetry
WELL SON OF A BITCH
WELL SON OF A GODDAMN BITCH HACHAHACHAHA |
#97
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Re: BBV and Poetry
GODDAMN ACE OF SPADES
RIGHT THERE AS BIG AS TEXAS MAN [censored] OOT |
#98
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Re: BBV and Poetry
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GODDAMN ACE OF SPADES RIGHT THERE AS BIG AS TEXAS MAN [censored] OOT [/ QUOTE ] I don't get the last line, what does OOT have to do with the A of Spades? |
#99
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Re: BBV and Poetry
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[ QUOTE ] GODDAMN ACE OF SPADES RIGHT THERE AS BIG AS TEXAS MAN [censored] OOT [/ QUOTE ] I don't get the last line, what does OOT have to do with the A of Spades? [/ QUOTE ] Everything |
#100
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Re: BBV and Poetry
Not bad. I took the liberty of making a few light edits. I think you'll agree it scans better.
SIREN SONG When they come to remove you from your house with a crane they will find crushed beneath the weight of your massive ulcerating carcass a couch. And beneath that couch a folded square of paper containing this poem. The emergency workers will stand in a loose circle poking at it with the tongs of life until one especially bold paramedic (the new one, still careless, curiousity not yet burned away by retarded grease fires half-eaten cats and low limit busto shotgun banquets) unfolds it with a nervous frown. And he will read about my hands and their fascinating hobbies (what with the hiking and the delving) and their desire to wander around your body (so adorably chubby although now in retrospect perhaps even then on the cusp of hideously obese) like a hash-dimmed college junior watching a blurry Europe through the perforations of a summer rail pass. I hope he doesn't respond the way you did with mild confusion and a puzzled look of incomprehension and pity. Maybe instead he will wonder standing in the flashing red lights beneath the whale of Damocles, How is it that a woman's body can be so much like a planet enormous terrifying indifferent? /mc |
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