Profile for Happy Phantom:
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- a member for 17 years, 3 months and 15 days
- has posted 105 messages on the main board
- (of which 1 have appeared on the front page)
- has posted 999 messages on the talk board
- has posted 38 messages on the links board
- (including 6 links)
- has posted 66 stories and 2303 replies on question of the week
- They liked 35 pictures, 32 links, 4 talk posts, and 110 qotw answers.
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» Letters they'll never read
Dear dyslexics,
The unforgivably excessive permutations of terminology and phraseology in the English language undoubtedly appear impenetrable to you. Etymological derivations from multitudinous antediluvian sources must engender bewilderment; to this problematic repetoire, the inexorable advancement of time bequeaths neologisms - nascent, oft-impenetrable linguistic units frequently defying logical explanation. The vagaries of the language must be vexatious to your lexically-disadvantaged prefrontal cortexes; irrespective of your valiant and most strenuous effort, abject failure to comprehend is unfortunately inevitable. In respect of your likelihood of assimilating the information contained within this unnecessarily-abstruse missive, I can only conclude – you’re fucked.
yours,
-hp
(Thu 4th Mar 2010, 22:57, More)
Dear dyslexics,
The unforgivably excessive permutations of terminology and phraseology in the English language undoubtedly appear impenetrable to you. Etymological derivations from multitudinous antediluvian sources must engender bewilderment; to this problematic repetoire, the inexorable advancement of time bequeaths neologisms - nascent, oft-impenetrable linguistic units frequently defying logical explanation. The vagaries of the language must be vexatious to your lexically-disadvantaged prefrontal cortexes; irrespective of your valiant and most strenuous effort, abject failure to comprehend is unfortunately inevitable. In respect of your likelihood of assimilating the information contained within this unnecessarily-abstruse missive, I can only conclude – you’re fucked.
yours,
-hp
(Thu 4th Mar 2010, 22:57, More)
» Creepy!
Devil dog
I've not often partaken of the jazz cigarette since uni - but at a get-together with the old crowd, disgusting quanities of drink were imbibed, and it seemed like a good idea to relive past glories. All was well with the world.
Until I got home, and let the dogs out. Standing outside, breathing the fresh air, enjoying the light, misty rain and trying to sober up a bit, I saw something staring at me from within the hedges at the top of the garden. Baleful, unblinking, it neither moved nor made a sound. Just those huge, wideset eyes, reflecting the light of the moon, full of malevolent, silent menace.
As silently and quickly as I was able, I got the dogs back into the house and shakily wondered what I should do. The garden's fenced all around - so whatever got in would struggle to get out, and I couldn't keep the dogs inside forever. But the *size* of the thing - my initial htoughts had been maybe a stray pitbull, or English terrier - but the eyes were too wide, too large for that. Half-remembered stories of big cat sightings arose unbidden in my mind, and were hurriedly pushed back down.
Drunken wisdom allowed for only one course of action. Nervously, heart beating quicker than it had any right to, I put on a heavy jacket, grabbed a hammer and a fishing knife, and slowly crept up the garden, away from the comforting lights of the house, into the stygian gloom.
Still, it did not move. Still, it did not blink. Its steely basilisk gaze never left mine, and seemed to turn my muscles to cold stone. Forcing myself forwards, I edged further into the dark, into the hedges, to meet my adversary face to face.
And that's more or less how I ended up pissed, stoned, and scared, at the top of my garden, at three in the morning, in the rain, menacing two knot-holes in the fence lit from behind by the security light on a granny flat.
:(
(Thu 7th Apr 2011, 14:28, More)
Devil dog
I've not often partaken of the jazz cigarette since uni - but at a get-together with the old crowd, disgusting quanities of drink were imbibed, and it seemed like a good idea to relive past glories. All was well with the world.
Until I got home, and let the dogs out. Standing outside, breathing the fresh air, enjoying the light, misty rain and trying to sober up a bit, I saw something staring at me from within the hedges at the top of the garden. Baleful, unblinking, it neither moved nor made a sound. Just those huge, wideset eyes, reflecting the light of the moon, full of malevolent, silent menace.
As silently and quickly as I was able, I got the dogs back into the house and shakily wondered what I should do. The garden's fenced all around - so whatever got in would struggle to get out, and I couldn't keep the dogs inside forever. But the *size* of the thing - my initial htoughts had been maybe a stray pitbull, or English terrier - but the eyes were too wide, too large for that. Half-remembered stories of big cat sightings arose unbidden in my mind, and were hurriedly pushed back down.
Drunken wisdom allowed for only one course of action. Nervously, heart beating quicker than it had any right to, I put on a heavy jacket, grabbed a hammer and a fishing knife, and slowly crept up the garden, away from the comforting lights of the house, into the stygian gloom.
Still, it did not move. Still, it did not blink. Its steely basilisk gaze never left mine, and seemed to turn my muscles to cold stone. Forcing myself forwards, I edged further into the dark, into the hedges, to meet my adversary face to face.
And that's more or less how I ended up pissed, stoned, and scared, at the top of my garden, at three in the morning, in the rain, menacing two knot-holes in the fence lit from behind by the security light on a granny flat.
:(
(Thu 7th Apr 2011, 14:28, More)
» Why will you burn in hell?
Well.... this
wot I wrote a while ago, drunkenly, as a response to Rory Lyon's odd and unrelenting focus upon a B3ta stalwart's mother, and never posted due to it being horrible enough in terms of both content and form that I was a bit ashamed:
Let's spare a thought for Rory's mum -
she cannot walk, she cannot run
she spends her life upon her bum
slowly dessicating.
The praline in life's chocolate-box -
she wheels herself down to the docks
and chows down on the sailors' cocks
to make 10p, fellating.
A wizened, crippled, dried-up cunt,
a mother to a spastic runt -
subsisting on the sacrement
that she is forced to swallow.
When she's done, she wheels back home -
her breath smells like the cocks she's blown -
each bump traversed brings forth a moan,
because they've fucked her hollow.
It's not for naught she sells herself
despite her age and failing health -
when Rory sees her hard-earned wealth
he gets a small erection.
With spittle dribbling down his chin
he snatches mummy's whoring-tin
runs to the meter, shoves 10p in -
--At last! Dialup connection.
"Not long now," he thinks with glee
"I'll troll them all, and then they'll see!"
But plans don't trump stupidity
and haven't since his birth.
Try as you might, you won't detect
a hint of wit or intellect -
in fact, it's best you just forget
that Rory crawls the earth.
Trembling fingers start to tap
upon the keyboard on his lap,
producing naught but worthless crap
all rendered with poor grammar.
He spazzes out opprobrium -
"YOUR FAT AND SOS YOURE FATTY MUM!!!1!11!"
- as subtle and as Swiftian
as a mongloid with a hammer.
Born from a back-alley ride,
a lion's roar, he claims with pride.
Sadly, though, the dull cunt lied -
which should be dealt with harshly.
Boasts aside, the truth is that
he's just a boring, trolling twat
- a neutered, mewling pussycat -
Mufasa? More like Parsley.
So spare a thought for Rory's mum -
it is a bad thing that she's done -
pretending that she had a son
instead of an abortion.
The flotsam from her genitalia -
paid for by a lonely sailor -
grew to be an abject failure
grotesque and malproportioned.
Wasting all his jobless time
posting banale shit online -
a spandrel from some sailor slime
squirted in a cripple.
For his hopes, and all his fears,
for all his tantrums, all his tears -
his twisted, tortured, wasted years
won't leave a fucking ripple.
(Wed 18th Jul 2012, 0:31, More)
Well.... this
wot I wrote a while ago, drunkenly, as a response to Rory Lyon's odd and unrelenting focus upon a B3ta stalwart's mother, and never posted due to it being horrible enough in terms of both content and form that I was a bit ashamed:
Let's spare a thought for Rory's mum -
she cannot walk, she cannot run
she spends her life upon her bum
slowly dessicating.
The praline in life's chocolate-box -
she wheels herself down to the docks
and chows down on the sailors' cocks
to make 10p, fellating.
A wizened, crippled, dried-up cunt,
a mother to a spastic runt -
subsisting on the sacrement
that she is forced to swallow.
When she's done, she wheels back home -
her breath smells like the cocks she's blown -
each bump traversed brings forth a moan,
because they've fucked her hollow.
It's not for naught she sells herself
despite her age and failing health -
when Rory sees her hard-earned wealth
he gets a small erection.
With spittle dribbling down his chin
he snatches mummy's whoring-tin
runs to the meter, shoves 10p in -
--At last! Dialup connection.
"Not long now," he thinks with glee
"I'll troll them all, and then they'll see!"
But plans don't trump stupidity
and haven't since his birth.
Try as you might, you won't detect
a hint of wit or intellect -
in fact, it's best you just forget
that Rory crawls the earth.
Trembling fingers start to tap
upon the keyboard on his lap,
producing naught but worthless crap
all rendered with poor grammar.
He spazzes out opprobrium -
"YOUR FAT AND SOS YOURE FATTY MUM!!!1!11!"
- as subtle and as Swiftian
as a mongloid with a hammer.
Born from a back-alley ride,
a lion's roar, he claims with pride.
Sadly, though, the dull cunt lied -
which should be dealt with harshly.
Boasts aside, the truth is that
he's just a boring, trolling twat
- a neutered, mewling pussycat -
Mufasa? More like Parsley.
So spare a thought for Rory's mum -
it is a bad thing that she's done -
pretending that she had a son
instead of an abortion.
The flotsam from her genitalia -
paid for by a lonely sailor -
grew to be an abject failure
grotesque and malproportioned.
Wasting all his jobless time
posting banale shit online -
a spandrel from some sailor slime
squirted in a cripple.
For his hopes, and all his fears,
for all his tantrums, all his tears -
his twisted, tortured, wasted years
won't leave a fucking ripple.
(Wed 18th Jul 2012, 0:31, More)
» Made me laugh
Androcles and the Loin
Proudly mounted on a public display board in a primary school. I particularly liked the way the artist has rendered said loin turning to face the camera with a rather shocked "wtf did you just call me?" expression.
(Thu 6th Dec 2012, 15:04, More)
Androcles and the Loin
Proudly mounted on a public display board in a primary school. I particularly liked the way the artist has rendered said loin turning to face the camera with a rather shocked "wtf did you just call me?" expression.
(Thu 6th Dec 2012, 15:04, More)
» Real Life Slapstick II
Everyone loves wavy lines, right? I'm sure everyone loves wavy lines.
~~wavy lines~~
University halls, arse end of the 90s; there was a long, reasonably steep road, with a speed bump and a bend at the bottom. Wandering back from lectures, or the pub, or something - probably stoned - I saw a girl making the descent on a pair of rollerblades. She cut an impressive figure; crouched down into a racing stance, slim, toned, her long brown hair blowing in the wind - she sailed effortlessly past, knees flexing to account for the speedbump without her upper body moving at all. Quite aside from the fact that she was reasonably attractive, her graceful economy of movement was a thing of genuine beauty. My gaze briefly followed as she rapidly disappeared away, into the fog of my then lamentable short term memory.
Turning back to my walk home, it became apparent that she was merely the appetizer to the substantial main course. Her 'big boned' friend, bedecked like the Michelin Man in all the protective gear money can buy, was approaching at a speed that was clearly very worrying to her, and also to any innocent bystanders in her path. Face beet red, stature bolt upright, and arms windmilling like a mong in an MMA ring, she hurtled past with a plaintive wail that rose and then immediately fell in a Doppler shift of unadulterated panic and misery. I turned in time to see her reach the speedbump; I don't know how, or why, but the centre of her not inconsiderable gravity seemed to be placed several yards above her head, and the moment her blades simultaneously touched the rise she pivoted violently backwards, never bending in the slightest - and with a distinctly audible "crack", hit the deck like the fist of an angry god.
She was groggily up and on her way before long. Which is just as well, as I was too crippled with laughter to actually do anything constructive. Hopefully, her padding - both natural and purchased - protected her from any real harm
tl;dr: fat chick falls over, suffers potential brain damage.
(Mon 6th Oct 2014, 2:01, More)
Everyone loves wavy lines, right? I'm sure everyone loves wavy lines.
~~wavy lines~~
University halls, arse end of the 90s; there was a long, reasonably steep road, with a speed bump and a bend at the bottom. Wandering back from lectures, or the pub, or something - probably stoned - I saw a girl making the descent on a pair of rollerblades. She cut an impressive figure; crouched down into a racing stance, slim, toned, her long brown hair blowing in the wind - she sailed effortlessly past, knees flexing to account for the speedbump without her upper body moving at all. Quite aside from the fact that she was reasonably attractive, her graceful economy of movement was a thing of genuine beauty. My gaze briefly followed as she rapidly disappeared away, into the fog of my then lamentable short term memory.
Turning back to my walk home, it became apparent that she was merely the appetizer to the substantial main course. Her 'big boned' friend, bedecked like the Michelin Man in all the protective gear money can buy, was approaching at a speed that was clearly very worrying to her, and also to any innocent bystanders in her path. Face beet red, stature bolt upright, and arms windmilling like a mong in an MMA ring, she hurtled past with a plaintive wail that rose and then immediately fell in a Doppler shift of unadulterated panic and misery. I turned in time to see her reach the speedbump; I don't know how, or why, but the centre of her not inconsiderable gravity seemed to be placed several yards above her head, and the moment her blades simultaneously touched the rise she pivoted violently backwards, never bending in the slightest - and with a distinctly audible "crack", hit the deck like the fist of an angry god.
She was groggily up and on her way before long. Which is just as well, as I was too crippled with laughter to actually do anything constructive. Hopefully, her padding - both natural and purchased - protected her from any real harm
tl;dr: fat chick falls over, suffers potential brain damage.
(Mon 6th Oct 2014, 2:01, More)