It's time to face retribution for our past misdeeds.
We all is guilty, so we is. Turns out a massive amount of our monkeybunches' errors and delinquent misdemeanours have turned up on the Internet, either through the picture-snapping efforts of various passerby or possibly by some form of spy system. A chocolate spy system, possibly run through the picture-snapping efforts of various passerby.
Chocolate passerby.
In any case, compromising pictures of all our early infractions are coming out the whazoo. They're being distributed around on newsgroups along with cheap celebrity porn, they're showing up in even cheaper spam efforts to catch our attention to same celebrity porn, and with disturbing frequency being posted at message boards of doubtful morality. Such as this one.
Chocolate morality.
Unfortunately, it's only a matter of time before these photos make our way to our mom's local chapter of knitting and frittery, thus inducing her to call us up and scream with alarming volume for our daring to actually engage the services of prostitutes, hit men, and organ thieves. For those of us who still live in our parent's basement (ninety percent of DsotM membership) this could provide further problems, possibly culminating in the total revoking of our driving privileges, and for those such as I, juice money and comic book allowance.
Chocolate dick-squeeze.
There's really only one faint possibillity that just might save us from our mommies wrath. If we were to judge each other in the true spirirt of Christian virtue, deriding each other for our sins and horrible steps away from the path, we might be able to escape the horrible punishment awaiting us. Therefore, facing the only solution, I propose the following. In order not to provoke a fruitless cavalcade of name-calling and wedgie-giving we'll take turns exposing evidence of each other's crimes, thus preventing a hopeless spiral into feudalistic cacophony rendering us all defenseless in front of our mothers. To repeat, we'll revert to kindergarten setup and take turns, just like when we used to have to close our eyes to allow whoever stole Roger's lunch to return it to his cubby. In reality it won't be like that at all, but I thought now would be a good time to get that off my chest seeing as I was the one who grabbed ol' Roggie's tinfoil-wrapped sandwich.
Chocolate...aw forget it. You'll get the hang of it. I'll begin with this snapshot of that unpleasant extraterrestrial conflict that Santa Claus was involved with last year.
Once he fesses up a full account of what the great googily fuck was going on there, he can present a horrible picture detailing someone else's disgraceful actions, say... ijo na, thereby beginning a circle of vengeance that will never end. Never.
In any case, the important thing is to save face in front of our mommies. If we're brought before her red-faced from crying and our backs throughly thrashed, she might have mercy.
And not subject me to one of those horrid bathing rituals with the radio and the razor and the ow ow ow ow.
Blech.
You're up, Santa Claus. Rescue yourself from Grammie Claus or face the vengeance of her reindeer kinfolk. And when done you can turn on whoever you feel's been naughty this year and force them to belt out a stocking-full of confession.
if it be answers you're after .... look away now
Look, it's all very simple. We wub Ray. Ray wubs us. Everytime Ray erupts a post and DSotM grudgingly surrenders the display space, magic happens. Someone somewhere will die. Someone somewhere will be born. The earth is irrevocably brought one step closer to the apocalypse. Thousands of horny teenage males are pumping themselves in unison. A minimum of 20,000 audio devices are playing Sweet Home Alabama and the entire earth could potentially be thrown out of orbit if at least 3 billion people simultaneously farted in the same direction. All of this happens the very second the Ray clicks "Add Reply" from his moosetop computer in Toronto. So to answer your question, whoever it was, if there even was one, I don't know. Got it now?
Colonel Mustard. In the study. With the revolver.
So... do I have to wait my "turn" to be exposed before I can begin slinging the dookie here? I got enough poop to fill a zoo.
Damnit, the member names should be in bold!
Let's give our resident arctic boozer a few days to perk up with a flimsy excuse for his behaviour in front of the Martians, eh Thunder? If the weekend goes by without him showing face, it'll be open season for you or anyone else to set a picture on the table and request for ijo na, or whoever, to stand up and cry a confession.
(This is all just a veiled excuse to pick on her ferret-lovin' ass, I guess)
In any case, let's try to keep things orderly. We wouldn't want this whole deal to blow up in our faces and leave us without our escape route from Momma's apron strings, right?
What kind of question is that, uniboob?
Of course I exist... now give me a couple of hours to tell the tale or you'll be up to your collective asses in coal for the next 36 years.
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