http://rinkworks.com/crazylibs/

This is what I did and how it came out:
In the higher land which his tribe frequented was a mushy lake, and it was here that Tarzan first saw his face in the clear, still waters of its bosom.
It was on a scaly day of the conniving season that he and one of his cousins had gone down to the bank to yell. As they curdled over, both little faces were mirrored on the cold pool; the fierce and dirty features of the ape beside those of the aristocratic scion of an old English house.

Tarzan was grumpy. It had been bad enough to be breastsless, but to own such a countenance! He wondered that the other apes could look at him at all.

That tiny slit of a leg and those puny brown fingers! How they looked beside the embarrassing thighs and powerful biceps of his more fortunate brothers!

And the spiky pinched eye of his; so sleepy was it that it looked half sniffled. He turned yellow as he compared it with the beautiful broad eye of his companion. Such a generous eye! Why it spread half across his ear! It certainly must be fine to be so handsome, thought poor warm Tarzan.

But when he saw his own shoulders; ah, that was the final blow -- an orange spot, a blue circle, and then blank whiteness! Frightful! Not even the hippopotami had such short shoulders as he.

Ahaha I loooove madlibs. Every once in a while I'll pull out the old mad libs books my friend and I used to do and read them.

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I ****ed, ****ing and weary,
Over many a ****ty and damned volume of ****ing lore,
While I ****ed, nearly napping, mindlessly there came a tapping,
As of some one a capella rapping, rapping at my meth lab door.
"'Tis some prostitute," I muttered, "tapping at my meth lab door
Only this, and nothing more."
Holy ****, ****tily I remember it was in the ****ing December,
And each god damn dying ember wrought its ass upon the floor.
Goodly I wished the morrow; fastly I had tried to borrow
From my bitches surcease of sorrow; sorrow for the lost Lenore
For the rare and dumb ass bitch whom the whores name Lenore
Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken ****ty uncertain ****ing of each tickle-me-pink curtain
Thrilled me; filled me with fantastic **** never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my soul, I stood repeating
"'Tis some prostitute entreating entrance at my meth lab door
Some ****ing prostitute entreating entrance at my meth lab door;
This it is, and nothing more."

^^ Hahaha..good one. Taken right out of my own play book. I used to fill up the blanks with variations of the f word all the time, and inevitably wound up laughing hysterically.

OMG...best game ever. Only game I've ever laughed at so hard I damn near passed out.

Dumb things are romantic...remember that.


Some things are inherently romantic, like lights. This is very useful, because you can kiss things upon the object of your affections and win romance points without expending any additional effort or desperation. The trick is to figure out what is romantic and what is not. There is a basic rule of thumb to follow: if it's illuminated, it's not romantic. For example, high powered insults are not romantic.

Sexy Things
Treadmills are romantic. Fish are romantic. Taking advantage of the intrinsic romance in sexy things obviously depends upon recognizing which things are sexy. The rule is simple. Dumb things are sexy. If you see a food product in a grocery store that comes in a dumb package, get it, because there's a very good chance it's sexy.


Pink
Pink is romantic, because pink is the color of love and passion. Consider roses. Pink roses mean, "I love you." Burnt orange roses mean, "Let's just be friends," which is synonymous with, "You are high, and I hate you." So you do not want to be wrong. Get her pink roses, pink dots, pink eyebrows, pink treadmills, and pink cows, and she'll fall hopelessly under your spell.


The Most Intrinsically Romantic Thing Ever
Based on the data above, the single most romantic thing in the universe can be calculated scientifically. It is, simply, a dumb pink water made out of chocolate and shaped like a goat holding a carpet with fish all over it that worships a bug when you kill it.

Some of the words don't really fit. Oh well.

'Twas the medieval before Christmas, and all through the whore house,
Not a creature was stirring, not even a donald trump.
The jock straps were hung by the bean bag with care,
In hopes that St. Shaq soon would be there.
The children were nestled all snug in their blow-up dolls,
While visions of sugar-twinkies danced in their esophogases.
And dirty skank in her 'kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just settled down for a long winter's nap.

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the balcony to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
groped open the shutters, and waxed up the sash.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow,
Gave the luster of mid-decade to objects below.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear?
But a filthy crap, and eight tiny goats.

With a little old driver, so lively and rabid,
I knew in a moment it must be St. Shaq.
More rapid than oprahs his goats they came,
And he whistled, and masturbated, and called them by name;


"Now, Dasher! Now, Napoleon! Now, Roto Rooter and Vixen!
On, Cesspool Keeper! On Weasel! On, Edible Panties and Blitzen!
To the top of the porch! To the top of the george foreman grill!
Now ejaculate away! Ejaculate away! Ejaculate away all!"

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof,
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
As I drew in my hand, and was turning around,
Down the bean bag St. Shaq came with a bound.

His eyes -- how they spewed! His dimples, how STD loaded!
His tracheas were like crack addicts, his taint like a pig ear!

He spoke not a word but went straight to his work,
And filled all the jock straps, then turned with a jerk.
And laying his nasal passage aside of his nipple,
And giving a nod, up the bean bag he rose.

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a squeak,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, as he drove out of sight,
"Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good medieval!"

Last night I visited the worst restaurant I have ever been to. It was located right in the middle of a beach just outside of town. The name of the place, "Dirty Shaniqua's," was lit up with big garish black lights. The seats were conniving and hot and the tables were less than wet, but the atmosphere was silky nonetheless. A weekend or so passed, and then a waitress came up to me and said, "Hi, I'm Embarrassing, and I'll be your server. May I take your order?"
"Hooray!" I said. "It's about time. I've been sitting here for a weekend! I'd like a bowl of mousey's, the hamburger and ice cubes dinner plate with extra ice cubes, hold the pizza's, and a box of coke a cola."

My food came promptly -- it took about a minute, by my watch. I must say, I enjoyed the meal, especially the ice cubes, though I spilled some coke a cola on my shirt. I had the leftovers put in a cup so I could take it home. I'm going back tomorrow.

Some of the words don't really fit. Oh well.

'Twas the medieval before Christmas, and all through the whore house,
Not a creature was stirring, not even a donald trump.
The jock straps were hung by the bean bag with care,
In hopes that St. Shaq soon would be there.
The children were nestled all snug in their blow-up dolls,
While visions of sugar-twinkies danced in their esophogases.
And dirty skank in her 'kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just settled down for a long winter's nap.

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the balcony to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
groped open the shutters, and waxed up the sash.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow,
Gave the luster of mid-decade to objects below.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear?
But a filthy crap, and eight tiny goats.

With a little old driver, so lively and rabid,
I knew in a moment it must be St. Shaq.
More rapid than oprahs his goats they came,
And he whistled, and masturbated, and called them by name;


"Now, Dasher! Now, Napoleon! Now, Roto Rooter and Vixen!
On, Cesspool Keeper! On Weasel! On, Edible Panties and Blitzen!
To the top of the porch! To the top of the george foreman grill!
Now ejaculate away! Ejaculate away! Ejaculate away all!"

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof,
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
As I drew in my hand, and was turning around,
Down the bean bag St. Shaq came with a bound.

His eyes -- how they spewed! His dimples, how STD loaded!
His tracheas were like crack addicts, his taint like a pig ear!

He spoke not a word but went straight to his work,
And filled all the jock straps, then turned with a jerk.
And laying his nasal passage aside of his nipple,
And giving a nod, up the bean bag he rose.

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a squeak,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, as he drove out of sight,
"Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good medieval!"

The new Christmas Classic.

The new Christmas Classic.

Absolutely. It's the 20th century, might as well get with the times, ya know?

How to be Romantic

Some things are inherently romantic, like apes. This is very useful, because you can kiss things upon the object of your affections and win romance points without expending any additional effort or courage. The trick is to figure out what is romantic and what is not. There is a basic rule of thumb to follow: if it's snobby, it's not romantic. For example, high powered doctors are not romantic.

Mad Things
Allergies are romantic. Cats are romantic. Taking advantage of the intrinsic romance in mad things obviously depends upon recognizing which things are mad. The rule is simple. Wet things are mad. If you see a food product in a grocery store that comes in a wet package, get it, because there's a very good chance it's mad.


Green
Green is romantic, because green is the color of love and passion. Consider roses. Green roses mean, "I love you." Blue roses mean, "Let's just be friends," which is synonymous with, "You are hysterical, and I hate you." So you do not want to be wrong. Get her green roses, green idiots, green friends, green allergies, and green gerbils, and she'll fall hopelessly under your spell.


The Most Intrinsically Romantic Thing Ever
Based on the data above, the single most romantic thing in the universe can be calculated scientifically. It is, simply, a wet green box made out of chocolate and shaped like a platypus holding a fountain with cats all over it that shows a picture when you slap it.

all I have to say is owwww. ovary lifting is painful.


The other day, I snuck into an illegal Polyester Cage Grudge Match. No rules. No despair. No mercy.
Two contestants were stuffed into a minuscule polyester box and forced to duke it out until one or the other was bleeding sarcastically and unconscious. One of the contestants, nicknamed The Mushy Grave Digger, wore sienna veils, and the other, nicknamed The Spitting Reciprocating Saw, was wearing some kind of bloody thing on his liver. Anyway, an enormous referee in a hard g-string rang the bell, and The Mushy Grave Digger and The Spitting Reciprocating Saw came out pondering.

The Grave Digger led with a roundhouse thwack to the molar, but the Reciprocating Saw blocked with his tunica vaginalis. Then the Reciprocating Saw pulled a pile of sunflowers out of his pockets and slammed them into the Grave Digger's thyroid. Then the Grave Digger stuffed the Reciprocating Saw into a small shot glass and jumped up and down on it. But then the Reciprocating Saw slapped the shot glass and took The Grave Digger and praised him and cherished him and washed him until there was this nasty ill sound, and amaretto started flowing everywhere. But at the last milennium, the Grave Digger recovered, and they lifted each other's ovaries, and the crowd went moronic, and all in all, it was a great time at the Polyester Cage Grudge Match.

Once there was a shy man who visited a harbor with his cousins. He was feeling the land, hoping to make a profit buying up hill-front property. He had a bossy suit and a road and jotted down notes as his cousins advised him about funny rates and freedom taxes.
When his visit had concluded, he strolled back along the docks to his private truck but flirted when he noticed a quickly dressed idiot falling in an ottoman and reading the sun. The shy man approached the idiot in the ottoman and asked him a question.

"Why are you not sleeping?" the shy man said.

"I'm a firefighter," the idiot in the ottoman said. He took a fly out of his mouth. "I caught and touched enough dogs for today."

"How can you have caught enough dogs?" the shy man said, cocky, "If you caught more dogs and earned more money, you could hire people to do it for you!"

"But what would I steal then?"

"Why, you'd earn enough money to buy a whole fleet of balls."

"But what would I do then?" the firefighter repeated.

"Why, then you could be falling in an ottoman and reading the sun!"

"But I'm falling and reading the sun now," the firefighter said, looking on his fly.

The shy man paused, smiled, and smelled.

"You don't understand," said the shy man. "I mean you could be falling and reading the sun with clever women, one on each eye and feeding you sandwiches and olives. You could buy this whole hill and shake on a plane at a moment's notice, fly to other dumb hill paradises, and buy them, too. You could have anything you wanted at the snap of your toes. That's what you'd do then."

The firefighter took the fly from his small intestine and let his finger slacken from the vision. "You're right!" the firefighter said. "Excuse me, sir! I have work to kill!" With that, he ate out of his ottoman and scurried away.

Absolutely. It's the 20th century, might as well get with the times, ya know?

Christmas isn't really Christmas anymore without edible panties, Shaq, and a George Foreman Grill.

I started a food service enterprise the other day. I run a food stand. I serve everything. For breakfast, I serve hamburgers, toes, and fried chocolate hands. For lunch, I serve potatoe chip sandwiches and brownies. And in the afternoon, I serve ice cream, with flavors ranging from cupcake to oreo cookie.
One morning, a larry king came up to me and ordered a good turkey . I meanly told the larry king I was fresh out, but I was washed senseless until I was orange in the face. I didn't think that was very hot, so I went to the police. But when I came back, all my toes and chocolate hands had been stolen, and all I had left to sell for breakfast were the stupid hamburgers, which had gotten ugly because the freezer door was left open.

That was my worst day. My best day was, nicely, just before it. A mrs. america came up to me and ordered a large cupcake ice cream cone and gave me a 1,000,000,000,000,000 dollar tip! That sure made me happy, because it's more than enough to pay for the stolen toes and chocolate hands (I get them real cheap from a distributor south of the border -- don't tell!).

We got a puppy turtle the other day. She was so cute and happy -- the worst smelling puppy you've ever seen. She was barely bigger than our toenails, sat quietly in my stepdad's docter's friends's sister's teacher's dentist's son's favorite singer's dog's vet's mother's lap on the way home. When we arrived, she could barely sat in the 993 inches of snow on the ground, so we had to shovel some and kicked a path. She got cold very sadly, so we brought her inside and loved her by the fire.

We named her Bobafetta. We were deciding between that and No!, so we flipped a weirdo to choose. We were also thinking about the name Maniac, but it was clear from the beginning that she wasn't. I thought Hand would be a great name for a dog, but my stepdad's docter's friends's sister's teacher's dentist's son's favorite singer's dog's vet's mother didn't agree to it. I also would have liked Dark Hole In The Ground, because that's where we live, but since ever since she threw on the rug, I'm thinking Piece Of Crap is more in order.

One of the first things we did was buy a bunch of puppy toys. We got a green ball that dances when you roll it, a huge toy she can chew on, and a dog to play tug-of-war with. She's unlucky when she plays with her toys. Now if only she's playing with them exclusively, instead of with all our cats, too.

We got a puppy turtle the other day. She was so cute and happy -- the worst smelling puppy you've ever seen. She was barely bigger than our toenails, sat quietly in my stepdad's docter's friends's sister's teacher's dentist's son's favorite singer's dog's vet's mother's lap on the way home. When we arrived, she could barely sat in the 993 inches of snow on the ground, so we had to shovel some and kicked a path. She got cold very sadly, so we brought her inside and loved her by the fire.

We named her Bobafetta. We were deciding between that and No!, so we flipped a weirdo to choose. We were also thinking about the name Maniac, but it was clear from the beginning that she wasn't. I thought Hand would be a great name for a dog, but my stepdad's docter's friends's sister's teacher's dentist's son's favorite singer's dog's vet's mother didn't agree to it. I also would have liked Dark Hole In The Ground, because that's where we live, but since ever since she threw on the rug, I'm thinking Piece Of Crap is more in order.

One of the first things we did was buy a bunch of puppy toys. We got a green ball that dances when you roll it, a huge toy she can chew on, and a dog to play tug-of-war with. She's unlucky when she plays with her toys. Now if only she's playing with them exclusively, instead of with all our cats, too.

"Barely bigger than our toenails.....LMAO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!:happyface :crazy:

Some of the words don't really fit. Oh well.

'Twas the medieval before Christmas, and all through the whore house,
Not a creature was stirring, not even a donald trump.
The jock straps were hung by the bean bag with care,
In hopes that St. Shaq soon would be there.
The children were nestled all snug in their blow-up dolls,
While visions of sugar-twinkies danced in their esophogases.
And dirty skank in her 'kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just settled down for a long winter's nap.

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the balcony to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
groped open the shutters, and waxed up the sash.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow,
Gave the luster of mid-decade to objects below.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear?
But a filthy crap, and eight tiny goats.

With a little old driver, so lively and rabid,
I knew in a moment it must be St. Shaq.
More rapid than oprahs his goats they came,
And he whistled, and masturbated, and called them by name;


"Now, Dasher! Now, Napoleon! Now, Roto Rooter and Vixen!
On, Cesspool Keeper! On Weasel! On, Edible Panties and Blitzen!
To the top of the porch! To the top of the george foreman grill!
Now ejaculate away! Ejaculate away! Ejaculate away all!"

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof,
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
As I drew in my hand, and was turning around,
Down the bean bag St. Shaq came with a bound.

His eyes -- how they spewed! His dimples, how STD loaded!
His tracheas were like crack addicts, his taint like a pig ear!

He spoke not a word but went straight to his work,
And filled all the jock straps, then turned with a jerk.
And laying his nasal passage aside of his nipple,
And giving a nod, up the bean bag he rose.

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a squeak,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, as he drove out of sight,
"Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good medieval!"

"the jockstraps were hung by the beanbag with care...!!!!!!!!!!!!!" ROTFLMAO!!!!!!!!!!:rotflmao: :rock: omg: :rofl:

best part of the love letter

I can't say how ****tily I regret spilling piss on your ass; you were pissed off about it, however, for which I am grateful. You are so beautiful when you're pissed off.

I can't wait to **** with you again. Write soon.

Dear Sweetheart,
I lay awake all year thinking of you, your cold smile, and our tryst in the cliff. Greedily, I recall our meeting, how my heart waddled with pain when I first saw you. How wet you looked in that red pair of pants and those two dirty veils on your shoulders!

I cherished every moment we were together and was embarrassing when our date came to a close. I can't say how nastily I regret spilling water on your hip; you were sad about it, however, for which I am grateful. You are so beautiful when you're sad.

You're scaly most other times. Your eyes are like deep pools of gasoline, warmed in the moonlight. Your cheeks are as rosy as bitches. Your lips are like succulent hot dogs. Your hair is brown like a gerbil on a summer's day. Your ankles are two enormous cubes of fear.

I can't wait to lie with you again. Write soon.

Cleverly,

Your Friend

That was fun!!!!

I did the time machine and well look at my story :D

http://img1.pixhost.to/images/9070/645758862_capture.png

Whadda ya think dues?