Jump to content
CUNTS CORNER TWITTER ACCOUNT ID @CuntsCorner ×
Donations towards site upkeep will be thankfully received and faithfully applied....

J Kunt Rowling - ickabog


Guest N/A

Recommended Posts

So the spunk bucket left wing white apologist JK R has written a Political Fairy tale..... that has southerners living in Cornucopia a land of milk and honey..... but the people of the north are rough, stupid and obviously voted Brexit.

Just fucking get over it will you dear... and stop trying to peddle this shit half baked version of Animal Farm off as your own fucking idea.....  its so fucking lame I can see it from Mars what cuntery you are trying to indoctrinate into children.   For that you are a fucking grade A cunt...

I hope you and all you love die soon of various debilitating diseases....   that no doubt you will have your northern fairytale folk die of in your book. After they have been gang raped by the special,ones who must not be named and shamed or arrested because they are the peacefuls....  

Over  the water in the enchanted castle where handsome Princes walk the corridors,....  they hatch a plan to save Cornucopia by requesting extensive fishing rights, control,of laws and a €39billion dowry.....   or the fucking princess get it from the grooming gangs....

ickabog is no doubt a big bumbling blonde haired giant....who is the reason everything in Cornucopia is soo fucking horrible.....  what with the offshore tax havens, the multi million pound mansions, glitzy parties and smooching with the luvvies in the town with the big clock....

sometimes I wish the Germans had marched up Whitehall.... I just do...

Link to comment
Share on other sites

51 minutes ago, Monumental cunt said:

So the spunk bucket left wing white apologist JK R has written a Political Fairy tale..... that has southerners living in Cornucopia a land of milk and honey..... but the people of the north are rough, stupid and obviously voted Brexit.

Just fucking get over it will you dear... and stop trying to peddle this shit half baked version of Animal Farm off as your own fucking idea.....  its so fucking lame I can see it from Mars what cuntery you are trying to indoctrinate into children.   For that you are a fucking grade A cunt...

I hope you and all you love die soon of various debilitating diseases....   that no doubt you will have your northern fairytale folk die of in your book. After they have been gang raped by the special,ones who must not be named and shamed or arrested because they are the peacefuls....  

Over  the water in the enchanted castle where handsome Princes walk the corridors,....  they hatch a plan to save Cornucopia by requesting extensive fishing rights, control,of laws and a €39billion dowry.....   or the fucking princess get it from the grooming gangs....

ickabog is no doubt a big bumbling blonde haired giant....who is the reason everything in Cornucopia is soo fucking horrible.....  what with the offshore tax havens, the multi million pound mansions, glitzy parties and smooching with the luvvies in the town with the big clock....

sometimes I wish the Germans had marched up Whitehall.... I just do...

Reading this shit now. She's a wank writer these days - made her millions and achieved all of her dreams only to find nowt but bitterness at the top of the mountain and an ego that needs feeding at all costs. My guess for this shit will be that the Ikabog will turn out to be a metaphor for Muslim immigrants, an innocent creature only made into a monster by the myths of the ignorant Northerners and a well educated and smart Southerner will need to dictate peace between the two parties  - seems about the right level of ham for the hack cunt these days.

Cunt my drawing tablet is fucked or I'd enter the illustration contest... Goblet of Fire would have been much better if Nazi Roops showed up to shoot Hermeonie in the throat with a Luger over a meth deal gone wrong in a strip club after Hagrid is found overdosed in his hut. The twist would be that Voldemort and Dumbledore were in on it together, Hogwarts was just a front for the wizard Mafia and the Slytherin kids are the dealers - Snape is undercover DEA in all of this, of course.

  • Like 2
Link to comment
Share on other sites

Harry watched from behind the bar as he packed more napkins into the gaping hole in Ron's chest. This had been a mistake from the moment they'd stepped through the doors of this grotty little strip club and completely out of their depths - they were just kids who'd spent the last four years learning how to wave sticks around in a big castle. Honestly it'd never struck him just how much of a fucking idiot four years of wasted education had actually left him.

"I do not tolerate incompetent children becoming involved in ideas above their station," called the red headed woman in the strange grey uniform, "Tell me, youth - is your ginger friend still breathing? I shot him centre of mass and he was such a scrawny little specimen, but the 9mm Parabellum is a light round and loses velocity rather quickly. I'm immensely knowledgeable about such things."

Harry heard crunching glass as the woman's jackboots crushed the shards left behind by the bottles and meth pipes of the now far away patrons and whores who had evacuated the building en masse during the first few rounds of the horrifically one-sided firefight, "He may yet live, if you get him to a hospital in time."

"Don't listen to her, Harry!," Hermione shouted from somewhere nearby, "She'll shoot you as soon as you show yourself! This is her base of operations and she'll have her supply stashed nearby, she's trying to draw us out and kill us before the Police get here so she has time to escape with it!"

The crunching sound became silent as the woman stopped to laugh smugly, "Clever girl. I see your own time at Hogwarts hasn't yet left you a drooling idiot like the rest of them, but you're not anywhere near as smart as you think..."

Harry noticed a flicker of movement on the edge of his vision and turned his head to look up at the shattered mirror set into the wall above him to see the image of the gun wielding maniac, distorted and overlapping in the fractured surface. She was in the middle of the room now, nudging the prone body of a topless Goblin dancer caught in the crossfire with the toe of a boot, most of her face hidden in a thin white cloud of smoke from a cigarette clutched tightly between manically grinning teeth.

"...but I wonder if perhaps your reflexes have suffered where your mind has not."

Harry's throat tightened as he continued to observe the scene from his temporary bastion of safety and the meaning behind the woman's words became mercilessly clear. The smouldering cigarette dropped from the woman's mouth a moment later and set them in stone. Piercing green eyes appeared from behind the smoke, looking directly at the mirror, not at Harry - at least not yet - but at the crouching figure of Hermionie, hiding behind an overturned table.

"Hermione, she can see y-," his desperate scream of warning was cut off by Hermione's own voice as desperation and survival instinct seemed to force the girl to leap to her feet and draw her wand in one beautifully precise movement.

"Expelli-," BOOM!

The shot sounded like a cannon had just been fired right next to his ear in the confined, neon lit space of the club, what remained of the mirror was splattered with a thick, wet and warm layer of gore and shattered bone fragments thrown like shrapnel out of an exit wound and the only sound apart from the ringing afterwards was the hideously gleeful laughing of a murderer who loved her job and was only partially done with the night's work.

 

See? Drugs, violence and sex can make anything better. Especially Rowling's shite.

  • Like 3
Link to comment
Share on other sites

5 hours ago, Roadkill said:

Harry watched from behind the bar as he packed more napkins into the gaping hole in Ron's chest. This had been a mistake from the moment they'd stepped through the doors of this grotty little strip club and completely out of their depths - they were just kids who'd spent the last four years learning how to wave sticks around in a big castle. Honestly it'd never struck him just how much of a fucking idiot four years of wasted education had actually left him.

"I do not tolerate incompetent children becoming involved in ideas above their station," called the red headed woman in the strange grey uniform, "Tell me, youth - is your ginger friend still breathing? I shot him centre of mass and he was such a scrawny little specimen, but the 9mm Parabellum is a light round and loses velocity rather quickly. I'm immensely knowledgeable about such things."

Harry heard crunching glass as the woman's jackboots crushed the shards left behind by the bottles and meth pipes of the now far away patrons and whores who had evacuated the building en masse during the first few rounds of the horrifically one-sided firefight, "He may yet live, if you get him to a hospital in time."

"Don't listen to her, Harry!," Hermione shouted from somewhere nearby, "She'll shoot you as soon as you show yourself! This is her base of operations and she'll have her supply stashed nearby, she's trying to draw us out and kill us before the Police get here so she has time to escape with it!"

The crunching sound became silent as the woman stopped to laugh smugly, "Clever girl. I see your own time at Hogwarts hasn't yet left you a drooling idiot like the rest of them, but you're not anywhere near as smart as you think..."

Harry noticed a flicker of movement on the edge of his vision and turned his head to look up at the shattered mirror set into the wall above him to see the image of the gun wielding maniac, distorted and overlapping in the fractured surface. She was in the middle of the room now, nudging the prone body of a topless Goblin dancer caught in the crossfire with the toe of a boot, most of her face hidden in a thin white cloud of smoke from a cigarette clutched tightly between manically grinning teeth.

"...but I wonder if perhaps your reflexes have suffered where your mind has not."

Harry's throat tightened as he continued to observe the scene from his temporary bastion of safety and the meaning behind the woman's words became mercilessly clear. The smouldering cigarette dropped from the woman's mouth a moment later and set them in stone. Piercing green eyes appeared from behind the smoke, looking directly at the mirror, not at Harry - at least not yet - but at the crouching figure of Hermionie, hiding behind an overturned table.

"Hermione, she can see y-," his desperate scream of warning was cut off by Hermione's own voice as desperation and survival instinct seemed to force the girl to leap to her feet and draw her wand in one beautifully precise movement.

"Expelli-," BOOM!

The shot sounded like a cannon had just been fired right next to his ear in the confined, neon lit space of the club, what remained of the mirror was splattered with a thick, wet and warm layer of gore and shattered bone fragments thrown like shrapnel out of an exit wound and the only sound apart from the ringing afterwards was the hideously gleeful laughing of a murderer who loved her job and was only partially done with the night's work.

 

See? Drugs, violence and sex can make anything better. Especially Rowling's shite.

Too good for this place Killer. Chapeau.

  • Like 1
Link to comment
Share on other sites

5 hours ago, Roadkill said:

Harry watched from behind the bar as he packed more napkins into the gaping hole in Ron's chest. This had been a mistake from the moment they'd stepped through the doors of this grotty little strip club and completely out of their depths - they were just kids who'd spent the last four years learning how to wave sticks around in a big castle. Honestly it'd never struck him just how much of a fucking idiot four years of wasted education had actually left him.

"I do not tolerate incompetent children becoming involved in ideas above their station," called the red headed woman in the strange grey uniform, "Tell me, youth - is your ginger friend still breathing? I shot him centre of mass and he was such a scrawny little specimen, but the 9mm Parabellum is a light round and loses velocity rather quickly. I'm immensely knowledgeable about such things."

Harry heard crunching glass as the woman's jackboots crushed the shards left behind by the bottles and meth pipes of the now far away patrons and whores who had evacuated the building en masse during the first few rounds of the horrifically one-sided firefight, "He may yet live, if you get him to a hospital in time."

"Don't listen to her, Harry!," Hermione shouted from somewhere nearby, "She'll shoot you as soon as you show yourself! This is her base of operations and she'll have her supply stashed nearby, she's trying to draw us out and kill us before the Police get here so she has time to escape with it!"

The crunching sound became silent as the woman stopped to laugh smugly, "Clever girl. I see your own time at Hogwarts hasn't yet left you a drooling idiot like the rest of them, but you're not anywhere near as smart as you think..."

Harry noticed a flicker of movement on the edge of his vision and turned his head to look up at the shattered mirror set into the wall above him to see the image of the gun wielding maniac, distorted and overlapping in the fractured surface. She was in the middle of the room now, nudging the prone body of a topless Goblin dancer caught in the crossfire with the toe of a boot, most of her face hidden in a thin white cloud of smoke from a cigarette clutched tightly between manically grinning teeth.

"...but I wonder if perhaps your reflexes have suffered where your mind has not."

Harry's throat tightened as he continued to observe the scene from his temporary bastion of safety and the meaning behind the woman's words became mercilessly clear. The smouldering cigarette dropped from the woman's mouth a moment later and set them in stone. Piercing green eyes appeared from behind the smoke, looking directly at the mirror, not at Harry - at least not yet - but at the crouching figure of Hermionie, hiding behind an overturned table.

"Hermione, she can see y-," his desperate scream of warning was cut off by Hermione's own voice as desperation and survival instinct seemed to force the girl to leap to her feet and draw her wand in one beautifully precise movement.

"Expelli-," BOOM!

The shot sounded like a cannon had just been fired right next to his ear in the confined, neon lit space of the club, what remained of the mirror was splattered with a thick, wet and warm layer of gore and shattered bone fragments thrown like shrapnel out of an exit wound and the only sound apart from the ringing afterwards was the hideously gleeful laughing of a murderer who loved her job and was only partially done with the night's work.

 

See? Drugs, violence and sex can make anything better. Especially Rowling's shite.

.....and the ghost of Sven Hassel looked on and nodded in silent agreement.

  • Like 1
Link to comment
Share on other sites

6 hours ago, Roadkill said:

Harry watched from behind the bar as he packed more napkins into the gaping hole in Ron's chest. This had been a mistake from the moment they'd stepped through the doors of this grotty little strip club and completely out of their depths - they were just kids who'd spent the last four years learning how to wave sticks around in a big castle. Honestly it'd never struck him just how much of a fucking idiot four years of wasted education had actually left him.

"I do not tolerate incompetent children becoming involved in ideas above their station," called the red headed woman in the strange grey uniform, "Tell me, youth - is your ginger friend still breathing? I shot him centre of mass and he was such a scrawny little specimen, but the 9mm Parabellum is a light round and loses velocity rather quickly. I'm immensely knowledgeable about such things."

Harry heard crunching glass as the woman's jackboots crushed the shards left behind by the bottles and meth pipes of the now far away patrons and whores who had evacuated the building en masse during the first few rounds of the horrifically one-sided firefight, "He may yet live, if you get him to a hospital in time."

"Don't listen to her, Harry!," Hermione shouted from somewhere nearby, "She'll shoot you as soon as you show yourself! This is her base of operations and she'll have her supply stashed nearby, she's trying to draw us out and kill us before the Police get here so she has time to escape with it!"

The crunching sound became silent as the woman stopped to laugh smugly, "Clever girl. I see your own time at Hogwarts hasn't yet left you a drooling idiot like the rest of them, but you're not anywhere near as smart as you think..."

Harry noticed a flicker of movement on the edge of his vision and turned his head to look up at the shattered mirror set into the wall above him to see the image of the gun wielding maniac, distorted and overlapping in the fractured surface. She was in the middle of the room now, nudging the prone body of a topless Goblin dancer caught in the crossfire with the toe of a boot, most of her face hidden in a thin white cloud of smoke from a cigarette clutched tightly between manically grinning teeth.

"...but I wonder if perhaps your reflexes have suffered where your mind has not."

Harry's throat tightened as he continued to observe the scene from his temporary bastion of safety and the meaning behind the woman's words became mercilessly clear. The smouldering cigarette dropped from the woman's mouth a moment later and set them in stone. Piercing green eyes appeared from behind the smoke, looking directly at the mirror, not at Harry - at least not yet - but at the crouching figure of Hermionie, hiding behind an overturned table.

"Hermione, she can see y-," his desperate scream of warning was cut off by Hermione's own voice as desperation and survival instinct seemed to force the girl to leap to her feet and draw her wand in one beautifully precise movement.

"Expelli-," BOOM!

The shot sounded like a cannon had just been fired right next to his ear in the confined, neon lit space of the club, what remained of the mirror was splattered with a thick, wet and warm layer of gore and shattered bone fragments thrown like shrapnel out of an exit wound and the only sound apart from the ringing afterwards was the hideously gleeful laughing of a murderer who loved her job and was only partially done with the night's work.

 

See? Drugs, violence and sex can make anything better. Especially Rowling's shite.

Fucking hell. This story reminded me of reading Catch 22. I gave up halfway through that as well. 

  • Like 1
Link to comment
Share on other sites

11 hours ago, Roadkill said:

...See? Drugs, violence and sex can make anything better. Especially Rowling's shite.

The writer relaxed and lent back from the keyboard. “Brilliant”, he sighed. He thought of the eighty punters who would see his inaugural magnum opus. Ten of them might even read it. After a night of Red Bull and poppers he could at last reward himself with two fingers of Mexican Bollock Shaker and a spliff…

“So now you're reduced to writing Penny Dreadfuls,” a voice came from the fetid gloom behind him – a voice that was piercing, sharp yet strangely soft as well.

The writer bolted up straight, stiff from fear. He started to shake and clenched his buttocks from the overwhelming need to evacuate his bowels. Then he realised who was behind him. He felt his face redden, tears began to well up in his eyes.

“So how old are you, kid?” the voice asked.

“Thirty-”

The voice cut him off before he could finish. “Really? I thought you were ten years younger,” the voice said matter of factly. “Turn around and face me.”

The writer slowly turned his swivel chair around and infused with the adrenalin now coursing through his veins, screamed, “This isn’t fucking fair, this is my world and you can’t come in, you just can’t!”

“Well colour me tiresome, but I just did. This might be your world but it occupies a dimension controlled by others. I am...The Administrator.”

The writer stared into the cold green eyes of his tormentor, a harshly coiffured, slightly built woman dressed in an immaculately tailored uniform by Hugo Boss. A black leather holster and belt by Gucci of Florence strapped to her waist, which probably contained a H&K compact thingy that his weird friend, permanently dressed in surplus camo, would constantly drone on about…

“Your mind is wandering – stay with the script” the administrator ordered curtly.

“This dimension,” the writer answered, “are we talking string theory, bosonic string theory or M-theory ?”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” the administrator replied rolling her eyes, “we’re exceeding the average punter’s attention span as it is. Anyway...time to depart”.

The writer realising the inevitable had arrived, calmly fell to his knees and bowed his head forward and steeled himself for the bullet that would end his being.

The Administrator gazed down at the figure of despondency beneath her and sighed, “Well there’s no need for that, but I like your thinking – must dash.”

 

  • Like 4
Link to comment
Share on other sites

35 minutes ago, Mrs Roops said:

The writer relaxed and lent back from the keyboard. “Brilliant”, he sighed. He thought of the eighty punters who would see his inaugural magnum opus. Ten of them might even read it. After a night of Red Bull and poppers he could at last reward himself with two fingers of Mexican Bollock Shaker and a spliff…

“So now you're reduced to writing Penny Dreadfuls,” a voice came from the fetid gloom behind him – a voice that was piercing, sharp yet strangely soft as well.

The writer bolted up straight, stiff from fear. He started to shake and clenched his buttocks from the overwhelming need to evacuate his bowels. Then he realised who was behind him. He felt his face redden, tears began to well up in his eyes.

“So how old are you, kid” the voice asked.

“Thirty-”

The voice cut him off before he could finish. “Really? I thought you were younger,” the voice said matter of factly. “Turn around and face me.”

The writer slowly turned his swivel chair around and infused with the adrenalin now coursing through his veins, screamed, “This isn’t fucking fair, this is my world and you can’t come in, you just can’t!”

“Well colour me tiresome, but I just did. This might be your world but it occupies a dimension controlled by others. I am...The Administrator”.

The writer stared into the cold green eyes of his tormentor, a harshly coiffured, slightly built woman wearing an immaculately tailored uniform by Hugo Boss. A black leather holster and belt by Gucci of Florence strapped to her slim waist, which probably contained a H&K compact thingy that his weird friend, permanently dressed in surplus camo, would constantly drone on about…

“Your mind is wandering – stay with the script” the administrator ordered curtly.

“This dimension,” the writer replied, “are we talking string theory, bosonic string theory or M-theory ?”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” the administrator replied rolling her eyes, “we’re exceeding the average punter’s attention span as it is. Anyway...time to go”.

The writer realising the inevitable had arrived, calmly fell to his knees and bowed his head forward and steeled himself for the bullet that would end his being.

The Administrator gazed down at the figure of despondency beneath her and sighed, “Well there’s no need for that, but I like your thinking – must dash”

 

Is this 'Cunts corner literary corner'? Everyone seems to be budding quill pushers. 

What's that they say about monkeys, typewriters and Shakespeare? 

Link to comment
Share on other sites

32 minutes ago, Mrs Roops said:

The writer relaxed and lent back from the keyboard. “Brilliant”, he sighed. He thought of the eighty punters who would see his inaugural magnum opus. Ten of them might even read it. After a night of Red Bull and poppers he could at last reward himself with two fingers of Mexican Bollock Shaker and a spliff…

“So now you're reduced to writing Penny Dreadfuls,” a voice came from the fetid gloom behind him – a voice that was piercing, sharp yet strangely soft as well.

The writer bolted up straight, stiff from fear. He started to shake and clenched his buttocks from the overwhelming need to evacuate his bowels. Then he realised who was behind him. He felt his face redden, tears began to well up in his eyes.

“So how old are you, kid” the voice asked.

“Thirty-”

The voice cut him off before he could finish. “Really? I thought you were younger,” the voice said matter of factly. “Turn around and face me.”

The writer slowly turned his swivel chair around and infused with the adrenalin now coursing through his veins, screamed, “This isn’t fucking fair, this is my world and you can’t come in, you just can’t!”

“Well colour me tiresome, but I just did. This might be your world but it occupies a dimension controlled by others. I am...The Administrator”.

The writer stared into the cold green eyes of his tormentor, a harshly coiffured, slightly built woman wearing an immaculately tailored uniform by Hugo Boss. A black leather holster and belt by Gucci of Florence strapped to her slim waist, which probably contained a H&K compact thingy that his weird friend, permanently dressed in surplus camo, would constantly drone on about…

“Your mind is wandering – stay with the script” the administrator ordered curtly.

“This dimension,” the writer replied, “are we talking string theory, bosonic string theory or M-theory ?”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” the administrator replied rolling her eyes, “we’re exceeding the average punter’s attention span as it is. Anyway...time to go”.

The writer realising the inevitable had arrived, calmly fell to his knees and bowed his head forward and steeled himself for the bullet that would end his being.

The Administrator gazed down at the figure of despondency beneath her and sighed, “Well there’s no need for that, but I like your thinking – must dash”

 

"I've a hot date with the owner of Croyden's leading second hand auto parts and car wash facility"

And off she strode with purpose to the waiting, highly polished Rover 75. Fatty in the drivers seat ready to whisk her away to her deeply tanned part time lover.

  • Like 2
Link to comment
Share on other sites

Guest 'eavensabove
11 minutes ago, camberwell gypsy said:

Is this 'Cunts corner literary corner'? Everyone seems to be budding quill pushers. 

What's that they say about monkeys, typewriters and Shakespeare? 

They used to say that a million monkeys banging on a million typewriters will eventually reproduce the entire works of Shakespeare...

Now, thanks to reddit, we know that this isn't true.

Link to comment
Share on other sites

11 hours ago, Roadkill said:

See? Drugs, violence and sex can make anything better. Especially Rowling's shite.

I demand a refund, where was the sex?

(and the drugs, no mention of rock'n'roll, either, I see)

Link to comment
Share on other sites

3 hours ago, Mrs Roops said:

The writer relaxed and lent back from the keyboard. “Brilliant”, he sighed. He thought of the eighty punters who would see his inaugural magnum opus. Ten of them might even read it. After a night of Red Bull and poppers he could at last reward himself with two fingers of Mexican Bollock Shaker and a spliff…

“So now you're reduced to writing Penny Dreadfuls,” a voice came from the fetid gloom behind him – a voice that was piercing, sharp yet strangely soft as well.

The writer bolted up straight, stiff from fear. He started to shake and clenched his buttocks from the overwhelming need to evacuate his bowels. Then he realised who was behind him. He felt his face redden, tears began to well up in his eyes.

“So how old are you, kid?” the voice asked.

“Thirty-”

The voice cut him off before he could finish. “Really? I thought you were ten years younger,” the voice said matter of factly. “Turn around and face me.”

The writer slowly turned his swivel chair around and infused with the adrenalin now coursing through his veins, screamed, “This isn’t fucking fair, this is my world and you can’t come in, you just can’t!”

“Well colour me tiresome, but I just did. This might be your world but it occupies a dimension controlled by others. I am...The Administrator.”

The writer stared into the cold green eyes of his tormentor, a harshly coiffured, slightly built woman dressed in an immaculately tailored uniform by Hugo Boss. A black leather holster and belt by Gucci of Florence strapped to her waist, which probably contained a H&K compact thingy that his weird friend, permanently dressed in surplus camo, would constantly drone on about…

“Your mind is wandering – stay with the script” the administrator ordered curtly.

“This dimension,” the writer answered, “are we talking string theory, bosonic string theory or M-theory ?”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” the administrator replied rolling her eyes, “we’re exceeding the average punter’s attention span as it is. Anyway...time to depart”.

The writer realising the inevitable had arrived, calmly fell to his knees and bowed his head forward and steeled himself for the bullet that would end his being.

The Administrator gazed down at the figure of despondency beneath her and sighed, “Well there’s no need for that, but I like your thinking – must dash.”

 

I wonder what you've been reading lately..

Link to comment
Share on other sites

11 minutes ago, Mrs Roops said:

Ok, I admit it - influences from Fleabag and the Architect character in Matrix Reloaded there.

"I am... The Administrator." Fucking class, - pure, unrefined ego - but still class.

Also liked how you seemed to make the mistake of going too far into detail early on then used a third wall break that coincided nicely with the dimensional overlap to shift it into a plot point.

Have you read any Robert Rankin? Some of his stories use that sort of style heavily for in jokes and humorous references between characters, you might like him. 

Link to comment
Share on other sites

Guest Monaco Slim

The only book I need to read is the bible, the rest of the books are for children and 4 eyed cunts who don't know how media streaming works.

Link to comment
Share on other sites

16 hours ago, Roadkill said:

"I am... The Administrator." Fucking class, - pure, unrefined ego - but still class.

Also liked how you seemed to make the mistake of going too far into detail early on then used a third wall break that coincided nicely with the dimensional overlap to shift it into a plot point.

Have you read any Robert Rankin? Some of his stories use that sort of style heavily for in jokes and humorous references between characters, you might like him. 

Its a source of constant regret that I read very little fiction. I know there is of world of riches to be found in the printed word. I need to relax more...

Link to comment
Share on other sites

1 hour ago, Mrs Roops said:

Its a source of constant regret that I read very little fiction. I know there is of world of riches to be found in the printed word. I need to relax more...

Honestly I'd be terrified of relaxing at your age - go too far with it and before you know it you'll be eating jelly with a plastic spoon in some piss-smelling care home. A few audio-books for long business journeys in the car wouldn't hurt though.

Link to comment
Share on other sites

Join the conversation

You can post now and register later. If you have an account, sign in now to post with your account.

Guest
Reply to this topic...

×   Pasted as rich text.   Paste as plain text instead

  Only 75 emoji are allowed.

×   Your link has been automatically embedded.   Display as a link instead

×   Your previous content has been restored.   Clear editor

×   You cannot paste images directly. Upload or insert images from URL.

×
×
  • Create New...