Decimus

Ding once changed his avatar to the para badge. To say that I was unhappy is an understatement, although I took great pleasure in bringing up the deaths of Richard Turnbull and Michael Harrison.

Not at all. You're entitled to salivate and impress sixteen year old girls on tinder with tales of your £8.50 an hour a job and PlayStation 4. It's not illegal, but it is highly dubious.

Yes, they were. Is English your sixth language? If not, perhaps you can kindly explain how "barely" legal equates to "illegal". Fucking idiot.

Reptile's currently attempting to smash all his hard drives to pieces with a collection of My Little Pony figurines that "just happened" to appear in his blood and spunk spattered lair one day.

Apologies GamesMaster, I didn't account for the fact that you were as thick as you were perverted. Did you not notice the adverb in the accusation which rendered the post legitimate as far as the site rules were concerned? Of course you didn't, you joystick fondling little freak.

Not nearly as entertaining as your critique of a child's computer console. You're either a fat fucking virgin who lurks within his parents cellar whilst writing Super Mario Bros fan fiction, or a fat fucking virgin who lurks within his parents cellar whilst writing Super Mario Bros fan fiction to catfish barely legal autistic teenagers. You creepy fucking cunt.

Fucking Quality! I'm red faced and Simon Weston crispy from your subsequent "I know you are, I said you are..." burn. What else have you got up your snot-covered sleeve? A fart joke? A natty catchphrase? Simpleton.

Who the fuck are you talking to? You thick lipped, heavy-browed spastic cunt.

Why don't you try and fit "cunt" into your posts a few more times? Idiot.

She's always driven like a complete cunt, but it seems to be exasperated whenever I'm in the passenger seat and bellowing into her stupid fucking face. If her driving skills carry on deteriorating at this rate, it won't be long before she does an Anton Yelchin. Which is good, because it will save me the effort of throttling her to death out of sheer frustration.

More specifically cunt, singular, in particular my fucking wife. I've noticed whilst being in the car with her this week, that within 40 metres of a set of traffic lights that are green, she drastically slows down to the average pace of a shuffling spice addict. I have no idea what the fuck she is playing at, but the amount of times that the lights have turned red due to her fucking dawdling is starting to piss me off. If slow and steady and being a complete fucking spastic wins the race, she's an Olympic champion.

This trial is about gays, cricket is gay, you're gay and this nomination is gay. Why are you such a fucking disgusting queer? Your constant obsession with faggotry makes me feel fucking sick. I hate you. Utterly fucking loathe you.

Mono, I've got a problem with my neighbours and a contentious fence. Is there any chance I could borrow a couple of noirs once Mrs. MC has been sated?

Pecker, you know what I want, and it's within your power to give it. Apologise for your awful fucking slander and we can go back to cordial relations.

I actually sympathise with you. The useless shower of shits at South Norfolk District Council, especially their planning department, are an absolute fucking disgrace. Do not fear though, my chubby little friend, they are in the process of entering into a collaboration with my own superior organisation. I take it that you have lodged an appeal? Now we are sharing data, I'm guessing it will take me a matter of seconds to sniff you out should that be the case. Expect shit through your letterbox within the week.

I can imagine the dining arrangements at Chez Neil, and without preamble I would like to say that it turns my fucking stomach. Eschewing the use of a table, I can picture you lying flat on your stomach atop your soiled raping-mattress, your fat fucking gob snapping open and shut like a Hungry Hippo as you shovel and inhale vast quantities of doner meat and chips, the noise emanating from you akin to a broken down Henry Hoover. Vile fucking pig.

I can imagine Pecker now, straight off the plane at Dublin in his khaki shorts and union jack socks pulled up to his knees. Running up and down Temple Bar with his tiny butterfly net like a colonial explorer, stopping every other Paddy that he sees by bellowing in their face "Dr. Livingstone I presume?". What a disgusting fucking worm.

I don't care how natural it is, it shouldn't be done in public, especially where members of the public are eating. Lots of things are "natural". Shooting a huge load of cum onto the Littlewoods catalogue's lingerie section, squeezing out a shit of Goliath proportions and pissing on your shoes. Just as I don't want to see some cunt with his cock out, gurning and grunting over a photo of maxi-pad, I also don't want to see some sagging tit with dinner plate sized nipples leaking rancid milk into the gummy mouth of bawling child.

Surely even the dead have standards, she looks like a cross between the cunt from Nickelback and Tobias Menzies. When Neil inevitably dies of a massive cardiac event this year, I doubt that even his raping-spectre would unload its ectoplasm over her tits.

Cut your hair, you scruffy fucking cunt.

Gather round fellow cunters, and make yourselves comfortable. Dim your lights, lock your doors and pour yourselves a large medicinal brandy. What I am about to divulge has never been discussed outside of my inner circle through fear of being ridiculed by sceptical naysayers. But as the weather cools and the nights slowly begin to draw in, I feel that it is time to share the horrors that I once confronted during a cold foggy, and damp November evening whilst wandering the bleak fens of Norfolk in 2013. Having attended a birthday of a colleague in a small hamlet just outside of Swaffham, I was dismayed to discover that the taxi I had ordered to take me to Norwich railway station at 11pm had failed to appear. Due to the complete lack of mobile phone coverage within the area, I was unable to call Mrs. D to mount a rescue mission, so began a five mile walk to the next village where a colleague was staying at a cosy local hostelry. No sooner had I set out upon the narrow country lane which led toward my salvation, than a thick mist suddenly descended upon me, rendering my surroundings completely obscured beyond a radius of a mere four feet. Stumbling blindly along in eerie silence, I desperately attempted to grope my way towards civilisation as I suddenly became overcome with a feeling of existential dread. Within a minute of the fog cloaking my senses, I began to sense that I was not alone in my nocturnal journey. A slow, rhythmic breathing was ever present behind my right ear, deepening and becoming more ragged as I nervously increased my pace in an effort to escape the spectre that was stalking me. As my own heart rate rapidly increased, I began to feel myself hyperventilating to the point that I had to stop my journey through fear of rendering myself unconscious and vulnerable to whatever was hunting me. After a brief two minute interlude where the only noise to break the sudden silence was the mournful hoot of a tawny owl, I began to run at full pelt, blindly crashing my way down the twisting lane that by now was completely cloaked by a veil of fridgid, ethereal vapour. I eventually reached the safety of my colleague's lodgings, and fortified with a double Laphroaig, I considered relaying to him the horrors that I had faced during my eventful night-time adventure. As I was about to begin, my colleague turned his face back from the roaring fire of his room and looked me directly in the face. It was at this point in time, I realised that the true horror was only just beginning. This was not my colleague that I was face to face with. The hideous face that still haunts dreams was none other than....

Let's hope for her sake then that she never finds herself on a moonlit night in Norfolk, her taxi slowing to avoid the numerous empty bottles outside of your tumbledown bungalow. Before she could scream "Me Too!" your cheesy little worm would be slithering in between the gaps of her tombstone nashers.

After reviewing all the evidence, it would appear that the man behind the Stubby profile has got a ponytail. A fucking ponytail!

And I was under the impression that Stubby would struggle to write a letter to Father Christmas. Just goes to show that you should never judge a book by its cover.

@Stubby Pecker?