Decimus

72 fumbling, clueless virgins who squeal like a sty full of old Gloucester spots as soon as you put the tip in. Just how they like 'em.

I have to reluctantly agree with you on this. Although it's deliciously ironic that there's nothing remotely French these days about the Islamic Republic of Marseille. Fuck off.

I imagine that the only technological innovation that your huge-buttoned Sagem possesses is a waterproof case for when you inevitably drop it repeatedly into your potty.

Nothing suspicious about it, I get outright hot for cantankerous misanthropes. On a more serious note, is young Quincy permanently banned, or does he have a release date? I'd ask about Gurt also, but I have a feeling I know the answer to that...

Judge, I want- nay demand- that you get down on your hands and knees, unzip my fly, and lovingly place my fiercely erect cock into your fucking gob.

Fuck off, number 2.

Only an absolutely thick as pig shit cunt wouldn't get the inference. Hoisted by your own spacktard. Idiot.

If anybody fucks with my 'likes', I'm going to have an absolute shit-fit.

I'm sure that Camberwell Gypsy could lend her a couple.

Never regret that fall, O Icarus of the fearless flight. For the greatest tragedy of them all, is to never feel the burning light.

Albert, I'm not sure if you've noticed, but I've surpassed 5000 "likes" tonight. I'm not saying that I'm a big deal around here, but I kinda am.

Reported.

All of it, in the extremely unlikely scenario that we have simultaneous, massive cerebral events which render Stubby's ramblings funny. Even so, I doubt I'd have enough breath to even chuckle mildly after reading out the first sentence of his second paragraph. Stubby you excitable little cunt, take a breath.

Just furnishing you with the facts, my little limestone-licking simpleton. Anyway, if you haven't noticed, my ire is fully focused on Withers at the moment. Keep your tiddler in your pants until I'm done, I'll get to you when I've finished him.

I went to school in Surrey. Sorry.

I'm hoping that because he is a filthy, homunculus half-breed, he will end up in the catch 22 situation where he loses his citizenship for both the UK and France. I'd take great pleasure in him ending his days living as some sort of Tom Hanks style character at the main Heathrow terminal. A cum-splattered goose under one arm, "A Dummy's Guide To Cancer" under the other, endlessly staring into space whilst repetitively mumbling "Ape, Ape, Ape".

We're assuming that R-Soles had even the basics of a rudimentary education. All the evidence suggests that he left school at seven and spent his formative years writing Spot the Dog fan fiction on an etch-a-sketch. He's turned his back on the canine species now, but it doesn't change the fact that he regularly wanked off over reruns of The Littlest Hobo.

I'd wager that R-Soles was the token fat kid at his school, endlessly humiliated by a sadistic PE teacher who made him play netball with the girls. The kind of spastic who was forced to use plastic scissors and had his Turkey Dinosaurs cut up for him at lunchtime by the dinner lady.

Your staid shit is ruining the naturally flowing back and forth between Frank and I. The masses need entertaining and three's a crowd. Fuck off.

Well, well, well, one sniff of animal pornography and @Quincy Cockfingers has logged in for the first time in months. Woof.

Considering that wogs begin at Calais, it really is the pot calling the kettle black. Jazz is due back today. What's the plan?

I can almost hear your tiny todger groaning at the constraints of your piss stained y-fronts from here. I'd wager you'd like to be prostrated underneath Jamal as he rips Tommy's arsehole to shreds, your fat, spasticated tongue flapping about ready to catch flecks of shit and hot, steaming cum. You degenerate cunt.

You can't make a goose internally bleed with a two inch maggot. Fuck off.

Proper has got all the technical expertise of a pensioner attempting to access the internet at their local library. I can imagine him getting into action last night. Booting up his flashing whizz-bang machine, smoke billowing around his 50 inch waist like he's just walked out of the doors on Stars in Their Eyes. Frantically trying to hit the delete button as his machine repeatedly replicates the chimes of the spaceship in Close Encounters of the Third Kind. What a cunt.

Proper's IP locator can locate you anywhere within time and space, providing he can see you through his window.