- Joined
- Aug 2, 2021
Did he really just call people losers in the same video he admits he lives with his octogenarian parents?
Edit: spelling
Patrick Sean Tomlinson / @stealthygeek / "Torque Wheeler" / @RealAutomanic / Kempesh / Padawan v2.5 - "Conservative" sci-fi author with TDS, armed "drunk with anger management issues" and terminated parental rights, actual tough guy, obese, paid Quasi, paid thousands to be repeatedly unbanned from Twitter
- Thread starter Caverlock
- Start date
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Edit: spelling
- Joined
- Jul 4, 2022
I know this is old news for most, but when I just went to read more of Fat's farts for myself, these profiles all appeared right after his on Nitter. Rascals and farmers doing beautiful work.
- Joined
- May 30, 2021
He really is a miserable shithead:
- Joined
- Feb 5, 2020
- Joined
- Feb 5, 2020
In The Black - 1 Star Reviews from Amazon
- Joined
- Nov 20, 2021
Patrick with more of his cockamamie conspiracy theories.
- Joined
- May 30, 2021
- Joined
- Dec 28, 2014
Lmao imagine thinking you piss off a troll by taking their bait.
That his whetstones are so awesome they could sharpen a banana. Jeez, it's not that hard.
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- Joined
- Nov 7, 2017
Not a lot of engagement so far, but early days yet. The best ones likely remain the Women of Colour though, who are physically incapable of chimping out and have a sizeable support network to slavishly back them up.
- Joined
- Apr 23, 2018
I think thomas tommie tomlinson was a man that killed the local black children in neighborhood and turned them into pepperoni for his fat fuck of a son to eat. He also farted in pat's wife's vagina.
- Joined
- Aug 5, 2017
Neither is a banana. It's not hard to sharpen one, but no whetstone can make it hold its edge. I'm not surprised someone was confused by the remark.
- Joined
- Aug 4, 2019
Because none of us can even approach the intellect of Fat and his fans. His humor is beyond our understanding.
Child.
- Joined
- Feb 9, 2021
A message to Rick from everyone here at Kiwi Farms:
- Joined
- May 30, 2021
- Joined
- Jul 4, 2022
No defined facial features on him. Sickening. This buffoon is so culturally insensitive on top of his normal repulsiveness. Here he is, in all his glory, in laughing Buddha face.
- Joined
- Jul 1, 2017
This isn't real, is it? Is that line actually in Rick's shitty novel? I refuse to believe this fat fuck actually wrote something that made me burst out laughing.
How does Rick even know what a "penis prepared for Phase Two" is actually like anyway? Did he ask his first wife or Pringles Can John?
- Joined
- Aug 2, 2021
I am so sick of that Spring Training hat, so I had to…
Hey Pat, the next time you’re in your local Lids™, just show them this mock-up I made for you and they’ll get these going post-haste.
Hey Pat, the next time you’re in your local Lids™, just show them this mock-up I made for you and they’ll get these going post-haste.
- Joined
- Sep 28, 2021
You'll get the whole scene where Pat's Tony Stark insert space billionaire is too shy and nervous to fuck his sex android.
Tyson’s eyes snapped up to his assistant’s face, but not the face he recognized. The voice was the same, but instead of the virtual avatar he’d seen in holos and vids for years, her hair was platinum blond and razor straight, her green eyes set into high cheekbones that led down to a pointed chin and full, pouting lips.
His arms fell to his sides. The rest of her looked like a boy’s dream, a teen’s obsession, and an old man’s nightmare. The sort of vision that could trigger a heart attack and an early trip to the morgue.
“Paris?” he asked dumbly.
She ran her hands down her sides and subtly shivered her hips, all of which were covered in a skin-tight white film from her neckline to her knees that looked more like packaging than clothing. “In the flesh, or a very close approximation of it.”
“You look, uh, different.”
“I took the liberty of making some changes to my appearance when I placed the order for this carapace.” She began to advance out of the circle of light toward him, falling back into shadow as she moved. “I studied the likenesses of actresses, fashion models, and”—her lip curled up just a fraction—“adult performers and generated an aggregate that I thought would be pleasing as well as … stimulating.”
“My … um, compliments to the chef,” Tyson said, positively flustered. His cheeks felt warm. Was he blushing? His back bumped up against something unexpectedly. In the dark it took him a moment to realized he’d been pressed all the way back into the window at the edge of the room. Paris drew close, then ran the back of her hand from the shoulder pad of his jacket all the way down his sleeve and brushed against the skin on the back of his palm. He was ready for her touch to feel like cold latex, but her fingertips were warm, soft. Like living flesh .
Without seeking clearance from his consciousness, Tyson’s penis prepared for Phase Two.
“I’ve always wanted to know what that felt like,” Paris said with a dripping wet tone.
“Your skin has tactile feedback?” Tyson said as clinically as he could manage, but he already knew the answer. Even this close, he couldn’t tell the difference between Paris’s carapace and a real woman. She even smelled right, perfume with a subtle undercurrent of sweat.
“Oh yes, you sprung for all the bells and whistles. Everything works. I hope you don’t mind, but I didn’t come cheap.”
“You never have,” he said.
She reached up and smoothed out the lapel on his jacket. “I know why you’re alone, Tyson.”
“Sorry?” he bleated.
“A man of your refinement and sophistication demands perfection. What biological woman could measure up?”
Tyson cleared his throat. “That’s not really—”
A perfectly manicured finger with French-tipped nail rested gently on his lips. “Shhh. No need to be modest with me. I know who you are, Tyson. I’ve watched your every waking moment for years. I know all your thoughts, patterns, whims, and yes, even desires.” Paris pressed her firm bosom against him, just below his pecks, but he wiggled out of it to the side and put his hands up.
“This is inappropriate.”
“Why?” she purred.
“We work together. You’re my subordinate. There are rules, and for good reason.”
Paris giggled. “Tyson, I’m flattered, really. But have you already forgotten what I am? You bought me and signed the user agreement. I’m a very expensive piece of office equipment. You can do anything you want to me, it’s all covered under the warranty.” She reached out and took his hands in hers, then placed them gently on the plastic film covering her hips. “I just need to be unwrapped.”
For just a moment, Tyson’s fingertips dug into the flesh covering her hips. He could feel the soft skin, a layer of toned muscle beneath it tense, and the bone of her pelvis below that. It was all artificial, of course, heat-activated poly-fibrous tensile coils for muscles, printed carbon laminate chassis in place of a skeleton. But it felt completely, convincingly real. The impulse to rip at the plastic film and tear it into confetti like wrapping paper on Christmas morning was very real, and very hard to resist.
It had been a long, long while since Tyson had made time for such distractions, and the sight of her, the perfect, flawless sight of her, roused something deep inside him he thought dead, but had merely been in a deep slumber.
Tyson tore away from her. “I’m sorry, I … have a thing.”
“I know you don’t,” Paris said, annoyance seeping into her voice at the edges. “I maintain your schedule, remember?”
“It’s not you, this is just, very fast. I need to think.” Which was entirely true. Tyson tapped a floor panel and called up the express lift car. “I’ll see you tomorrow. We’ll talk about this more then.”
“Do I look like I want to talk ?” the spurned, inexplicably horny android said with a huff.
“Please don’t be angry with me.” Tyson practically fell into the lift as soon as the doors opened. He backpedaled until his shoulders hit the inside wall and the doors closed. Tyson’s knees went weak and he slid down the wood paneling inside the lift car.
His arms fell to his sides. The rest of her looked like a boy’s dream, a teen’s obsession, and an old man’s nightmare. The sort of vision that could trigger a heart attack and an early trip to the morgue.
“Paris?” he asked dumbly.
She ran her hands down her sides and subtly shivered her hips, all of which were covered in a skin-tight white film from her neckline to her knees that looked more like packaging than clothing. “In the flesh, or a very close approximation of it.”
“You look, uh, different.”
“I took the liberty of making some changes to my appearance when I placed the order for this carapace.” She began to advance out of the circle of light toward him, falling back into shadow as she moved. “I studied the likenesses of actresses, fashion models, and”—her lip curled up just a fraction—“adult performers and generated an aggregate that I thought would be pleasing as well as … stimulating.”
“My … um, compliments to the chef,” Tyson said, positively flustered. His cheeks felt warm. Was he blushing? His back bumped up against something unexpectedly. In the dark it took him a moment to realized he’d been pressed all the way back into the window at the edge of the room. Paris drew close, then ran the back of her hand from the shoulder pad of his jacket all the way down his sleeve and brushed against the skin on the back of his palm. He was ready for her touch to feel like cold latex, but her fingertips were warm, soft. Like living flesh .
Without seeking clearance from his consciousness, Tyson’s penis prepared for Phase Two.
“I’ve always wanted to know what that felt like,” Paris said with a dripping wet tone.
“Your skin has tactile feedback?” Tyson said as clinically as he could manage, but he already knew the answer. Even this close, he couldn’t tell the difference between Paris’s carapace and a real woman. She even smelled right, perfume with a subtle undercurrent of sweat.
“Oh yes, you sprung for all the bells and whistles. Everything works. I hope you don’t mind, but I didn’t come cheap.”
“You never have,” he said.
She reached up and smoothed out the lapel on his jacket. “I know why you’re alone, Tyson.”
“Sorry?” he bleated.
“A man of your refinement and sophistication demands perfection. What biological woman could measure up?”
Tyson cleared his throat. “That’s not really—”
A perfectly manicured finger with French-tipped nail rested gently on his lips. “Shhh. No need to be modest with me. I know who you are, Tyson. I’ve watched your every waking moment for years. I know all your thoughts, patterns, whims, and yes, even desires.” Paris pressed her firm bosom against him, just below his pecks, but he wiggled out of it to the side and put his hands up.
“This is inappropriate.”
“Why?” she purred.
“We work together. You’re my subordinate. There are rules, and for good reason.”
Paris giggled. “Tyson, I’m flattered, really. But have you already forgotten what I am? You bought me and signed the user agreement. I’m a very expensive piece of office equipment. You can do anything you want to me, it’s all covered under the warranty.” She reached out and took his hands in hers, then placed them gently on the plastic film covering her hips. “I just need to be unwrapped.”
For just a moment, Tyson’s fingertips dug into the flesh covering her hips. He could feel the soft skin, a layer of toned muscle beneath it tense, and the bone of her pelvis below that. It was all artificial, of course, heat-activated poly-fibrous tensile coils for muscles, printed carbon laminate chassis in place of a skeleton. But it felt completely, convincingly real. The impulse to rip at the plastic film and tear it into confetti like wrapping paper on Christmas morning was very real, and very hard to resist.
It had been a long, long while since Tyson had made time for such distractions, and the sight of her, the perfect, flawless sight of her, roused something deep inside him he thought dead, but had merely been in a deep slumber.
Tyson tore away from her. “I’m sorry, I … have a thing.”
“I know you don’t,” Paris said, annoyance seeping into her voice at the edges. “I maintain your schedule, remember?”
“It’s not you, this is just, very fast. I need to think.” Which was entirely true. Tyson tapped a floor panel and called up the express lift car. “I’ll see you tomorrow. We’ll talk about this more then.”
“Do I look like I want to talk ?” the spurned, inexplicably horny android said with a huff.
“Please don’t be angry with me.” Tyson practically fell into the lift as soon as the doors opened. He backpedaled until his shoulders hit the inside wall and the doors closed. Tyson’s knees went weak and he slid down the wood paneling inside the lift car.
- Joined
- Jun 10, 2018
- Joined
- Apr 9, 2021
Hey guys, look at me! I'm smiling! I'm totally living a happy life! Also, that's my WIFE behind me, whose PUSSY I have ready access to. Take that, incels. And no, atalker, there is no judgement that is approaching $37,000