- Joined
- Dec 16, 2023
Wow, he got held back twice, and still only managed a 1.7 GPA when he graduated. This is incredibly pathetic.
If I'd been held back twice I'd have a major complex about being a retard as well.
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
Wow, he got held back twice, and still only managed a 1.7 GPA when he graduated. This is incredibly pathetic.
If I'd been held back twice I'd have a major complex about being a retard as well.
- Joined
- Dec 13, 2022
Patrick S. Tomlinson starts simping after gigahun Charlotte Clymer on the very same day "her" voter-advocacy PAC is implicated in committing elections fraud. (archive)
Anyway, my favorite nugget from the podcast lore (seriously @IsaacShraeder tyfys I don't think I could have sat through an hour of that) is that Rick dragged Ade along to that nerd con just to show her off to his nerd buddies. Check it out you guise, MY GIRLFRIEND is totally reel, i told you!!!1 Oh how different might life have been if she had just stayed home prepping the nursery and taking Lamaze classes.
Anyway, my favorite nugget from the podcast lore (seriously @IsaacShraeder tyfys I don't think I could have sat through an hour of that) is that Rick dragged Ade along to that nerd con just to show her off to his nerd buddies. Check it out you guise, MY GIRLFRIEND is totally reel, i told you!!!1 Oh how different might life have been if she had just stayed home prepping the nursery and taking Lamaze classes.
Booger1488
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- Jul 14, 2024
So I'm home sick and bored, and, inspired by Patrick's choice of 'career', decided to do some creative writing. Warning, it is fairly long.
In the year 2525, humanity has spread across the stars. The Federated Union of Planets vies with the Terran Empire for power, but beyond the control of these duelling titans lies a smattering of lawless star systems. To keep order, these systems employ Stalkers, wandering bounty hunters who stand between the innocent and the forces of evil.
———————————————————————————————————————
Varni’s starship shuddered as it passed through the lower stratosphere of Hoolaan VII. Turbulence. She gripped the control stick tighter and eased her angle of descent. After a brief interlude, the shaking ceased as the auto-stabilisers activated.
Her ship punched through the carpet of white cloud, and the main spaceport of the planet appeared before her. Golden light reflected from steel and glass as ships of varying sizes flitted about like birds in an aviary.
The console chirped. Varni’s eyes flicked to see a message from the Spaceport Authority appear upon the screen. A dock had been allocated to her on level fourteen. Varni exhaled in relief. It seemed her forged identification had passed the Spaceport Authority’s inspection. The thought occurred to her that it might have been a trick, that they might have realised her credentials were false and were luring her into a trap. But if they suspected the true purpose of their visit, they would have blown her to pieces before she’d ever entered the exosphere.
Varni guided her starship along the path her navigation system had charted for her, ducking under large pleasure cruisers and weaving between sleek corvettes. The face of the Spaceport loomed before her, resembling a beehive. She engaged the forward thrusters to slow her momentum as she eased her ship into dock twelve, level fourteen. The sturdy landing gear groaned as it took the weight of the ship, bending under the strain.
Varni switched off the engine. She disengaged her seat from the cockpit, waited for it to reel back, then pushed herself free of it. She manoeuvred through the tight interior of her ship, retrieving her tool belt from a storage cabinet. It looked no different to a belt a labourer or mechanic might use, constructed of a lightweight carbide alloy. In one lead-lined pouch, she had sequestered her blaster. Varni opened the pouch and inspected her blaster, checking it was not empty.
She wound the belt around her waist, clipped the forged keycard to it, then pushed the button to open the ship’s entrance. Pressurised air hissed as the ramp lowered and struck the floor of the dock with a metallic clang.
Varni descended, taking her first breath of fresh air since she’d left Novum Novum Eboracum. She almost wished she hadn’t. The spaceport of Hoolaan VII tasted like burnt ozone, engine oil and stale tobacco. Everything she’d read had described the planet as little more than an industrial hellhole, a machine where raw materials became cheap goods.
A drone approached her as her ship’s ramp rose. Both sides of its head bore the insignia of the planet. It came to a stop before her, hovering in place.
“Greetings and welcome to Hoolaan VII,” the drone said. “May I scan your identification?”
Varni retrieved the forged keycard from her belt and held it out. A red laser scanned the card. The drone remained silent, and Varni began to wonder if her cover had been broken. A bead of sweat trailed down the back of her neck as her free hand crept toward where her blaster was hidden.
Then the drone chirped. “Everything is in order. Enjoy your time upon Hoolaan VII, Miss Neekee.”
The drone flew off toward its next task. Varni clipped the keycard back to her belt. She sent a mental thanks to her lucky stars. Keene had worked his magic yet again. Worth every one of the credits she’d paid him.
She made her way through the labyrinth of the spaceport, following signs labelled in both Terran Standard and Unilan. The spaceport opened onto the main settlement, a confusing maze of buildings stacked atop buildings. Varni wove through the crowds, stopping once to ask directions to her destination. In a little less than a Standard Hour, she found herself standing before a colossal building marked by a neon sign which read Hoolaan Cantina. Varni resisted the urge to touch her blaster and entered the cantina.
Inside smelled just as terrible as outside, if not worse. Varni wrinkled her nose at the scent of stale tobacco, ethanol and sweat, offset by the bitter tang of orange which only served to accentuate the foul odours, rather than mask them. Harbrulean fusion wafted from speakers set into the walls and ceilings, fighting against the cacophony emitted by the cantina patrons.
Varni wormed through the crowd, doing her best to remain inconspicuous. The fear someone might recognise her presented itself, and she kept one hand close to the pouch which held her blaster.
She found her target on the third level, surrounded by a half dozen sycophantic androids. As he finished his anecdote the androids laughed, the way they’d been programmed to.
Varni took a moment to observe the man, noting how little he resembled his holograph. Thick jowls which shook with each laugh, a pair of recessed, beady eyes, a glistening sheen of sweat upon his protruding forehead. There was, Varni thought, a vague porcine resemblance about him. She recalled tales of a biotech corporation which had, decades prior, engaged in genetic alteration. Merging human DNA with that of animals in an attempt to create a more efficient being. The program had been scrapped, and most of the experiments destroyed, but she wondered if her target had been one of those who’d managed to survive, fleeing into the wider universe.
The fat man’s eyes flickered to Varni, and she knew she could not afford to tarry any longer. She opened the pouch which held her blaster as she strode forth, her fingers curling around its handle.
“Identify yourself,” said the fat man as Varni reached his table.
She drew her blaster and aimed at his enlarged chest. “There’s an eighty thousand credit bounty upon your head, Rikk. One I intend to collect.”
“Oh. A Stalker,” said the Porcine man. “I wondered when one of you would show up.”
“It makes no difference to me whether I bring you in alive or dead. The reward is the same either way. Put your hands up and come with me. You can spend the rest of your life in a Union prison.”
A smile spread across the fat man’s porcine features. “No, child.”
At his words, the androids stood. Their arms shifted as machinery moved, revealing blasters which had been sheathed within. As one they turned, training their blasters on Varni.
The fat man smirked. “It is you whose life is over, Stalker.”
———————————————————————————————————————
Varni’s starship shuddered as it passed through the lower stratosphere of Hoolaan VII. Turbulence. She gripped the control stick tighter and eased her angle of descent. After a brief interlude, the shaking ceased as the auto-stabilisers activated.
Her ship punched through the carpet of white cloud, and the main spaceport of the planet appeared before her. Golden light reflected from steel and glass as ships of varying sizes flitted about like birds in an aviary.
The console chirped. Varni’s eyes flicked to see a message from the Spaceport Authority appear upon the screen. A dock had been allocated to her on level fourteen. Varni exhaled in relief. It seemed her forged identification had passed the Spaceport Authority’s inspection. The thought occurred to her that it might have been a trick, that they might have realised her credentials were false and were luring her into a trap. But if they suspected the true purpose of their visit, they would have blown her to pieces before she’d ever entered the exosphere.
Varni guided her starship along the path her navigation system had charted for her, ducking under large pleasure cruisers and weaving between sleek corvettes. The face of the Spaceport loomed before her, resembling a beehive. She engaged the forward thrusters to slow her momentum as she eased her ship into dock twelve, level fourteen. The sturdy landing gear groaned as it took the weight of the ship, bending under the strain.
Varni switched off the engine. She disengaged her seat from the cockpit, waited for it to reel back, then pushed herself free of it. She manoeuvred through the tight interior of her ship, retrieving her tool belt from a storage cabinet. It looked no different to a belt a labourer or mechanic might use, constructed of a lightweight carbide alloy. In one lead-lined pouch, she had sequestered her blaster. Varni opened the pouch and inspected her blaster, checking it was not empty.
She wound the belt around her waist, clipped the forged keycard to it, then pushed the button to open the ship’s entrance. Pressurised air hissed as the ramp lowered and struck the floor of the dock with a metallic clang.
Varni descended, taking her first breath of fresh air since she’d left Novum Novum Eboracum. She almost wished she hadn’t. The spaceport of Hoolaan VII tasted like burnt ozone, engine oil and stale tobacco. Everything she’d read had described the planet as little more than an industrial hellhole, a machine where raw materials became cheap goods.
A drone approached her as her ship’s ramp rose. Both sides of its head bore the insignia of the planet. It came to a stop before her, hovering in place.
“Greetings and welcome to Hoolaan VII,” the drone said. “May I scan your identification?”
Varni retrieved the forged keycard from her belt and held it out. A red laser scanned the card. The drone remained silent, and Varni began to wonder if her cover had been broken. A bead of sweat trailed down the back of her neck as her free hand crept toward where her blaster was hidden.
Then the drone chirped. “Everything is in order. Enjoy your time upon Hoolaan VII, Miss Neekee.”
The drone flew off toward its next task. Varni clipped the keycard back to her belt. She sent a mental thanks to her lucky stars. Keene had worked his magic yet again. Worth every one of the credits she’d paid him.
She made her way through the labyrinth of the spaceport, following signs labelled in both Terran Standard and Unilan. The spaceport opened onto the main settlement, a confusing maze of buildings stacked atop buildings. Varni wove through the crowds, stopping once to ask directions to her destination. In a little less than a Standard Hour, she found herself standing before a colossal building marked by a neon sign which read Hoolaan Cantina. Varni resisted the urge to touch her blaster and entered the cantina.
Inside smelled just as terrible as outside, if not worse. Varni wrinkled her nose at the scent of stale tobacco, ethanol and sweat, offset by the bitter tang of orange which only served to accentuate the foul odours, rather than mask them. Harbrulean fusion wafted from speakers set into the walls and ceilings, fighting against the cacophony emitted by the cantina patrons.
Varni wormed through the crowd, doing her best to remain inconspicuous. The fear someone might recognise her presented itself, and she kept one hand close to the pouch which held her blaster.
She found her target on the third level, surrounded by a half dozen sycophantic androids. As he finished his anecdote the androids laughed, the way they’d been programmed to.
Varni took a moment to observe the man, noting how little he resembled his holograph. Thick jowls which shook with each laugh, a pair of recessed, beady eyes, a glistening sheen of sweat upon his protruding forehead. There was, Varni thought, a vague porcine resemblance about him. She recalled tales of a biotech corporation which had, decades prior, engaged in genetic alteration. Merging human DNA with that of animals in an attempt to create a more efficient being. The program had been scrapped, and most of the experiments destroyed, but she wondered if her target had been one of those who’d managed to survive, fleeing into the wider universe.
The fat man’s eyes flickered to Varni, and she knew she could not afford to tarry any longer. She opened the pouch which held her blaster as she strode forth, her fingers curling around its handle.
“Identify yourself,” said the fat man as Varni reached his table.
She drew her blaster and aimed at his enlarged chest. “There’s an eighty thousand credit bounty upon your head, Rikk. One I intend to collect.”
“Oh. A Stalker,” said the Porcine man. “I wondered when one of you would show up.”
“It makes no difference to me whether I bring you in alive or dead. The reward is the same either way. Put your hands up and come with me. You can spend the rest of your life in a Union prison.”
A smile spread across the fat man’s porcine features. “No, child.”
At his words, the androids stood. Their arms shifted as machinery moved, revealing blasters which had been sheathed within. As one they turned, training their blasters on Varni.
The fat man smirked. “It is you whose life is over, Stalker.”
- Joined
- Feb 20, 2017
Well he does call presents "pressies". That's a pretty good indicator of when his mental development stopped.
- Joined
- Apr 2, 2023
Reminds me of Ralph's "Professor Xanax" pose.
Huddy Ledbetter
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- Aug 30, 2024
I've never actually listened to the Josiah tapes, aside from his meltdown in the last one. I genuinely can't stand to listen to him talk because everything about him is so annoying.
I definitely won't listen to this podcast. I'll probably read the transcript, but even reading the first paragraph was irritating. He's so fucking in love with himself.
OtherLastTrainHome
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- Mar 17, 2023
i am so ready for November 5th. Rick dropping this many deuces feels like it's going to lead up to something really special. the election itself promises to be very special, too, but i can't say i really care who wins because it's the oinking about it i'm most looking forward to. if you thought hundreds of "enjoy prisons" a day were something remarkable, i'm expecting hundreds of cope and seethe posts trying to pick fights with Republicans on the shxitter.
AutoClownMaker
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- Dec 11, 2020
The fatprick is gonna be either smug or mad. Him being smug to the special, special boys and girls on X who will go on and on about stolen elections and because he'll be his normal self he'll invite more trolling from those extra special pro trump Xtra specials. At some point his reactive nature will become mad (or start off mad) and those Xtra specials will also be reactive causing a doom loop of REEEEEing. Angry people popping off at each other leads to account suspensions.
The bigger the Harris win the more smug and the more smug he is the more interaction he'll get from the Xtra specials who will want to wipe that smugness off his face.
Too bad you can't buy and gift a premium account because The Fatprick getting that boost would just lead to more smug/mad interactions.
Trying to find where the most Trumpy of fans had spoken about The Fatprick lead to this little PDF. It is under 2 pages and starts off with a Tomlinson tweet.
- Joined
- Sep 17, 2021
Excuse me, sir but describing Tommy Tomlinson as "normal" does a big disservice to him. He was an extraordinary man with exceptional talent. Those who frequented the truck rest stop gloryholes on his trucking route throughout the 60s and 70s could attest to that. As one such gentlemen was quoted back then - "Yeeesh, I tell ya once you've experienced ol' double T's lips around your cock, you'll never be the same".
Incredible fella.
- Joined
- Jul 3, 2021
Wrong again stalker. You can gift X premium
I'm really surprised a pest hasn't done this yet. He'd lose his mind
- Joined
- May 31, 2024
I get your point, but believe me, once you acquire enough Patverse knowledge, it stops being an annoying experience and it becomes a hilarious game of "Spot the obese lies" Pat says to avoid self-reflection.
And if you consider Joasiah 1-4 are 4 hours of set up with the best payoff of all time, they become just as delicious as Josiah 5!
According to him, he took 4 semesters.
Even better: the retard did AT LEAST 2 times!
Edit: make it 3 times. There was that time Patrick said an actual nazi came to his door to personally deliver him a deaththreat (our 6"4' 220lb 5% body fat made him run like a bitch, obviously).
Of course, as always, Tall Tale Tomlinson tweeted a pic of the postcard the nazi stalker gave him, and it showed his adress.
Weirdly, it was also stamped, which is not commom on hand delivered cards. It is almost as if Bitch Tits was lying, but as we all know:
Bonus Oogaposting:
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- Joined
- Nov 17, 2019
Neither could I. I had AI do it. Only the witty, based, and funny commentary + formating is from me.
- Joined
- Jul 16, 2021
You know, we all edit our past lives to some degree when talking about ourselves. Pat just takes it to unreasonable lengths. Same psychological fucking-up that leads him to spend hours every day arguing with his toilet and threatening prison to everyone he interacts with, I guess.
No, it makes his father the toughest of tough guys, which of course means that Pat's very tough, too. I'm sorry you're so stupid, child.
No, it makes his father the toughest of tough guys, which of course means that Pat's very tough, too. I'm sorry you're so stupid, child.
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- Joined
- Dec 15, 2022
No way in hell am I listening to that podcast. Patrick is insufferable to listen to when he's in his smug "I get to dictate to you the facts, child." mode. He's only funny to listen to when he's in Josiah 5/Mama Raven "nnnno, child." or full meltdown DOYOUHAVEANYIDEA mode. Thanks for the transcript.
AutoClownMaker
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- Dec 11, 2020
Which is why I figured it was not possible. The whole pest posting of including people in their tweets or the anonymous secrets thing is just exposing new people in the hopes of getting the 'christ what an asshole' reaction. A blue check for him would help others become aware of him - a thing he really wants to help sell his books. And would also work for a pest goal.
And the users here gets laughs here.
The rare triple win. 4X win if you are Dan as that gets you more material for your sink podcast.
- Joined
- Apr 2, 2023
Looks like Patposting is back on the menu boys!
I bet Patrick thought he sounded so studious and intellectual like a proper, dapper gentleman for saying "took ill" instead of "got sick" or like "her father's health went down."
- Joined
- Feb 12, 2013
It is straight up "MY DAD COULD BEAT UP YOUR DAD!" kindergarten shit, and perfectly encapsulates how pig man is so fucking arrested in his development he is literally just an angry little 13 year old wannabe edgy badass boy in the body of a morbidly obese porcine humanoid with bitch tits
To paraphrase a quote from the movie The Last King of Scotland he is a child. he has the mind and ego of an angry, spoiled, uneducated child. And that's what makes him so fucking funny......and the fact he obsessively calls everybody he disagrees with child is just the icing on the fucking cake here.
Also it provides endless opportunities to further make jokes about how his father was taking it up the ass pozzhole style while serving as a rodeo clown.
I'm personally partial to the old...
EDIT: wait....fuck I didnt see that new podcast/transcript a couple pages back, was busy shittin last night....oh god this shit is so fucking what I needed right now
DOUBLE EDIT:
......first line. The literal first fucking line and i'm fucking laughing.
My sense of humour post-pat is so fucking buck broken I swear to god....
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- Joined
- Aug 19, 2018
This is so absurdly sad it's funny. What is it supposed to make them look as anything else than "Doesn't read, possibly can't read at all"?
The last person to ever do this should be an author, or even someone pretending to be an author like Rick does.
I've got some books here that come in multiple volumes and the dust jackets are different colors. "Hey Battlecruiser, can I borrow the Count of Monte Cristo?" -"Sure thing, the first volume is somewhere among the blues, second one somewhere among the reds and you'll find the third one among the yellows".
- Joined
- Dec 15, 2022
See. This shit is fucking funny. Pat is always faggy but he's subdued when he is calm and feels in control. He comes off less like a scolding mother and more of a wise cracking professor or other character from some slop media like Marvel that he believes himself to be like. When he is pushed to the extreme and has to act and think for himself he becomes an unstable sassy pig man and it's the funniest shit in the world.
- Joined
- Feb 12, 2013
Completely off topic but this kind of awoke a latent memory in my subconscious.
Many a year ago....well like 2010ish I was working my first part time summer job in small scale loading and packaging for a local confection business and the guy running this side of the business regularly invited me and my fellow packers....and yes that is precisely what we were....and yes fudge was indeed one of the main products.... home for a meal or just to unwind. Really nice guy, who paid his fudge packers extremely well, and was an unironic working class cockney like he just time warped out of the victorian era and he had a lovely family we all got on really well with. Only thing was his business had taken off so well he had a massive house in the classier side of town and a surprisingly stocked home library I found myself in one day.
He mentioned that he hired a friend to stock and coordinate the room for hosting meetings and such and that he never actually read 99.9999% of the books which was understandable. However, draped in dust on an ornate desk where his young daughter was doing her homework I noticed a matching collection of hardback books with a rather familiar name.
De Sade.
The coordinator had decided to deposit the full and collected works of Marquis De Sade, with the fact they were "illustrated" proudly announced on the covers, as the central piece on his client's "look how refined and cultured I am" desk, just inches away from where his kid was struggling through multiplication. Noticing me staring in disbelief and growing horror at the book he cheerfully asked about it and whether it was any good, and with his daughter in the room I tried to carefully phrase "you probably shouldn't keep it in the open" in a way without mentioning the...well everything.
Unfortunately his daughter heard this and immediately took an interest, finding out what was previously a desk ornament were in fact tomes of forbidden knowledge and reached out for the nearest which happened to be 120 days of Sodom, but thankfully the guy seems to have caught on to my eyes bulging in screaming horror and quickly moved them away and out of her reach. The conversation that followed was its own nightmare, with me letting him know the generalities....and then him prying for more info....and then when I gave the "More info" he asked just why I as a teenage boy fudge packer knew any of this....but luckily by that point he was just messing with me or else I would have straight up burst into tears.
He was cool about it with me and grateful for letting him know of the literary landmine in the room, but obviously pissed at the retard who thought this was a good idea to put this kind of material in a room meant to host business meetings, not to mention a room his kid had access to. The job ended a couple weeks later, and I moved not long after but iirc his business is still doing well and I like to think he is a little more cynical about favours from alleged friends after that incident
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