- Joined
- Jan 6, 2016
I've seen many. For a period some time back I had a curiosity and YouTube was the fix. NK gas some very interesting operations.
"ADF" / Philip Vincent Haskins-Delici / Isabel Rosa Araujo - The Original Troon Commie Cow
- Thread starter wagglyplacebo
- Start date
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- Joined
- Jan 13, 2019
Just a reminder that Phil locked his account for over 3 weeks and coward in his hovel after Andy Ngo published an article on him.
- Joined
- Mar 23, 2019
Andy Ngo is the Lt. Dangle to Phil's Terry.
Except I doubt Phil can roller skate.
(To be fair, neither can Nick Swardson.)
Except I doubt Phil can roller skate.
(To be fair, neither can Nick Swardson.)
- Joined
- Mar 24, 2013
Pretty ironic coming from Phil, a man who has repeatedly made social media posts because he's terrified of a forum full of spergs and autists who laugh at him and shitpost. A man who has tried his hardest to convince people he's part of Antifa, but the closest thing he's ever been to a protest or riot was a march down a quiet suburban street with a bunch of people who brought their small children along. Phil has no room talking about anyone crying because they're scared.
- Joined
- Nov 10, 2016
Wrote this for a different thread, but I'm sure you Phucker's will get a chuckle out of this TRUE and HONEST account of a day in the life of ADF:
It is spring 2021. The place; Portand, Oregon, USA. Picture if you will a portly, developmentally delayed trans-femme. We find our heroine alone in a one-room apartment, the walls of which are covered in hand-drawn road-maps and drawings of street-signs that look as though they were authored by a young child. Above the door hangs a black sign with white text reading “Portlantifa Barracks, ACAB”, and the warm smell of body odor and fecal material hangs heavy in the area. Piled to the roof in the corner of the room are the empty boxes from several local high-end pizzerias.
Dressed from head-to-toe in black clothing, including a ski-mask, and leather boots, our heroine types frantically into the cracked screen of an older model of iPhone while cradling a three-foot long wooden club in the crook of her left arm. With GREAT anger and FURIOUS vengeance, she types the final posts of her manifesto into her twitter interface.
“For too long has the capitalist swine you call CWC stolen the money from our cause and our government. In the name of Comrade Biden I swear I shall avenge this. We’ll see how weak you think antifa is when you’ve lost your preshious CWC. Consider this a warning, you’re all next!” reads the text written on the screen. With a furtive motion and an audible grunt, Isabel Rosa Aurajo presses her greasy finger down on the “Post” button, leaving an oily splotch on the screen of her phone.
Suddenly, an alert displays over the browser, reading “Your Uber has arrived”. Rising to her feet, Isabel puts a black backpack over her shoulders and dons a pair of sunglasses. “This is it, Phillip, time to face your fate!” she assures herself as she steps out of her apartment door and into the hallway of her Section 8 housing block. Departing with great swift, she forgets to lock the door behind her before arduously climbing down the three steps to the ground floor to her waiting ride.
After a short trip in the rain-soaked streets, Isabel arrives at the Greyhound station and presents her boarding pass. With this, she is granted access to the greatest transportation her means can afford. After a brief wait for the other passengers to finish boarding, the bus departs, and our heroine is off on the greatest adventure of a life-time. "Finally, those mocking bastards at K*w*f*r*s will fear me as they always should have."
A week goes by, and Isabel enjoys the sights riding the highways of the so-called United States of America, gradually but surely inching her way closer to the Commonwealth of Virginia and her ultimate destination, the small, cluttered, and neglected house at 14 Branchland Court, Ruckersville. On the final day, she disembarks and exits the Greyhound terminal closest to her destination. It is night-time and raining. The downpour is as heavy as it was when she left Portland. “Fitting”, she thinks to herself, “this storm shall be the perfect backdrop for my revenge. I’ll finally show those fascist, transphobic, nazi, TERF, cis-scum bigots my superiority!”
Withdrawing the damaged iPhone from one of her chest pockets, Isabel orders a Lyft to transport her over the final leg of her trip. After a short, five-minute wait in the rain, her ride arrives. Instantly upon entering the back seat, the driver opens the driver’s window as wide as possible, preferring the wetness of the rain to the smell of his fair. With one hand pinching the bridge of his nose, he turns and asks “Where ya headed?” Upon hearing the address, the driver’s eyes open wide as he thinks to himself “This must be that Jacob fellow!” He turns back to face forward and a smile quickly crosses his face before being washed away by the rain.
Three hours pass, and Isabel has finally arrived at her destination in Ruckersville. “Drop me off across the street” come the instructions from the backseat. Isabel slowly climbs out of the backseat, and her ride departs. Suddenly, a flash of red lights can be seen reflecting off of her face and the wet concrete. The Lyft driver has stopped and is profusely hosing down the backseat of his vehicle with a can of scented Febreeze branded aerosol. Not understanding why he is doing this, Isabel shouts at him about it being transphobic to disinfect his vehicle after transporting a member of the LGBT. Fearing for his safety, the Lyft driver abruptly drops his spray-can with a loud clank, enters his vehicle, and quickly drives away.
Turning back, Isabel now faces the home of her arch-nemesis, the oft-celebrated Christine Weston Chandler Sonichu. She slides a collapsible baton out of a pouch on her belt and extends it. Speaking aloud, she comforts herself “Keep it together, Phillip” before marching out into the street without checking for traffic.
Suddenly, a loud tire screech can be heard seconds before a loud thump. Isabel has been struck by a Blue Dodge Grand Caravan. Isabel falls to the ground temporarily before rising to her feet and turning to confront her aggressor as an obese man dressed like a 12 year-old girl exits the vehicle. Adjusting the white skirt he is wearing over some purple leggings, he quickly stammers “Oh, suh-sorry, I didn ev-evun see you dere. I-I-I was just weturn-weturnin’ home wit some, wit some bananananas for my mudd-for momma’s mudder. We can, we can make dis go away if you come in”.
The man adjusts his fecal-green hair and adjusts his bra while looking at Isabel. It is at this moment that she notices a yellow-and-black piece of jewelry being worn around the man’s neck. “This is it, this is him!” thinks Isabel upon recognizing the ornament to be the world-famous, original and copy write-protected character “Sonichu, the Electric-Hedgehog Pokemon”.
Suddenly, upon making eye-contact with her would-be target, Isabel feels an unfamiliar stirring in her groin as her girl-cock musters with all it’s might the most pathetic erection the world has ever witnesses. With a sudden shortness of breath and an increase in her heart-beat, Isabel stammers “Why yes, I’d love to!” before dropping her baton to the ground.
As Isabel makes her way to the front door, the obese man parks his van on the unpaved driveway before joining her. “Please watch out for da puppies” he says as he opens the door into the house. A wall of hot air wafts outward, washing both in an aura of ammonia-smelling vapors. “Juss head down-downstairs and make yerself comfabow” the man remarks before walking upstairs.
Isabel decends into the basement, experiencing difficulty walking as her rectum puckers and quakes. She passes what appears to be an elementary-school student’s desk covered in much detritus, but continues on her way further inward, locating the obese man’s bedroom. Our heroine takes a seat on the edge of the bed facing the door, reaching out and gently stroking the “My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic” bedspread with her left hand. Looking around, she sees all the children’s toys and thinks to herself “I could get used to this!” just as the man enters the room while tying a towel around his head to dry his hair.
Our heroine one more rises to her feet and, crossing the room, gives the obese man the most passionate kiss she can muster before falling back on the bed and removing her pants. She lifts her bent legs in the air and holds them aloft with her hands on her knees and begins to explain “Chris, I came here for something else, but I’ve realized I can’t live without you. Take me now and I’ll be yours forever.”
The obese man begins to respond, stuttering slowly “B-but I’m Sonichu inhabiting dis body and mind while momma” when he is suddenly interrupted.
Assuming this to simply be a role-play, Isabel cuts the man off and exclaims “Alright then, Sonichu. Enter my body and Zap to the extreme!” The man suddenly and with great haste lifts his skirt, revealing his semi-erect four-inch member that curves to the side and reaches over to the stereo on the night-stand to the side of the bed. Pushing a series of buttons, “All Star” by the band “Smash Mouth” suddenly begins to play at a loud volume. The man strips his shirt off but leaves his necklace around his neck.
Five minutes later and after much effort on both of their parts, Christine has successfully penetrated Isabel. As the smell of blood and defecation and rotten watermelons fills the air, Christine sings aloud “ONLY SHOOTING STARS BREAK DA MOWOWED!”
Isabel, looking up into the eyes of her new lover, gently caresses the side of Christine’s face. Suddenly, Isabel lets out a loud cat-like noise and arcs her neck backwards.
With a sudden jolt of energy and a loud thudding noise, Isabel attempts to sit upright before falling back down with another, subtler thud. It is a hot, humid August morning, and the birds are singing. Quickly examining her surroundings, Isabel once again finds herself sleeping beneath a bridge in Portland, Oregon. She pulls the newspaper she had used as a blanket away from herself and checks the headline; “Stockmarket reaches second all-time high of Trump’s second term” it reads.
Without removing her bicycle helmet, Isable quickly scampers down the embankment while shouting to herself “Forget the Orange Tyrant! I’ve got to get back!” Having arrived on the level-ground of a bike path, Isabel rushes around the corner of the bridge and retrieves a jar containing a dark viscous substance and sealed with a balloon. Pinching the balloon closed, she hastily removes it and lifts it to her nose before letting it open and breathing in deeply. Another loud thud can be heard as Isabel falls to the ground unconscious due to sudden anoxia.
What her dreams hold in store for her next is anyone’s guess.
It is spring 2021. The place; Portand, Oregon, USA. Picture if you will a portly, developmentally delayed trans-femme. We find our heroine alone in a one-room apartment, the walls of which are covered in hand-drawn road-maps and drawings of street-signs that look as though they were authored by a young child. Above the door hangs a black sign with white text reading “Portlantifa Barracks, ACAB”, and the warm smell of body odor and fecal material hangs heavy in the area. Piled to the roof in the corner of the room are the empty boxes from several local high-end pizzerias.
Dressed from head-to-toe in black clothing, including a ski-mask, and leather boots, our heroine types frantically into the cracked screen of an older model of iPhone while cradling a three-foot long wooden club in the crook of her left arm. With GREAT anger and FURIOUS vengeance, she types the final posts of her manifesto into her twitter interface.
“For too long has the capitalist swine you call CWC stolen the money from our cause and our government. In the name of Comrade Biden I swear I shall avenge this. We’ll see how weak you think antifa is when you’ve lost your preshious CWC. Consider this a warning, you’re all next!” reads the text written on the screen. With a furtive motion and an audible grunt, Isabel Rosa Aurajo presses her greasy finger down on the “Post” button, leaving an oily splotch on the screen of her phone.
Suddenly, an alert displays over the browser, reading “Your Uber has arrived”. Rising to her feet, Isabel puts a black backpack over her shoulders and dons a pair of sunglasses. “This is it, Phillip, time to face your fate!” she assures herself as she steps out of her apartment door and into the hallway of her Section 8 housing block. Departing with great swift, she forgets to lock the door behind her before arduously climbing down the three steps to the ground floor to her waiting ride.
After a short trip in the rain-soaked streets, Isabel arrives at the Greyhound station and presents her boarding pass. With this, she is granted access to the greatest transportation her means can afford. After a brief wait for the other passengers to finish boarding, the bus departs, and our heroine is off on the greatest adventure of a life-time. "Finally, those mocking bastards at K*w*f*r*s will fear me as they always should have."
A week goes by, and Isabel enjoys the sights riding the highways of the so-called United States of America, gradually but surely inching her way closer to the Commonwealth of Virginia and her ultimate destination, the small, cluttered, and neglected house at 14 Branchland Court, Ruckersville. On the final day, she disembarks and exits the Greyhound terminal closest to her destination. It is night-time and raining. The downpour is as heavy as it was when she left Portland. “Fitting”, she thinks to herself, “this storm shall be the perfect backdrop for my revenge. I’ll finally show those fascist, transphobic, nazi, TERF, cis-scum bigots my superiority!”
Withdrawing the damaged iPhone from one of her chest pockets, Isabel orders a Lyft to transport her over the final leg of her trip. After a short, five-minute wait in the rain, her ride arrives. Instantly upon entering the back seat, the driver opens the driver’s window as wide as possible, preferring the wetness of the rain to the smell of his fair. With one hand pinching the bridge of his nose, he turns and asks “Where ya headed?” Upon hearing the address, the driver’s eyes open wide as he thinks to himself “This must be that Jacob fellow!” He turns back to face forward and a smile quickly crosses his face before being washed away by the rain.
Three hours pass, and Isabel has finally arrived at her destination in Ruckersville. “Drop me off across the street” come the instructions from the backseat. Isabel slowly climbs out of the backseat, and her ride departs. Suddenly, a flash of red lights can be seen reflecting off of her face and the wet concrete. The Lyft driver has stopped and is profusely hosing down the backseat of his vehicle with a can of scented Febreeze branded aerosol. Not understanding why he is doing this, Isabel shouts at him about it being transphobic to disinfect his vehicle after transporting a member of the LGBT. Fearing for his safety, the Lyft driver abruptly drops his spray-can with a loud clank, enters his vehicle, and quickly drives away.
Turning back, Isabel now faces the home of her arch-nemesis, the oft-celebrated Christine Weston Chandler Sonichu. She slides a collapsible baton out of a pouch on her belt and extends it. Speaking aloud, she comforts herself “Keep it together, Phillip” before marching out into the street without checking for traffic.
Suddenly, a loud tire screech can be heard seconds before a loud thump. Isabel has been struck by a Blue Dodge Grand Caravan. Isabel falls to the ground temporarily before rising to her feet and turning to confront her aggressor as an obese man dressed like a 12 year-old girl exits the vehicle. Adjusting the white skirt he is wearing over some purple leggings, he quickly stammers “Oh, suh-sorry, I didn ev-evun see you dere. I-I-I was just weturn-weturnin’ home wit some, wit some bananananas for my mudd-for momma’s mudder. We can, we can make dis go away if you come in”.
The man adjusts his fecal-green hair and adjusts his bra while looking at Isabel. It is at this moment that she notices a yellow-and-black piece of jewelry being worn around the man’s neck. “This is it, this is him!” thinks Isabel upon recognizing the ornament to be the world-famous, original and copy write-protected character “Sonichu, the Electric-Hedgehog Pokemon”.
Suddenly, upon making eye-contact with her would-be target, Isabel feels an unfamiliar stirring in her groin as her girl-cock musters with all it’s might the most pathetic erection the world has ever witnesses. With a sudden shortness of breath and an increase in her heart-beat, Isabel stammers “Why yes, I’d love to!” before dropping her baton to the ground.
As Isabel makes her way to the front door, the obese man parks his van on the unpaved driveway before joining her. “Please watch out for da puppies” he says as he opens the door into the house. A wall of hot air wafts outward, washing both in an aura of ammonia-smelling vapors. “Juss head down-downstairs and make yerself comfabow” the man remarks before walking upstairs.
Isabel decends into the basement, experiencing difficulty walking as her rectum puckers and quakes. She passes what appears to be an elementary-school student’s desk covered in much detritus, but continues on her way further inward, locating the obese man’s bedroom. Our heroine takes a seat on the edge of the bed facing the door, reaching out and gently stroking the “My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic” bedspread with her left hand. Looking around, she sees all the children’s toys and thinks to herself “I could get used to this!” just as the man enters the room while tying a towel around his head to dry his hair.
Our heroine one more rises to her feet and, crossing the room, gives the obese man the most passionate kiss she can muster before falling back on the bed and removing her pants. She lifts her bent legs in the air and holds them aloft with her hands on her knees and begins to explain “Chris, I came here for something else, but I’ve realized I can’t live without you. Take me now and I’ll be yours forever.”
The obese man begins to respond, stuttering slowly “B-but I’m Sonichu inhabiting dis body and mind while momma” when he is suddenly interrupted.
Assuming this to simply be a role-play, Isabel cuts the man off and exclaims “Alright then, Sonichu. Enter my body and Zap to the extreme!” The man suddenly and with great haste lifts his skirt, revealing his semi-erect four-inch member that curves to the side and reaches over to the stereo on the night-stand to the side of the bed. Pushing a series of buttons, “All Star” by the band “Smash Mouth” suddenly begins to play at a loud volume. The man strips his shirt off but leaves his necklace around his neck.
Five minutes later and after much effort on both of their parts, Christine has successfully penetrated Isabel. As the smell of blood and defecation and rotten watermelons fills the air, Christine sings aloud “ONLY SHOOTING STARS BREAK DA MOWOWED!”
Isabel, looking up into the eyes of her new lover, gently caresses the side of Christine’s face. Suddenly, Isabel lets out a loud cat-like noise and arcs her neck backwards.
With a sudden jolt of energy and a loud thudding noise, Isabel attempts to sit upright before falling back down with another, subtler thud. It is a hot, humid August morning, and the birds are singing. Quickly examining her surroundings, Isabel once again finds herself sleeping beneath a bridge in Portland, Oregon. She pulls the newspaper she had used as a blanket away from herself and checks the headline; “Stockmarket reaches second all-time high of Trump’s second term” it reads.
Without removing her bicycle helmet, Isable quickly scampers down the embankment while shouting to herself “Forget the Orange Tyrant! I’ve got to get back!” Having arrived on the level-ground of a bike path, Isabel rushes around the corner of the bridge and retrieves a jar containing a dark viscous substance and sealed with a balloon. Pinching the balloon closed, she hastily removes it and lifts it to her nose before letting it open and breathing in deeply. Another loud thud can be heard as Isabel falls to the ground unconscious due to sudden anoxia.
What her dreams hold in store for her next is anyone’s guess.
- Joined
- Dec 28, 2014
Nobody likes Antifa.
- Joined
- Dec 6, 2020
Sproingggg!
Can someone tell Phil to be more careful? I have a lot of sensitive Irony-O-Meters lying around.
Yeah. Not even the genuine revolutionaries (and there are more of them around than you might think) like a group of middle-class white girls who dress in black and larp at protests.
crayolasword
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- Feb 12, 2015
- Joined
- Dec 28, 2014
I wonder how much he paid for it.
- Joined
- Dec 6, 2020
Phil, I know you read this, and I'd like to do you a deal.
If you have really been in contact with Portland Antifa groups and have really been told that you're welcome to stay in those groups, tell me who your ”official Antifa sources” are and send me a screenshot of their messages to you, with some form of identification to prove that it's really you sending those messages. You can create a burner account on the Farms to send me your evidence, and I won't post them here without your say so.
Bear in mind that I'm bored enough to find out who the leaders of Rose City Antifa, or the Youth Liberation Front, or whatever Antifa group you've allegedly been in contact with, are, so I'll be able to check whether you're telling the truth.
(Edit - this was in response to the screenshot of Phil's tweet you posted as an attachment)
- Joined
- Dec 28, 2014
The funny thing is Rose City Antifa is literally so fucking stupid that I can actually believe an utter turd like Phil is welcome there. They are literally that subhuman.
- Joined
- Dec 6, 2020
I don't think so.
Not because of the type of person he is, but because a guy who does half of the shit Phil does and who's a walking OPSEC nightmare wouldn't be welcome in a group run by and funded by serious revolutionaries who haven't got time for idiots with 32" long sticks with the trans pride flag painted on them.
- Joined
- Mar 24, 2013
Thing is, Phil is just slightly more retarded than your average AnTardfa "revolutionary". If your average Antifa tard was a bottle of Bacardi 151 (pretty damn retarded), then Phil is a bottle of Everclear. We'd all like to think that Phil is just too much of a mush-brained liability for Antifa to accept, but they just might be retarded enough to welcome him. Your typical Antifa mongo is just as childish, weak, lazy, cowardly, and jealous have-nots as Phil is. They're either twiggy soibois or bloated blue-haired landwhales for the most part. Phil is only slightly more of a worthless Lefty stereotype than they are.
- Joined
- Dec 6, 2020
The average Antifa member actually goes on
- Joined
- Mar 24, 2013
They're all OPSEC nightmares. They all dress alike, talk alike, and look alike. I guarantee you that Phil isn't the only fucktarded Che Guevara wannabe out there with Antifa tattoos. Look how many of them have been arrested AFTER they've left the scene because they gave themselves away by bragging on social media or were too stupid to avoid cameras. Just because a few of them had enough brain cells and the correct number of chromosomes to pull off some stupid "op" doesn't mean the majority of them are competent. Phil just happens to be more cowardly than some. I dunno why you're trying to defend them, because that's pretty silly.
- Joined
- Dec 6, 2020
- Joined
- Aug 24, 2014
- Joined
- Dec 6, 2020
”Homosexuality was largely invisible during the Mao era because homosexuality was pathologised and criminalized. During the Communist Cultural Revolution (1966 to 1976), homosexuals were regarded as "disgraceful" and "undesirable", and heavily persecuted.” - Wikipedia
What's the betting Phil would be in a gulag under Mao?
- Joined
- Jan 6, 2016
Day 1 Phil is bound and gagged and burned for energy. No shit.
- Joined
- Jun 15, 2014
Absolutely incorrect.
There would be tons of shit. Phil is full of nothing but shit, after all.