- Joined
- Feb 14, 2015
Congratulations to Connor for learning at least one good writing guideline: write what you know.
حلال Connor Bible - Everyone's Favorite Molly Ringwald loving, adoption hating, aspiring writer and bellybutton fucker
- Thread starter Null
- Start date
Congratulations to Connor for learning at least one good writing guideline: write what you know.
- Joined
- Feb 4, 2013
I have an idea for the great literary minds here at Kiwi Farms. (@Meowthkip, @BOLDYSPICY!, @Smutley, etc.) Since Connor Bible sold us out, I was thinking you guys should take Redesigning Eva away from him and make it your own. Fix all the plot holes, inconsistencies, grammatical and spelling errors, and remove any filler. (which would be basically everything) This is your chance to not only outdo Connor Bible at what he claims he's good at, but to get sweet revenge on him for betraying all of you.
- Joined
- Jan 23, 2015
With the sheer number of revisions, corrections and removals of dozens upon dozens of layers of plagiarism it would take to turn Redesigning Eva into a functional piece of literature, it would literally become a matter of just lifting absolutely everything away from the story save for minuscule elements of the plot and preserving the character's names. If you can effectively write an entire, different book out of sheer spite for Connor and then plunder and
Besides, it's not as though Connor is ever going to be able to produce enough publishable, literary work to ever make use of the title himself. Given that there's already quite a few mention-worthy wordsmiths pandering around these pages, it's just a matter of time before one of them hoists the name away from him to begin with. It's a race against time, Connor, and you are a particularly slow participant.
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- Joined
- Mar 29, 2014
Names and titles can't be copyrighted, but they may be eligible for trademark.
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H
HG 400
Guest
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- Jul 4, 2016
I realize trying to solve the modern mystery that is Connor's libido is about as meaningful an undertaking as rolling around in one's own shit, but I'm genuinely curious as to why he's still so obsessed with her to this very day.
Is it just 'cause of her belly button, or does this autistic rabbit hole run deeper?
- Joined
- Oct 1, 2014
Personally I'd want to find a way to make it crazier and stupider but that's just me.
Connor did not go far enough.
- Joined
- Feb 20, 2015
Honestly I'd watch Redesigning Eva if it went the B-Movie route — stuff like the scene with the black drug dealing nurse can put it in the league of movies like Samurai Cop.
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- Joined
- May 18, 2014
He should make it so bizarre that it's borderline unreadable, like Finnegans Wake.
- Joined
- Apr 20, 2013
That's because he never finished it.
- Joined
- Apr 1, 2014
I think @Mauvwomyn Shuffleboard has the best possible Eva down. To this day his rewrite still makes me chortle.
- Joined
- Jan 27, 2014
Heh, I'm not really much of a writer. But I WILL continue to make shitty draws.
Really, I think @Mauvwomyn Shuffleboard wins the award for Best REDEVAGNING Rewrite, hands down.
"The butterfly beat its wings like an unfaithful wife," "Brian's boner left him faster than his father left his mother," & "Holden drove the same way he fucked pigs---hard, fast, & probably illegal" were god tier. I cri evertim.
- Joined
- Mar 29, 2014
One possible symptom of autism is an unusual obsession over a specific subject -- like train schedules, the top speeds sharks are capable of, or Molly Ringwald.
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- Joined
- Jan 27, 2014
I think it would be fun to see it get increasingly ludicrous but while still lifting whole paragraphs from Silence of the Lambs wholesale.
- Joined
- Feb 3, 2013
I miss Connor, I need him in my life
I once offered to try and teach him how to draw and he never gave an answer. I think it'd be easier for him to get better at drawing than writing
I once offered to try and teach him how to draw and he never gave an answer. I think it'd be easier for him to get better at drawing than writing
- Joined
- Apr 20, 2016
I just leave this here for general mockery, and autism research purposes. 
Now I haven´t read Connor´s crapsterpiece, only picked up some comments and references about it from other Kiwis, Cronenberg, Silence Of The Lambs, Neon Genesis Evangelion, so I just run with those. I acknowledge that I´m most likely waaay off with it, but suck it. I know the mock up cover would need more work, it´s blurry in parts, I really didn´t think the arrangement of title and name through to the end, and a general tidying up would improve it, but couldn´t care less right now. Not spending more time with it, though.
- Joined
- Apr 18, 2013
I'll admit, it took me a good few minutes to realize it's supposed to be Eva and not fanart of Leon Kennedy turning into a Titan.I just leave this here for general mockery, and autism research purposes.
Now I haven´t read Connor´s crapsterpiece, only picked up some comments and references about it from other Kiwis, Cronenberg, Silence Of The Lambs, Neon Genesis Evangelion, so I just run with those. I acknowledge that I´m most likely waaay off with it, but suck it. I know the mock up cover would need more work, it´s blurry in parts, I really didn´t think the arrangement of title and name through to the end, and a general tidying up would improve it, but couldn´t care less right now. Not spending more time with it, though.
- Joined
- Sep 8, 2015
I miss Connor, so I wrote him some fan fiction. Its not very good, but at least I finished it, and that's what counts right Connor?
And down. And down. And down…
Connor slipped his mouth and nose beneath the water, sliding his ample buttocks down along the bottom of the tub with a squeak, so that he was uncomfortably hunched and his knees poked over the sides like knobbly little flesh islands. His crooked spectacles peeped above the surface of the water, opaque with steam and concealing an intense crocodile like stare. He sat there for almost a minute before violently breaching the surface again, gasping for air and displacing a large quantity of the bath’s contents onto the floor. His gasps soon turned into big wheezing coughs that didn’t subside until he took a few gulps of a nearby unfinished energy drink and a few moments to compose himself. There was a quick rap at the door and a soft voice called from the other side.
“Is everything alright in there, Connor?”
“Yes Mother. Everything is fine.” Connor replied.
“I heard you thrashing about. What are you doing in there?”. Connor could feel a rage building up in his chest. He replied with fluctuating volume and cadence and an incoherent mush of words tumbled from his wide, wet mouth.
“No, mother, I’m not. I wasnt..I Don’t…I’m trying to do my thing. Go away!”
“Do you need any help?”
“That’s quite alright thank you. This is a private issue, now leave me alone…You old witch”. He held on to the last part until he could hear her footsteps creaking off up the hall. Connor sat amongst the steam and silence and let out a loud sigh. “I suppose suicide will have to wait” he thought. He poured himself a sloppy mitt full of white lotion, plunged his hand beneath the water and began fumbling aggressively around his crotch whilst desperately fighting the urge to masturbate. So many of his plans had been derailed, either by an uncontrollable urge to masturbate or an uncontrollable urge to commit suicide. Thankfully, any plans he usually made for enacting the latter were just as often derailed by the former as all the others. However, he had decided that today would be the the dawn of a new era, or seeing as he had slept in quite late, the early-afternoon of a new era. It was clearly the early stages of an era either way. With a typical measured stroke of tactical brilliance, he had decided to get the masturbation out of the way as quickly as possible and then he could plan for the rest of the day after that most natural and necessary of businesses had been taken care of. Unfortunately, this brilliant anti-derailment measure itself became derailed by an issue that had been developing for some days now, and had finally reached a point where it made up-close interaction with his own crotch too repugnant, even for him. If Connor had known that the sticky, smelly, lint like objects gathering around his perineum were actually an advanced colony of fungus, he might have extrapolated a deep symbolic meaning from their eradication and used it as fuel for his quest for higher purpose. As it was, he just thought they could somehow be blamed on his underwear, and as such were treated as a mild nuisance so the problem grew unchecked. It was only now after getting undressed and examining the problem area with a hand mirror that he was made aware of what a truly awful state the underside of his scrotum was in. He immediately became disheartened by the whole ordeal, and his mind wandered back towards the thoughts of suicide that always dashed about in the peripheries of his vast and boundless imagination. Here he was, a sensitive artist, forced into indignity through no fault of his own, reduced to scrubbing malodorous pox-grime from his cock and balls when he could be writing instead. Thankfully, today he had just enough mental strength to pull him out of his funk all on his own, and he carried on with the task at hand. Once he felt as though the lotion had been sufficiently applied to do its job correctly, Connor masturbated and got out of the tub. He quickly patted himself dry, all the while muttering his way through a mental checklist of the many tasks he had to accomplish for the day. By far the most important thing was his writing. He needed to finish his work-in-progress novel - The Seeds of Malcontent: a darkly comic, epic sci-fi satire, about a young girl with psychic powers’ struggle to adapt to high school life in dystopian retro-futurist neo-noir landscape of urban decay - of which he had written 612 potent and visceral words. He was still behind though. Admittedly, he had been slacking off for a while now. How long is immaterial, as time seems to slow to a fantastic crawl when one is eluded by his muses, but Conner estimated that he would need to hit a target of around 9000 words to call the day a success. Fortunately for him, he was currently bloated with inspiration, as he had recently read about the wonderful tonality of the Gothic setting in Bram Stoker’s Dracula and thought that it would be just the sort of thing that he could use in his own book. Connor fashioned the towel into a turban, slipped on his bathrobe and sauntered into his room to begin reading. His bookshelf was lined with novels that he had picked up over the years, all neatly placed in alphabetical order by genre, author and title. He also had an equally sizable, equally well organized DVD collection. Some diabolical pedant, or statistician might notice a correlation between the two collections, in that every novel that had an equivalent adaptation in the DVD collection was turned upside down on the shelf, indicating that it had already risen to the ranks of the “read”. He wasn’t a fan of horror movies because of their cheesiness and predictability so, coincidentally, Dracula had been just one of a number of classic novels that he had been reading for many years now. Naturally, he would have read them all if life didn’t have such a persistent tendency to get in the way of any attempts at literary solace and intellectual solitude. It was twenty to one in the afternoon so, as Connor was an exceptionally quick reader, he thought he should bump that up to the top of the list of things to do, and hopefully it would inspire him to write later. He went and took his large hardback copy of Dracula off the shelf, reclined on his bed and began to read. Whenever he read anything, Connor liked to imagine the book as if it were a movie he were directing. He would think about possible locations for setting, and which actor would play each role, and give much psychic attention over to the camera angles and cinematography. He made his way through the first paragraph, vividly imagining the train as it pulled away in the early morning, slowly increasing speed as it chugged its way past the canals and splendid bridges of a quaint and beautiful Vienna. He could feel the chill air of the evening in Klausenburgh, and could taste the chicken and peppers they had for supper, but his speed faltered at the mention of Mina. Connor stopped reading, laid the book flat on his belly and gazed off towards the corner of the ceiling, trying to visualise the character. Connor had heard of Mina. He thought to himself “She was played by Winona Ryder I believe. Not a bad choice, but I would have cast someone more along the lines of Molly Ringwald. She could bring a more fresh faced charm to the role, and could have conveyed a more subtle sense of unease and fear, with her subdued, icy facial expressions.” He made a mental note to canvas the internet film-buff community for their views on this topic. He couldn’t fathom that there would be too much dissent. After all, Molly Ringwald was a beautiful woman and a talented actress. He tried reading on, and as he did he subconsciously slipped his hand underneath his robe and began groping around. He managed to get a few sentences further, noting the terribly slow pace of this allegedly terrifying book, before he found with true horror that the sticky lint like objects around his perineum were still there. He pulled one out and examined it. It smelt like death. Connor was furious. He threw the book down on the bed, huffing with rage, drafting a letter of complaint to the lotion manufacturers in his head. “Could my life get any worse?” he thought to himself. After much stewing on the situation, Connor felt that he was totally at a loss for what to do, and that he should head to the internet for advice. The internet was a vast, anonymous playground of the intellectual, where people could share ideas and information, free of the inherent shallow, cultural biases of the meatspace. Someone was bound to have experienced a similar situation, and could inform him of the best way of going about dealing with it. He wrote a post on a forum he frequented, and tried to go back to his reading, but he had lost his place, and his mood was far to low to read a frightening book like Dracula, so he put it down until he felt better, instead heading back to the internet for a cursory browse of the basic gist of what it was about. A short while later he was notified that his inquiry had received some responses. He logged on to check them, but wasn’t met with the reaction he had hoped. For some reason, he was roundly mocked for his problem by heartless savages and sociopathic cyberbullies - for a medical condition, of all things. How could they be so cruel? Connor clasped his hands together and tapped the tips of his steepled index fingers gently against his bottom lip. He sat like this for a while before slowly getting up, carefully returning the book to its place on the shelf, and shuffling back towards his bed, where he stayed for the next few hours, perched on the corner with his head in his hands, fighting the urge to masturbate and trying to imagine up ever more spiteful and elaborate, but pain-free ways of killing himself.
Connor slipped his mouth and nose beneath the water, sliding his ample buttocks down along the bottom of the tub with a squeak, so that he was uncomfortably hunched and his knees poked over the sides like knobbly little flesh islands. His crooked spectacles peeped above the surface of the water, opaque with steam and concealing an intense crocodile like stare. He sat there for almost a minute before violently breaching the surface again, gasping for air and displacing a large quantity of the bath’s contents onto the floor. His gasps soon turned into big wheezing coughs that didn’t subside until he took a few gulps of a nearby unfinished energy drink and a few moments to compose himself. There was a quick rap at the door and a soft voice called from the other side.
“Is everything alright in there, Connor?”
“Yes Mother. Everything is fine.” Connor replied.
“I heard you thrashing about. What are you doing in there?”. Connor could feel a rage building up in his chest. He replied with fluctuating volume and cadence and an incoherent mush of words tumbled from his wide, wet mouth.
“No, mother, I’m not. I wasnt..I Don’t…I’m trying to do my thing. Go away!”
“Do you need any help?”
“That’s quite alright thank you. This is a private issue, now leave me alone…You old witch”. He held on to the last part until he could hear her footsteps creaking off up the hall. Connor sat amongst the steam and silence and let out a loud sigh. “I suppose suicide will have to wait” he thought. He poured himself a sloppy mitt full of white lotion, plunged his hand beneath the water and began fumbling aggressively around his crotch whilst desperately fighting the urge to masturbate. So many of his plans had been derailed, either by an uncontrollable urge to masturbate or an uncontrollable urge to commit suicide. Thankfully, any plans he usually made for enacting the latter were just as often derailed by the former as all the others. However, he had decided that today would be the the dawn of a new era, or seeing as he had slept in quite late, the early-afternoon of a new era. It was clearly the early stages of an era either way. With a typical measured stroke of tactical brilliance, he had decided to get the masturbation out of the way as quickly as possible and then he could plan for the rest of the day after that most natural and necessary of businesses had been taken care of. Unfortunately, this brilliant anti-derailment measure itself became derailed by an issue that had been developing for some days now, and had finally reached a point where it made up-close interaction with his own crotch too repugnant, even for him. If Connor had known that the sticky, smelly, lint like objects gathering around his perineum were actually an advanced colony of fungus, he might have extrapolated a deep symbolic meaning from their eradication and used it as fuel for his quest for higher purpose. As it was, he just thought they could somehow be blamed on his underwear, and as such were treated as a mild nuisance so the problem grew unchecked. It was only now after getting undressed and examining the problem area with a hand mirror that he was made aware of what a truly awful state the underside of his scrotum was in. He immediately became disheartened by the whole ordeal, and his mind wandered back towards the thoughts of suicide that always dashed about in the peripheries of his vast and boundless imagination. Here he was, a sensitive artist, forced into indignity through no fault of his own, reduced to scrubbing malodorous pox-grime from his cock and balls when he could be writing instead. Thankfully, today he had just enough mental strength to pull him out of his funk all on his own, and he carried on with the task at hand. Once he felt as though the lotion had been sufficiently applied to do its job correctly, Connor masturbated and got out of the tub. He quickly patted himself dry, all the while muttering his way through a mental checklist of the many tasks he had to accomplish for the day. By far the most important thing was his writing. He needed to finish his work-in-progress novel - The Seeds of Malcontent: a darkly comic, epic sci-fi satire, about a young girl with psychic powers’ struggle to adapt to high school life in dystopian retro-futurist neo-noir landscape of urban decay - of which he had written 612 potent and visceral words. He was still behind though. Admittedly, he had been slacking off for a while now. How long is immaterial, as time seems to slow to a fantastic crawl when one is eluded by his muses, but Conner estimated that he would need to hit a target of around 9000 words to call the day a success. Fortunately for him, he was currently bloated with inspiration, as he had recently read about the wonderful tonality of the Gothic setting in Bram Stoker’s Dracula and thought that it would be just the sort of thing that he could use in his own book. Connor fashioned the towel into a turban, slipped on his bathrobe and sauntered into his room to begin reading. His bookshelf was lined with novels that he had picked up over the years, all neatly placed in alphabetical order by genre, author and title. He also had an equally sizable, equally well organized DVD collection. Some diabolical pedant, or statistician might notice a correlation between the two collections, in that every novel that had an equivalent adaptation in the DVD collection was turned upside down on the shelf, indicating that it had already risen to the ranks of the “read”. He wasn’t a fan of horror movies because of their cheesiness and predictability so, coincidentally, Dracula had been just one of a number of classic novels that he had been reading for many years now. Naturally, he would have read them all if life didn’t have such a persistent tendency to get in the way of any attempts at literary solace and intellectual solitude. It was twenty to one in the afternoon so, as Connor was an exceptionally quick reader, he thought he should bump that up to the top of the list of things to do, and hopefully it would inspire him to write later. He went and took his large hardback copy of Dracula off the shelf, reclined on his bed and began to read. Whenever he read anything, Connor liked to imagine the book as if it were a movie he were directing. He would think about possible locations for setting, and which actor would play each role, and give much psychic attention over to the camera angles and cinematography. He made his way through the first paragraph, vividly imagining the train as it pulled away in the early morning, slowly increasing speed as it chugged its way past the canals and splendid bridges of a quaint and beautiful Vienna. He could feel the chill air of the evening in Klausenburgh, and could taste the chicken and peppers they had for supper, but his speed faltered at the mention of Mina. Connor stopped reading, laid the book flat on his belly and gazed off towards the corner of the ceiling, trying to visualise the character. Connor had heard of Mina. He thought to himself “She was played by Winona Ryder I believe. Not a bad choice, but I would have cast someone more along the lines of Molly Ringwald. She could bring a more fresh faced charm to the role, and could have conveyed a more subtle sense of unease and fear, with her subdued, icy facial expressions.” He made a mental note to canvas the internet film-buff community for their views on this topic. He couldn’t fathom that there would be too much dissent. After all, Molly Ringwald was a beautiful woman and a talented actress. He tried reading on, and as he did he subconsciously slipped his hand underneath his robe and began groping around. He managed to get a few sentences further, noting the terribly slow pace of this allegedly terrifying book, before he found with true horror that the sticky lint like objects around his perineum were still there. He pulled one out and examined it. It smelt like death. Connor was furious. He threw the book down on the bed, huffing with rage, drafting a letter of complaint to the lotion manufacturers in his head. “Could my life get any worse?” he thought to himself. After much stewing on the situation, Connor felt that he was totally at a loss for what to do, and that he should head to the internet for advice. The internet was a vast, anonymous playground of the intellectual, where people could share ideas and information, free of the inherent shallow, cultural biases of the meatspace. Someone was bound to have experienced a similar situation, and could inform him of the best way of going about dealing with it. He wrote a post on a forum he frequented, and tried to go back to his reading, but he had lost his place, and his mood was far to low to read a frightening book like Dracula, so he put it down until he felt better, instead heading back to the internet for a cursory browse of the basic gist of what it was about. A short while later he was notified that his inquiry had received some responses. He logged on to check them, but wasn’t met with the reaction he had hoped. For some reason, he was roundly mocked for his problem by heartless savages and sociopathic cyberbullies - for a medical condition, of all things. How could they be so cruel? Connor clasped his hands together and tapped the tips of his steepled index fingers gently against his bottom lip. He sat like this for a while before slowly getting up, carefully returning the book to its place on the shelf, and shuffling back towards his bed, where he stayed for the next few hours, perched on the corner with his head in his hands, fighting the urge to masturbate and trying to imagine up ever more spiteful and elaborate, but pain-free ways of killing himself.
- Joined
- Jan 27, 2014
- Joined
- Apr 18, 2013
This is probably a depressingly accurate depiction of what it's like to spend an average day as Connor "nuke me you gutless motherfucker" Bible.