Hongourable Madisha
You see, some of us don't know English properly.
True & Honest Fan
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- Jan 9, 2019
Late to the party but here's America's Got Autism
and Murder by Mukbang
and Murder by Mukbang
Kiwitober 2022
- Thread starter MerriedxReldnahc
- Start date
- Joined
- Apr 3, 2021
Day 10- International Clique
- Joined
- Feb 6, 2021
Day 11 - Deathfat camp.
I was too lazy, so for this day I use Craiyon.
I was too lazy, so for this day I use Craiyon.
- Joined
- Feb 24, 2019
Day 1 - America's Got Autism
Day 2 - Murder By Mukbang
Day 3 - Twitter Meltdown
Day 4 - Hate Meme
Day 5 - Favorite ArtCow
Don't follow any art cows so enjoy this picture of a parade of artistic cows I found on Google.
Day 6 - LOLsuit
Day 7 - HyperFixation
Day 8 - Great Buffet in the Sky
Searching for manipulation photos and ran across this piece of artwork that went for possibly $666 dollars. Was too perfect to change it.
Day 9 - Jailbird
Day 10 - International Clique
Day 11 - Deathfat Camp
Day 2 - Murder By Mukbang
Day 3 - Twitter Meltdown
Day 4 - Hate Meme
Day 5 - Favorite ArtCow
Don't follow any art cows so enjoy this picture of a parade of artistic cows I found on Google.
Day 6 - LOLsuit
Day 7 - HyperFixation
Day 8 - Great Buffet in the Sky
Searching for manipulation photos and ran across this piece of artwork that went for possibly $666 dollars. Was too perfect to change it.
Day 9 - Jailbird
Day 10 - International Clique
Day 11 - Deathfat Camp
Weeb Slinger
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- Sep 4, 2019
International Clique
Both Adam Warski and Ashton Joel Parks fully agreed that they had come a long way from the log cabin, situated on the frozen Canadian wastelands, where they would fuck each other in the ass just to stave off hypothermia.
“Ashton, is this gay?” Warski had enquired one night.
Parks had reassured his bro of the broad consensus among scientists, that gayness could not endure below temperatures of zero degrees Celsius. He tossed his sole pair of gigantic Y-fronts over a thermometer that read 1°C.
Now, less than a year later, the pair were drinking in the glitz and glamour of London through the tinted windows of a pink stretch limousine.
In their suite at the Holiday Inn, Parks was dressed in a shirt so loud that the pattern drowned out the screams of the hooker being tortured by Russian gangsters in the adjacent room.
“Ashton, they're giving away quilted sunglasses,” said Warski, holding up a sleep mask with wide-eyed incredulity.
A few days from now he would step into a boxing ring at the O2 Arena and fight an aardvark, in a display of humankind's superiority over the animal kingdom.
In an attempt to psych-out his opponent, Parks had travelled by coach to Whipsnade Zoo. Once there he had made his way to the Aardvark Odyssey exhibit. Standing in the shallow moat that separated the visitors from the animals, he had proceeded to regale the aardvarks with a blow by blow account of the pummelling that one of them was shortly to receive from his fighter. Lost in the flow of his narrative he unbuckled his pants and began to imitate the numerous different ways in which Warksi would fuck the aardvark once it had been defeated. A stream of complaints flooded the zoo ticket office, but there was nothing anyone could do. Parks had his boxer manager loicence, which permits obnoxious and eccentric in relation to an upcoming fight, along with the occasional murder.
Parks returned to their hotel room brimming over with optimism.
“I swear I saw the Aardvark you're going to fight peering out from behind a pile of rocks,” he said.
“There seems to have been a misunderstanding,” said the fight promotor. “Mr Adam Warski will not be fighting an aardvark - that would be absurd. He will be fighting the Turk, Emir Uzunlar, who has been nicknamed 'the aardvark' because, to him, all other men are ants.”
A hasty internet search revealed Uzanlar as a cord of knotted muscle, garnished with a neat black goatee and a laser stare that mercilessly laid bare all human weakness.
“Even his shadow has been found to contain traces of heavy metals,” said the Promotor, in awe.
Parks pulled up a YouTube video of the boxer pulverising a row of unripe watermelons, each with a single rabbit punch.
“I have heard it said that he hates Portuguese Canadians ever more than the Turkish hate the Greeks,” said the Promotor. "As if such a thing would be possible.”
After he had departed, Warksi called an emergency meeting in the middle of the suite.
“Ashton, I cannot allow that man to punch me,” he said, his eyes wide in fear. “My high double-digit IQ is all I have.”
Thinking on his feet, as all good fight managers must do, Parks came up with a solution:
“You've seen how Ethan Ralph goes down almost before a punch has connected with one of his many chins: You need to learn the Tao of Ethan Ralph. That way you can still fight without risking injury.
There followed a montage sound-tracked either by Take it to the Limit by The Eagles, or some eighties bullshit –
- Warksi studying wireframe computer simulations of punches being thrown!
- Warski speed-eating a complimentary basket of tangerines!
- Parks drowning a hooker in the bathtub!
- Andy collapsing as punch thrown by his manager sails an inch past his lower jaw!
“The pupil has become the master,” said Parks, approvingly. “Now, you just need to do it exactly like at the O2 arena tomorrow.”
On the night Warski did even better. He was already halfway to the canvas before an opening haymaker from Uzanlar sailed into the space that had been occupied by his head only moments before.
In the aftermath there was jubilation.
“You did it Adam! You did it!” cried Parks, weeping tears of pure soy.
“I regret that there may be a problem with this outcome” said the Fight Promoter. “I was so certain that Adam Warski would last for at least half a round, that I did not secure a loicence for him to lose this early. I am afraid that the police will shortly be here to arrest you.”
Parks could only look on despair as a his best friend and 'cabin wife' was led away by a pair of Beefeaters, to a waiting cell in the Tower of London.
“As for you, Mr Parks,” said a police sergeant. “We have a place for people like you who can't keep their hands off the Greggs sausage rolls. We call it Deathfat Camp...”
Both Adam Warski and Ashton Joel Parks fully agreed that they had come a long way from the log cabin, situated on the frozen Canadian wastelands, where they would fuck each other in the ass just to stave off hypothermia.
“Ashton, is this gay?” Warski had enquired one night.
Parks had reassured his bro of the broad consensus among scientists, that gayness could not endure below temperatures of zero degrees Celsius. He tossed his sole pair of gigantic Y-fronts over a thermometer that read 1°C.
Now, less than a year later, the pair were drinking in the glitz and glamour of London through the tinted windows of a pink stretch limousine.
In their suite at the Holiday Inn, Parks was dressed in a shirt so loud that the pattern drowned out the screams of the hooker being tortured by Russian gangsters in the adjacent room.
“Ashton, they're giving away quilted sunglasses,” said Warski, holding up a sleep mask with wide-eyed incredulity.
A few days from now he would step into a boxing ring at the O2 Arena and fight an aardvark, in a display of humankind's superiority over the animal kingdom.
In an attempt to psych-out his opponent, Parks had travelled by coach to Whipsnade Zoo. Once there he had made his way to the Aardvark Odyssey exhibit. Standing in the shallow moat that separated the visitors from the animals, he had proceeded to regale the aardvarks with a blow by blow account of the pummelling that one of them was shortly to receive from his fighter. Lost in the flow of his narrative he unbuckled his pants and began to imitate the numerous different ways in which Warksi would fuck the aardvark once it had been defeated. A stream of complaints flooded the zoo ticket office, but there was nothing anyone could do. Parks had his boxer manager loicence, which permits obnoxious and eccentric in relation to an upcoming fight, along with the occasional murder.
Parks returned to their hotel room brimming over with optimism.
“I swear I saw the Aardvark you're going to fight peering out from behind a pile of rocks,” he said.
“There seems to have been a misunderstanding,” said the fight promotor. “Mr Adam Warski will not be fighting an aardvark - that would be absurd. He will be fighting the Turk, Emir Uzunlar, who has been nicknamed 'the aardvark' because, to him, all other men are ants.”
A hasty internet search revealed Uzanlar as a cord of knotted muscle, garnished with a neat black goatee and a laser stare that mercilessly laid bare all human weakness.
“Even his shadow has been found to contain traces of heavy metals,” said the Promotor, in awe.
Parks pulled up a YouTube video of the boxer pulverising a row of unripe watermelons, each with a single rabbit punch.
“I have heard it said that he hates Portuguese Canadians ever more than the Turkish hate the Greeks,” said the Promotor. "As if such a thing would be possible.”
After he had departed, Warksi called an emergency meeting in the middle of the suite.
“Ashton, I cannot allow that man to punch me,” he said, his eyes wide in fear. “My high double-digit IQ is all I have.”
Thinking on his feet, as all good fight managers must do, Parks came up with a solution:
“You've seen how Ethan Ralph goes down almost before a punch has connected with one of his many chins: You need to learn the Tao of Ethan Ralph. That way you can still fight without risking injury.
There followed a montage sound-tracked either by Take it to the Limit by The Eagles, or some eighties bullshit –
- Warksi studying wireframe computer simulations of punches being thrown!
- Warski speed-eating a complimentary basket of tangerines!
- Parks drowning a hooker in the bathtub!
- Andy collapsing as punch thrown by his manager sails an inch past his lower jaw!
“The pupil has become the master,” said Parks, approvingly. “Now, you just need to do it exactly like at the O2 arena tomorrow.”
On the night Warski did even better. He was already halfway to the canvas before an opening haymaker from Uzanlar sailed into the space that had been occupied by his head only moments before.
In the aftermath there was jubilation.
“You did it Adam! You did it!” cried Parks, weeping tears of pure soy.
“I regret that there may be a problem with this outcome” said the Fight Promoter. “I was so certain that Adam Warski would last for at least half a round, that I did not secure a loicence for him to lose this early. I am afraid that the police will shortly be here to arrest you.”
Parks could only look on despair as a his best friend and 'cabin wife' was led away by a pair of Beefeaters, to a waiting cell in the Tower of London.
“As for you, Mr Parks,” said a police sergeant. “We have a place for people like you who can't keep their hands off the Greggs sausage rolls. We call it Deathfat Camp...”
pursuitsnail
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- Sep 13, 2021
Freddy McGirthren had traveled the world, worked and eaten in the finest restaurants serving the finest, most extravagant meals. He'd slummed with the worst, mukbanging with streamers shoveling calories in like pigs at the trough. But that one taste that was dearest to him was that of pan-fried trout cooked over a campfire, caught just as the sun was barely peeking over the horizon, eaten to the soft sound of water lapping at the lakeshore.
Weeb Slinger
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- Sep 4, 2019
Deathfat Camp
The foreboding structure of the East-Bracknell Deathfat Camp loomed unimposingly on the horizon. Ashton Joel Parks finally allowed himself to swallow the last of the double-fried chicken sandwich that he had been storing in his cheek pouches. The three-foot tall, trample proof fences were too high for any morbidly obese person to climb over. There would be no escape.
His sentiment was closely echoed by Collingwood, the Kamp Kommandant.
“I am afraid that you will find escape to be quite impossible, Mr Parks,” he lisped, as he reached for a lavender-scented lace handkerchief, and dabbed a single tear, as it fumbled its way along the dry bed of a old duelling scar, behind his glasses.
“Since you have entered we have narrowed the gates. Even if you were to turn sideways you would find the gap, how shall we say, 'overly tight'. Of course, you may attempt to tunnel out if you desire. That is assuming you can bore a hole wide enough to accommodate your girth. It may interest you to learn that we have removed the natural chocolate deposits that ordinarily accumulate in the soil in this part of the United Kingdom. You will find no sustenance should you choose to burrow like moles. I would also direct your attention towards our tower searchlights – note that they have been significantly widened to accommodate the size of their targets. Their will be no eclipsing; not on my watch!”
The Kommandant clicked his heels together, like Dorothy at the Wizard of Oz, if Dorothy had been the overseer of a death camp for overweight people.
After he was gone, a prisoner named Isenman shuffled over.
“You see those big piles of shoes,” he said, panting for breath after his short walk.
Parks directed his attention towards two mounds of trainers that occupied a forlorn and neglected corner of the camp, like a pair of tits made out of footwear.
“They expect you to walk everywhere,” said Isenman. “No disabled ramps or guardrails either. If you dig down into one of the piles you might still be able to find a pair with wheels embedded in the soles.”
As he pointed towards the mounds, the cuff of his shirt had travelled an inch or so up his arm exposing a string of faded numbers marking his wrist.
“You are looking at my digits. You will get your own soon. Everyday, the camp doctor will weigh you. The camp nurse will write your weight on your wrist in marker pen, along with an arrow indicating whether it had gone up or down. Trust me my friend, in this hellhole, the arrow will always point downward. My advice to you: Wait until you are really hungry before licking the numbers off.”
He glanced furtively around before continuing.
“Don't get me started on the showers,” he said, in a hushed tone.
“What's with the showers?” enquired Parks.
“They make you take one everyday.”
“Why do they not just kill us all and be done with it?” said Parks.
“They are merely monsters; they are not Canadians,” replied Isenman.
“Gentlemen, what you see before you is Swiss chard,” announced Kommandant Collingwood. “It contains just 0.07 grammes of fat.”
“My friend, I cannot go on much longer,” said Isenman, visibly wilting before the pert green leaf on his plate.
“I think I saw the tip of my penis today,” said Parks. “I cannot be wholly certain. It has been well over a decade since I last laid eyes upon it. What else could it be?”
“No living person should ever be required to look at your penis,” said Isenman.
Early one morning the inmates were assembled in the exercise yard.
“Gentleman,” shrieked Collingwood. “As a special reward for your weight loss, I have decided to allow you an insight into what happens to those in the United Kingdom who disregard the need for loicences that will regulate their behaviour. Together we will watch the public execution of Adam Warski for his crime of losing a boxing match in its early stages, while lacking the proper paperwork soliciting such an outcome.”
All eyes were focused on the big screen as Warksi was led to the chopping block. There was a drum-roll that came to an abrupt halt. A second later, Warksi's severed head ricocheted off the axe blow and soared into the heavens, raining blood spatter over the ghoulish onlookers as it cleared the curtain wall of the Tower of London.
“Warski is kill,” said Isenman.
“No,” replied Parks, in disbelief.
Yet, in his mind, the kernel of an idea had formed: If Warski's head could catch air, then surely it was within his power to gain the few feet in altitude necessary for clearing the camp fence.
Rising unsteadily to his feet, he launched himself as Isenman, bouncing off his belly and staggering backwards into another prisoner, and then another, and another, and another, all the while gaining in momentum.
“What is this you are doing? This is unacceptable,” screeched Kommandant Collingwood into his megaphone, as the soles of Park's Nike Air Maxes were lifted from the ground and at last he was flying!
He continued to bounce between the camp inmates, their hoarse cheers rising up around him as he gained altitude.
PARKS! PARKS! PARKS!
One final push and he was propelled upward, arcing into the sky, the Deathfat camp and and its overweight occupants reduced to to the status of morbidly obese ants. Free at last.
The foreboding structure of the East-Bracknell Deathfat Camp loomed unimposingly on the horizon. Ashton Joel Parks finally allowed himself to swallow the last of the double-fried chicken sandwich that he had been storing in his cheek pouches. The three-foot tall, trample proof fences were too high for any morbidly obese person to climb over. There would be no escape.
His sentiment was closely echoed by Collingwood, the Kamp Kommandant.
“I am afraid that you will find escape to be quite impossible, Mr Parks,” he lisped, as he reached for a lavender-scented lace handkerchief, and dabbed a single tear, as it fumbled its way along the dry bed of a old duelling scar, behind his glasses.
“Since you have entered we have narrowed the gates. Even if you were to turn sideways you would find the gap, how shall we say, 'overly tight'. Of course, you may attempt to tunnel out if you desire. That is assuming you can bore a hole wide enough to accommodate your girth. It may interest you to learn that we have removed the natural chocolate deposits that ordinarily accumulate in the soil in this part of the United Kingdom. You will find no sustenance should you choose to burrow like moles. I would also direct your attention towards our tower searchlights – note that they have been significantly widened to accommodate the size of their targets. Their will be no eclipsing; not on my watch!”
The Kommandant clicked his heels together, like Dorothy at the Wizard of Oz, if Dorothy had been the overseer of a death camp for overweight people.
After he was gone, a prisoner named Isenman shuffled over.
“You see those big piles of shoes,” he said, panting for breath after his short walk.
Parks directed his attention towards two mounds of trainers that occupied a forlorn and neglected corner of the camp, like a pair of tits made out of footwear.
“They expect you to walk everywhere,” said Isenman. “No disabled ramps or guardrails either. If you dig down into one of the piles you might still be able to find a pair with wheels embedded in the soles.”
As he pointed towards the mounds, the cuff of his shirt had travelled an inch or so up his arm exposing a string of faded numbers marking his wrist.
“You are looking at my digits. You will get your own soon. Everyday, the camp doctor will weigh you. The camp nurse will write your weight on your wrist in marker pen, along with an arrow indicating whether it had gone up or down. Trust me my friend, in this hellhole, the arrow will always point downward. My advice to you: Wait until you are really hungry before licking the numbers off.”
He glanced furtively around before continuing.
“Don't get me started on the showers,” he said, in a hushed tone.
“What's with the showers?” enquired Parks.
“They make you take one everyday.”
“Why do they not just kill us all and be done with it?” said Parks.
“They are merely monsters; they are not Canadians,” replied Isenman.
~
Life at the Deathfat Camp settled into a grim and predictable routine:
“Gentlemen, what you see before you is Swiss chard,” announced Kommandant Collingwood. “It contains just 0.07 grammes of fat.”
“My friend, I cannot go on much longer,” said Isenman, visibly wilting before the pert green leaf on his plate.
“I think I saw the tip of my penis today,” said Parks. “I cannot be wholly certain. It has been well over a decade since I last laid eyes upon it. What else could it be?”
“No living person should ever be required to look at your penis,” said Isenman.
~
Collingwood was fond of trophies – anything that demonstrated his power over those who he could bend under his will. He kept a motorcycle that had been flattened into two-dimensions, framed on the wall behind his desk. A prisoner had attempted to use it to jump the fence, but the machine had crumpled under their weight before they could get the engine going.
Early one morning the inmates were assembled in the exercise yard.
“Gentleman,” shrieked Collingwood. “As a special reward for your weight loss, I have decided to allow you an insight into what happens to those in the United Kingdom who disregard the need for loicences that will regulate their behaviour. Together we will watch the public execution of Adam Warski for his crime of losing a boxing match in its early stages, while lacking the proper paperwork soliciting such an outcome.”
All eyes were focused on the big screen as Warksi was led to the chopping block. There was a drum-roll that came to an abrupt halt. A second later, Warksi's severed head ricocheted off the axe blow and soared into the heavens, raining blood spatter over the ghoulish onlookers as it cleared the curtain wall of the Tower of London.
“Warski is kill,” said Isenman.
“No,” replied Parks, in disbelief.
Yet, in his mind, the kernel of an idea had formed: If Warski's head could catch air, then surely it was within his power to gain the few feet in altitude necessary for clearing the camp fence.
Rising unsteadily to his feet, he launched himself as Isenman, bouncing off his belly and staggering backwards into another prisoner, and then another, and another, and another, all the while gaining in momentum.
“What is this you are doing? This is unacceptable,” screeched Kommandant Collingwood into his megaphone, as the soles of Park's Nike Air Maxes were lifted from the ground and at last he was flying!
He continued to bounce between the camp inmates, their hoarse cheers rising up around him as he gained altitude.
PARKS! PARKS! PARKS!
One final push and he was propelled upward, arcing into the sky, the Deathfat camp and and its overweight occupants reduced to to the status of morbidly obese ants. Free at last.
Hongourable Madisha
You see, some of us don't know English properly.
True & Honest Fan
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- Jan 9, 2019
Catching up slowly... Fave Artcow, in memory of David Dees (Nuts). He was to the arts what St Terry was to the sciences.
And Deathfat Camp.
And Deathfat Camp.
- Joined
- Feb 6, 2021
- Joined
- Aug 2, 2021
Day 10: International Clique
I used google translate so it's probably wrong, but these French kiwis are saying:
"The cows are funny today"
"I agree"
I used google translate so it's probably wrong, but these French kiwis are saying:
"The cows are funny today"
"I agree"
pursuitsnail
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- Sep 13, 2021
MermaidGate
I hope one day all this current trans shit is seen for the scandalous mindfuck it is.
Little kids being told they're the opposite sex because they don't fit gendered stereotypes only to have a crisis when they hit puberty and reality threatens to break through the delusion.
Lonely young teens looking for ways to define themselves and find acceptance in a community that views them as wonderful and unique, but only as long as they parrot the right lines. Mess up, and they'll eat their own. All helped along by discord mods fishing for 'progress' photos of their carefully tended little cat children.
The gay kid realizing that his parents' love comes at the cost of his cock and balls.
I hope one day all this current trans shit is seen for the scandalous mindfuck it is.
Little kids being told they're the opposite sex because they don't fit gendered stereotypes only to have a crisis when they hit puberty and reality threatens to break through the delusion.
Lonely young teens looking for ways to define themselves and find acceptance in a community that views them as wonderful and unique, but only as long as they parrot the right lines. Mess up, and they'll eat their own. All helped along by discord mods fishing for 'progress' photos of their carefully tended little cat children.
The gay kid realizing that his parents' love comes at the cost of his cock and balls.
- Joined
- Feb 6, 2021
Day 13 - DDOS.
Also being lazy again, so I did this low-effort drawing for fun.
Also being lazy again, so I did this low-effort drawing for fun.
Weeb Slinger
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- Sep 4, 2019
#_____Gate
[AGENT BLACKBURN] You are familiar with Agent Sarkeesian?
[AGENT GROOM] Through reputation, sir. We've never interacted.
[AGENT BLACKBURN] Sarkeesian, despite being utterly unlikeable, entirely void of charisma, absent any genuine ability, and with no accomplishments to speak of, nonetheless occupies a senior oversight position within our organisation. Her exaggerated status is entirely without any supporting merit and was obtained through the speculative use of character assassination and coercion bordering on racketeering. In any system that gave so much as lip service to meritocracy, a human-being this worthless would be waitressing at the Swindon branch of Applebees.
You recall those Chinese table-top gamers who ran that quadruple experience point exploit when the President was running his weekly D&D campaign?
[AGENT GROOM] The Department of Defence had us rolling D20s around the clock.
[AGENT BLACKBURN] Sarkeesian took no part in either the planning, or the execution, of the epic raid where we took them down, nor did she, at the time, work for any of the organisations that were involved. Yet she still took full credit for the operation and demanded 100% of the loot recovered. Meanwhile the guys who got dirt under their fingernails were fired following nebulous accusations of sexist behaviour...
...For the benefit of the tape, Agent Grace and Agent Sarkeesian have entered the room.
[VARIOUS FORMALITIES]
[AGENT BLACKBURN] For the tape, Agent Groom has been summarily dismissed from duty following a complaint by Agent Sarkeesian that he used anti-feminist micro-aggressions...You see people like Weinstein and you think nothing like that will ever happen in your department. I guess today I learned something the hard way.
With that out the way, I'll get right down to business: This gate was found 5 miles west of our present location. That's a little too close to comfort for my liking.
For the benefit of the tape, I am referring to a metal, five-barred gate. It appears to have been painted red sometime in the past, however most of the paint has flaked off.
Field agents, Vaughn and Ross, who attended the scene described the gate as standing upright between a pair of wall-like structures. The gate was attached at one end by three sets of hinges. It was fastened at the opposite end by a latch mechanism and was further secured by an object that forensics have identified as a padlock, possibly from the Reliaguard range. A sign secured to the street-facing side of the gate read 'Please keep this gate closed at all times.' This written statement should be taken as admissible in court that the gate is, in fact, a gate and not some other object that looks like a gate.
Upon removal of the gate, field agent Thomas observed a number of cows...
[AGENT GRACE] Sir, I believes the correct term is Bovinex.
[AGENT BLACKBURN] I stand corrected. A number of Bovinex departing the area from behind the gate. As there were no grounds for apprehension, said Bovinex were allowed to continue on their journey towards the highway. A purple Bovinex named JuJu asked field agent Thomas for directions to the nearest convenience store and was pointed towards the 7-11, which field agent Thomas believed would be open at that time, and largely free of the dirty skanks who congregate in that area later in the day.
Agent Sarkeesian. This is where we lean on your expertise. Are we looking at a resurgence of extremism within the gamer community. Is this Gamergate2?
[AGENT SARKEESIAN] Sir, if this was the work of GamerGate, the words 'The cake is a lie' would have been prominently displayed somewhere on the gate.
[AGENT BLACKBURN] The cake is a lie?
[AGENT SARKEESIAN] It's an incel white supremacist dog whistle / blanket rape threat directed towards me personally, sir.
[AGENT BLACKBURN] Memo to Linda, when she transcribes these notes. Effective immediately all cakes are to be regarded as nazis and banned from the building. A selection of sandwiches will be served at all future birthdays.
[AGENT GRACE] Our embedded team on /pol have been telling us that for years. We should have listened.
[AGENT BLACKBURN] Getting back on the matter at hand, if this isn't a GamerGate, then what kind of gate is it? Because from where I am sitting, it clearly is a gate.
[AGENT GRACE] It used to be red. It could be a MAGAgate.
[AGENT BLACKBURN] That's an interesting turn of thought, agent. I keep circling back around to that sign on the front: 'Please keep this gate closed at all times.' Is this the work of a former Trump supporter who is now telling the world: You do not want to go down the same road I travelled?
[AGENT SARKEESIAN] Agent Blackburn, we could speculate back and forth until the Bovinex come home. The fact remains, I could be out there on the Internet right now throwing around baseless accusations and strong-arming unsuspecting company CEOs into submission, by making none to subtle threats regarding the reputations of their businesses if they don't kowtow to my demands for money and power
[AGENT BLACKBURN] What do you need, agent Sarkeesian?
[AGENT SARKEESIAN] Money, and the power to fire anyone I want for spurious reasons.
[REDACTED]
[AGENT SARKEESIAN] Following the dismissal of several agents on grounds of unconscious sexism, I will be fulfilling the role of Director, effective now. I will be delegating all duties and responsibilities associated with this position to others within the organisation. Further details relating to these dismissals will be posted on Twitter along with the personal details of the men involved and their families. I hope tha...
… What the hell just happened?
[AGENT BRYCE] For the benefit of the tape, what seems to have been a morbidly obese male, clad in an Hawaiian shirt, has impacted against the east side of our present location on the 12th floor of the building. The man in question does not appear to have survived the collision. No structural damage is evident at this time.
[AGENT SARKEESIAN] This is definitely feminism's 9/11.
[AGENT BRYCE] I'll alert the fire brigade ma'am and ask if they can wash off the gore with one of their high pressure hoses.
[AGENT BLACKBURN] You are familiar with Agent Sarkeesian?
[AGENT GROOM] Through reputation, sir. We've never interacted.
[AGENT BLACKBURN] Sarkeesian, despite being utterly unlikeable, entirely void of charisma, absent any genuine ability, and with no accomplishments to speak of, nonetheless occupies a senior oversight position within our organisation. Her exaggerated status is entirely without any supporting merit and was obtained through the speculative use of character assassination and coercion bordering on racketeering. In any system that gave so much as lip service to meritocracy, a human-being this worthless would be waitressing at the Swindon branch of Applebees.
You recall those Chinese table-top gamers who ran that quadruple experience point exploit when the President was running his weekly D&D campaign?
[AGENT GROOM] The Department of Defence had us rolling D20s around the clock.
[AGENT BLACKBURN] Sarkeesian took no part in either the planning, or the execution, of the epic raid where we took them down, nor did she, at the time, work for any of the organisations that were involved. Yet she still took full credit for the operation and demanded 100% of the loot recovered. Meanwhile the guys who got dirt under their fingernails were fired following nebulous accusations of sexist behaviour...
...For the benefit of the tape, Agent Grace and Agent Sarkeesian have entered the room.
[VARIOUS FORMALITIES]
[AGENT BLACKBURN] For the tape, Agent Groom has been summarily dismissed from duty following a complaint by Agent Sarkeesian that he used anti-feminist micro-aggressions...You see people like Weinstein and you think nothing like that will ever happen in your department. I guess today I learned something the hard way.
With that out the way, I'll get right down to business: This gate was found 5 miles west of our present location. That's a little too close to comfort for my liking.
For the benefit of the tape, I am referring to a metal, five-barred gate. It appears to have been painted red sometime in the past, however most of the paint has flaked off.
Field agents, Vaughn and Ross, who attended the scene described the gate as standing upright between a pair of wall-like structures. The gate was attached at one end by three sets of hinges. It was fastened at the opposite end by a latch mechanism and was further secured by an object that forensics have identified as a padlock, possibly from the Reliaguard range. A sign secured to the street-facing side of the gate read 'Please keep this gate closed at all times.' This written statement should be taken as admissible in court that the gate is, in fact, a gate and not some other object that looks like a gate.
Upon removal of the gate, field agent Thomas observed a number of cows...
[AGENT GRACE] Sir, I believes the correct term is Bovinex.
[AGENT BLACKBURN] I stand corrected. A number of Bovinex departing the area from behind the gate. As there were no grounds for apprehension, said Bovinex were allowed to continue on their journey towards the highway. A purple Bovinex named JuJu asked field agent Thomas for directions to the nearest convenience store and was pointed towards the 7-11, which field agent Thomas believed would be open at that time, and largely free of the dirty skanks who congregate in that area later in the day.
Agent Sarkeesian. This is where we lean on your expertise. Are we looking at a resurgence of extremism within the gamer community. Is this Gamergate2?
[AGENT SARKEESIAN] Sir, if this was the work of GamerGate, the words 'The cake is a lie' would have been prominently displayed somewhere on the gate.
[AGENT BLACKBURN] The cake is a lie?
[AGENT SARKEESIAN] It's an incel white supremacist dog whistle / blanket rape threat directed towards me personally, sir.
[AGENT BLACKBURN] Memo to Linda, when she transcribes these notes. Effective immediately all cakes are to be regarded as nazis and banned from the building. A selection of sandwiches will be served at all future birthdays.
[AGENT GRACE] Our embedded team on /pol have been telling us that for years. We should have listened.
[AGENT BLACKBURN] Getting back on the matter at hand, if this isn't a GamerGate, then what kind of gate is it? Because from where I am sitting, it clearly is a gate.
[AGENT GRACE] It used to be red. It could be a MAGAgate.
[AGENT BLACKBURN] That's an interesting turn of thought, agent. I keep circling back around to that sign on the front: 'Please keep this gate closed at all times.' Is this the work of a former Trump supporter who is now telling the world: You do not want to go down the same road I travelled?
[AGENT SARKEESIAN] Agent Blackburn, we could speculate back and forth until the Bovinex come home. The fact remains, I could be out there on the Internet right now throwing around baseless accusations and strong-arming unsuspecting company CEOs into submission, by making none to subtle threats regarding the reputations of their businesses if they don't kowtow to my demands for money and power
[AGENT BLACKBURN] What do you need, agent Sarkeesian?
[AGENT SARKEESIAN] Money, and the power to fire anyone I want for spurious reasons.
[REDACTED]
[AGENT SARKEESIAN] Following the dismissal of several agents on grounds of unconscious sexism, I will be fulfilling the role of Director, effective now. I will be delegating all duties and responsibilities associated with this position to others within the organisation. Further details relating to these dismissals will be posted on Twitter along with the personal details of the men involved and their families. I hope tha...
… What the hell just happened?
[AGENT BRYCE] For the benefit of the tape, what seems to have been a morbidly obese male, clad in an Hawaiian shirt, has impacted against the east side of our present location on the 12th floor of the building. The man in question does not appear to have survived the collision. No structural damage is evident at this time.
[AGENT SARKEESIAN] This is definitely feminism's 9/11.
[AGENT BRYCE] I'll alert the fire brigade ma'am and ask if they can wash off the gore with one of their high pressure hoses.
pursuitsnail
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- Sep 13, 2021
The constant "There are no bad tactics, only bad targets," from the dropkiwifarms krew in particular and the social media social justice crowd in general has kind of made me jaded. Seeing someone who is supposed to be a respected security researcher also diving in to these Machiavellian rites to make a show of slaying the dragon? That caught me by surprise.
He can make threatening noises at CloudFlare that his employers and clients will drop them if they don't drop us, but man, you sure you want to either employ a guy or work with the company that employs him when his publicly stated attitude is the ends justify the means? Seems like someone I wouldn't want to have access to my network in the event he decides I'm fair game.
And when you talk about how KF is full of your peers doxing 'women' in the security space? Press X to doubt. It's hard to tell if it's troon paranoia you contracted from Signal chats or just you lying.
Weeb Slinger
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- Sep 4, 2019
DDos
There was McNeill the dolphin furry, whose coiled, machine-stitched penis, that resembled an eel with a matted, powder-blue pelt, was sometimes deployed as a lasso for the purpose of ensnaring faraway bottles of semi-drunk Coke Zero.
Then there was the casual transexual, Lady Elizabeth Hardingham-Weatherhill (deadname: Barry Willett) who dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, but usually managed to throw a tutu and a tiara into the mix.
And there was Colin Emsley, who was mostly non-verbal and stored custard in the folds of his belly flab.
To the wider world they were degenerate. paste-eating retards, destined never to know the touch of woman. Joshua Moon saw past their superficial imperfections, their fractious personalities, and their questionable leisure interests to the unique set of skills that each of these three men possessed. To him they were his Top Men, entrusted with the task of keeping the Kiwi Farms online, no matter what mishaps might befall the Jenga-stack of companies, payment processors, and service providers, upon whom his website had established a precarious foundation.
Lady Elizabeth handled the front-end like someone who had been handling things at the front-end all her life. When the shit was going down, you needed a good man at the front-end, even if that man thought he was a woman named Elizabeth.
McNeill dealt with file synchronisation. Watching him synchronise files using just his two furry flippers, before patting them firmly in place with a snap of his tail, Moon could easily imagine that he was watching the birth of universe as matter arranged itself into elements.
Colin Emsley was in charge of the orange wire. Moon had seen plenty of orange wire men come and go. Everybody thought they could handle the orange wire though, in the thick of a DDos attack, very few actually could.
Ever since one of the Kiwi Farms servers had fallen on top of Anita Sarkeesian, flattening her into an even more two-dimensional shape, all hell had broken loose:
“It's the trannies this time, I can sense it,” bellowed Moon, over the roar of an incoming flood of requests for superfluous bullshit. “And yes, Barry, I know 'not all transsexuals,' but it's a good 99% of them.”
“There's a script injection,” yelled Barry/Elizabeth. “They're attempting to inject troonshine into the site.”
“Barry, the Kiwi Farms must not be allowed to grow a pair of tits. We must not become the mirror image of Ethan Ralph,” commanded Moon, grasping hold of the site's wheel and attempting to hold a steady course.
“The files are desynchronising but I've got it covered,” thundered McNeill, as he shoved another Kiwi Farms sew-on patch through the stylised venting of his totally rad Alienware PC.
“The orange wire's going crazy” sperged Colin Emsley in his strange tard grunt that Moon was able to understand, in the same way that Han Solo can understand Chewbacca.
“Grab onto something that isn't yourself,” Moon yelled. “I'm taking us into the Ukraine. They'd be crazy to follow us...
There was McNeill the dolphin furry, whose coiled, machine-stitched penis, that resembled an eel with a matted, powder-blue pelt, was sometimes deployed as a lasso for the purpose of ensnaring faraway bottles of semi-drunk Coke Zero.
Then there was the casual transexual, Lady Elizabeth Hardingham-Weatherhill (deadname: Barry Willett) who dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, but usually managed to throw a tutu and a tiara into the mix.
And there was Colin Emsley, who was mostly non-verbal and stored custard in the folds of his belly flab.
To the wider world they were degenerate. paste-eating retards, destined never to know the touch of woman. Joshua Moon saw past their superficial imperfections, their fractious personalities, and their questionable leisure interests to the unique set of skills that each of these three men possessed. To him they were his Top Men, entrusted with the task of keeping the Kiwi Farms online, no matter what mishaps might befall the Jenga-stack of companies, payment processors, and service providers, upon whom his website had established a precarious foundation.
Lady Elizabeth handled the front-end like someone who had been handling things at the front-end all her life. When the shit was going down, you needed a good man at the front-end, even if that man thought he was a woman named Elizabeth.
McNeill dealt with file synchronisation. Watching him synchronise files using just his two furry flippers, before patting them firmly in place with a snap of his tail, Moon could easily imagine that he was watching the birth of universe as matter arranged itself into elements.
Colin Emsley was in charge of the orange wire. Moon had seen plenty of orange wire men come and go. Everybody thought they could handle the orange wire though, in the thick of a DDos attack, very few actually could.
Ever since one of the Kiwi Farms servers had fallen on top of Anita Sarkeesian, flattening her into an even more two-dimensional shape, all hell had broken loose:
“It's the trannies this time, I can sense it,” bellowed Moon, over the roar of an incoming flood of requests for superfluous bullshit. “And yes, Barry, I know 'not all transsexuals,' but it's a good 99% of them.”
“There's a script injection,” yelled Barry/Elizabeth. “They're attempting to inject troonshine into the site.”
“Barry, the Kiwi Farms must not be allowed to grow a pair of tits. We must not become the mirror image of Ethan Ralph,” commanded Moon, grasping hold of the site's wheel and attempting to hold a steady course.
“The files are desynchronising but I've got it covered,” thundered McNeill, as he shoved another Kiwi Farms sew-on patch through the stylised venting of his totally rad Alienware PC.
“The orange wire's going crazy” sperged Colin Emsley in his strange tard grunt that Moon was able to understand, in the same way that Han Solo can understand Chewbacca.
“Grab onto something that isn't yourself,” Moon yelled. “I'm taking us into the Ukraine. They'd be crazy to follow us...
- Joined
- Feb 6, 2021
Day 14 - Cucked by CloudFlare.
Weeb Slinger
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- Sep 4, 2019
Cucked by Cloudflare
The oaks were glitching again.
Ever since Cloudflare had dropped the species, DDos attacks had been hitting trees hard. Environmentalist charities and activists were doing what they could to mitigate the attacks but even they would admit that they were fighting a losing battle.
“It is necessary to project the public from fake news that might make them feel pressurised into seeking unsafe alternative cures,” Matthew Prince had been told, as an iPad containing a prepared statement was placed in front of him to be signed.
“But, even without Cloudflare protection, oak trees will still be there,” he had remarked, confused as to what the suspension was supposed to achieve.
“We feel that it's important that your company nails its colours to the mast on this issue,” Lummis had said, as she guided his hand towards the signature box.
After signing, he had left the office early and wandered through the streets of San Francisco as they diminished before his eyes.
As he rounded a corner, he almost walked into a trio of curious individuals who were approaching in the opposite direction: A hulking, unshaven brute, clad in a torn jeans, a tutu, and a T-shirt bearing the slogan 'Daddy's Princess' in pink sequins, was flanked by a forlorn figure in a furry dolphin costume, and a squat endomorph with a monobrow who was fiddling with a small piece of orange wire.
As Prince readied himself to hand over his wallet the trio glitched and then vanished like ghosts.
He kept on walking, passing a row of shanty dwellings that resembled makeshift piles of household furniture; the tired and worn faces of adults trapped in their childhood blanket forts peering out through dark gaps.
A skinny, bare-chested man in the middle of the street ranted at the absent vehicle traffic:
“They tell you... They tell you: 'Karl, just suck this one dick. Just suck this one one dick, Karl! Then everything go back to how things were. Maybe even betta!' So you suck the dick an' suddenly it ain't only this one dick you got to suck. You gotta suck that other dick over there, an' then those two dicks, and his dick an' her dick. You get a dick! An' you get a dick! An' you get a dick! Pretty soon you sucking everyone's dicks.'
Prince's phone rang. He answered it stealthily.
It was Ted Doodge from MasterCard.
“Hey Prinzey. Small fave. I want you to pull Cloudflare protection from this one geyser. Sending you the deets now.”
“What's he done?” asked Prince.
“What's he done? What's he not done? He's a bad hombre, dude. Well, okay he's not a bad hombre but I want to fuck his wife so he needs to be out of the picture. Prepared statement on the way for you to sign. Usual boilerplate. I'll mail it to your secretary. Cheers.”
After Doodge rang off, Prince realised that he had come to a halt in front of a bar.
He pushed open the windowless door and stepped into the gloom.
“What's your story sweetheart,” asked a woman as he settled his ass on the duct-taped leatherette of the nearest stool
Prince's haggard reflection stared back at him from the bar mirror.
“Some guy told me that I only had to suck one dick,” he said.
The oaks were glitching again.
Ever since Cloudflare had dropped the species, DDos attacks had been hitting trees hard. Environmentalist charities and activists were doing what they could to mitigate the attacks but even they would admit that they were fighting a losing battle.
“It is necessary to project the public from fake news that might make them feel pressurised into seeking unsafe alternative cures,” Matthew Prince had been told, as an iPad containing a prepared statement was placed in front of him to be signed.
“But, even without Cloudflare protection, oak trees will still be there,” he had remarked, confused as to what the suspension was supposed to achieve.
“We feel that it's important that your company nails its colours to the mast on this issue,” Lummis had said, as she guided his hand towards the signature box.
After signing, he had left the office early and wandered through the streets of San Francisco as they diminished before his eyes.
As he rounded a corner, he almost walked into a trio of curious individuals who were approaching in the opposite direction: A hulking, unshaven brute, clad in a torn jeans, a tutu, and a T-shirt bearing the slogan 'Daddy's Princess' in pink sequins, was flanked by a forlorn figure in a furry dolphin costume, and a squat endomorph with a monobrow who was fiddling with a small piece of orange wire.
As Prince readied himself to hand over his wallet the trio glitched and then vanished like ghosts.
He kept on walking, passing a row of shanty dwellings that resembled makeshift piles of household furniture; the tired and worn faces of adults trapped in their childhood blanket forts peering out through dark gaps.
A skinny, bare-chested man in the middle of the street ranted at the absent vehicle traffic:
“They tell you... They tell you: 'Karl, just suck this one dick. Just suck this one one dick, Karl! Then everything go back to how things were. Maybe even betta!' So you suck the dick an' suddenly it ain't only this one dick you got to suck. You gotta suck that other dick over there, an' then those two dicks, and his dick an' her dick. You get a dick! An' you get a dick! An' you get a dick! Pretty soon you sucking everyone's dicks.'
Prince's phone rang. He answered it stealthily.
It was Ted Doodge from MasterCard.
“Hey Prinzey. Small fave. I want you to pull Cloudflare protection from this one geyser. Sending you the deets now.”
“What's he done?” asked Prince.
“What's he done? What's he not done? He's a bad hombre, dude. Well, okay he's not a bad hombre but I want to fuck his wife so he needs to be out of the picture. Prepared statement on the way for you to sign. Usual boilerplate. I'll mail it to your secretary. Cheers.”
After Doodge rang off, Prince realised that he had come to a halt in front of a bar.
He pushed open the windowless door and stepped into the gloom.
“What's your story sweetheart,” asked a woman as he settled his ass on the duct-taped leatherette of the nearest stool
Prince's haggard reflection stared back at him from the bar mirror.
“Some guy told me that I only had to suck one dick,” he said.
pursuitsnail
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- Sep 13, 2021
I wonder what sort of skeletons are hanging around in Matthew Prince's closet to let Keffals decide which clients he keeps or drops.
- Joined
- Aug 2, 2021
Day 13: DDos
Site going down is a great excuse to go for a nice walk
Site going down is a great excuse to go for a nice walk
- Joined
- Feb 6, 2021
