___-
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- Jul 19, 2017
Careful now. Bob the Emperor God will purge you for being stupid enough to disagree with him.
Careercow Robert Chipman / Bob / Moviebob / "Movieblob" - Middle-Aged Consoomer, CWC with a Thesaurus, Ardent Male Feminist and Superior Futurist, the Twice-Fired, the Mario-Worshipper, publicly dismantled by Hot Dog Girl, now a diabetic
- Thread starter Enriku
- Start date
- Status
- Joined
- Aug 24, 2014
President Clinton? Which millennium are you in?
This is "no bad tactics" exemplified. Bob should feel vindicated.
Pretty sure this was a coincidence, like the time when the air-con broke just after your grandma died.
Last edited:
- Joined
- Aug 23, 2014
Wait a minute. Bob got hospiitalized and the tweet storm basically didn't stop. What the fuck? Bob's gonna be tweeting on his fucking deathbed up to the moment he dies at this rate.
- Joined
- Feb 24, 2016
- Joined
- Aug 13, 2016
Liberal news sites are basically 24/7 red scare reporting. How is that any different, Blobbo?
Media fucking sucks, journalism is dead in this country.
- Joined
- Mar 8, 2013
"My father died, time to rant for twenty thousand hours about those GROSS GROSS PLEBIAN TRUMP VOTERS"
Someone get this fat nigga a one way ticket to Serbia.
Someone get this fat nigga a one way ticket to Serbia.
- Joined
- Jan 3, 2017
Bob, this is why you don't eat random snacks you find while you're at the funeral parlor.
Kyria the Great
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- Jun 2, 2017
He probably accidentally drank the embalming fluid mistaking it for Kool-Aid.
- Joined
- Jan 3, 2017
I was picturing him shambling into some kid's wake and scarfing the candy bars right out of the coffin, but your scenario works too.
Lensherr
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- May 15, 2016
Well at least the idiots don’t have the power to use legislation to affect our lives and can simply be ignored. This tweet kind of has scary implications regarding Bob’s ideology though (not that we don’t already know he’s an authoritarian).
- Joined
- Jan 3, 2017
Once I'd finished my real work for the day, I decided to write up a little heartbreaking vignette for you wonderful assholes. Hope you enjoy it.
DEATH OF A CHIPMAN
My red-and-blue painted Prius groaned to a halt in the hospital parking lot, right by the entrance as I had selected a handicapped space. Hey, diabetes counts as handicapped, friendo. I disembarked from the car feeling the forlorn expression on my face, or perhaps it was just gas. Sighing heavily, I circled the car, taking comfort in the carefully preserved "I'm With Her" bumper stickers that sat cheek-by-jowl with the Super Mario and Link stickers alongside them. I gazed up at the hospital building, sighing again, reeking of failure and Cheeto dust.
No. Not Cheetos. Ever since the Toupeed Horror had occupied the Oval Office, Cheetos had become as forbidden to me as drinking battery acid, or eating leafy green vegetables. Scowling, hating to think of the Orange Monster on such a personally agonizing day for myself, I banished all thought of him and his foul brood.
Well, just one tweet first. No, wait, that's more than 140 characters -- ok, let's do 1 out of 3 ... no, 1 / 10 ... well, 1/12 is okay ...
My elegant words, which would surely bring down the entire Pmurt Junta at a blow could I finish them, are interrupted by a text from my brother: "JFC bob where r u he's almost gone."
Sigh.
I took one last look at my Prius -- you know, Boston is a great city, and far more indicative of the superior future than some backwater like Lynn or every city in Texas except Austin, but our mechanics are terrible; I have to get the shocks on this thing replaced every four months -- and considered whether it was time to replace the cheery red and blue scheme with a somber black. Perhaps once the inevitable had occurred, but not until. In the midst of death, we have the comfort of Super Mario Galaxy.
A few minutes later I had traversed the long but far too brief stretch of tiled antiseptic hallways from the lobby to the room where my father lay dying. The tails of my trenchcoat and my many chins wobbled as I walked. I took a deep breath as I stepped into the room. He lay in his bed, like my brother had said, almost gone, but raising his head with great effort, a semblance of life still flickering in his eyes.
"Oh for fuck's sake," he moaned. "Not you."
The morphine often left him delusional. The doctors insisted he wasn't on morphine, but I knew better than some white male "physician."
"Papa," I said as I knelt by his bedside, the floor creaking ominously under my weight. "Papa, I'm sorry I'm late. I tried. I tried so hard."
I struggled not to cry. Not for any foolish, inferior and superstitious taboos about manhood, but because when the collected food waste and unspeakable mung on my cheeks grows moist it's declared a health hazard and I'm removed from the hospital grounds. Ridiculous. Boston urchins often follow me in the rain clattering bowls against spoons, begging for even a small helping. To them it's known as Chipman's Chowder.
"Bob, just . . . just shut up, holy Christ, boy, I ain't got much time, just stop for once."
I shook my head, sobs locked in my chest. "No, no, papa. I have to tell you how I failed. I looked everywhere. Everywhere! Under the sofa cushions. In the Marvel rack at every comic book store. I rewatched every Marvel movie and all the Sam Raimi Spider-Man movies three times to see if it was hidden in the menu or in the post credits scenes. I must have checked the Mother Jones website at least a dozen times. But I couldn't do it. I couldn't do it."
Our eyes met at last. He belched in a way I remembered from many family gatherings. The tears were coming, I knew, and I had to tell him before it was too late.
"Papa, I couldn't find a 1-Up Mushroom anywhere."
My father shook his head, such disappointment in his eyes. You know, it didn't look that different from the way he usually looked at me. I had to smile.
"Bobby . . . c'mere, boy . . . I'm almost done. Just gotta . . . tell you . . . before I go."
I nodded, leaning closer, resting one hand on the hospital bed. The rail buckled.
"Bobby . . . "
"Yes, papa, yes?"
"Bobby . . . I ain't never had the cancer. I'm dyin' of shame. Turn off the fuckin NES and find a woman, would you? That crazy sex magic redhead, maybe . . . "
My father, at least, died with a smile on his lips. However delirious he might have been. At least he didn't have to live in Trump's America.
The tears came; I could not hold them back. And after the hazmat team escorted me out, I gazed up to the Boston skies and vowed: I would find that 1-Up Mushroom, if I had to give up my prosthetic feet to do it.
Just one more play through of Super Mario Bros. 3. For old time's sake.
My red-and-blue painted Prius groaned to a halt in the hospital parking lot, right by the entrance as I had selected a handicapped space. Hey, diabetes counts as handicapped, friendo. I disembarked from the car feeling the forlorn expression on my face, or perhaps it was just gas. Sighing heavily, I circled the car, taking comfort in the carefully preserved "I'm With Her" bumper stickers that sat cheek-by-jowl with the Super Mario and Link stickers alongside them. I gazed up at the hospital building, sighing again, reeking of failure and Cheeto dust.
No. Not Cheetos. Ever since the Toupeed Horror had occupied the Oval Office, Cheetos had become as forbidden to me as drinking battery acid, or eating leafy green vegetables. Scowling, hating to think of the Orange Monster on such a personally agonizing day for myself, I banished all thought of him and his foul brood.
Well, just one tweet first. No, wait, that's more than 140 characters -- ok, let's do 1 out of 3 ... no, 1 / 10 ... well, 1/12 is okay ...
My elegant words, which would surely bring down the entire Pmurt Junta at a blow could I finish them, are interrupted by a text from my brother: "JFC bob where r u he's almost gone."
Sigh.
I took one last look at my Prius -- you know, Boston is a great city, and far more indicative of the superior future than some backwater like Lynn or every city in Texas except Austin, but our mechanics are terrible; I have to get the shocks on this thing replaced every four months -- and considered whether it was time to replace the cheery red and blue scheme with a somber black. Perhaps once the inevitable had occurred, but not until. In the midst of death, we have the comfort of Super Mario Galaxy.
A few minutes later I had traversed the long but far too brief stretch of tiled antiseptic hallways from the lobby to the room where my father lay dying. The tails of my trenchcoat and my many chins wobbled as I walked. I took a deep breath as I stepped into the room. He lay in his bed, like my brother had said, almost gone, but raising his head with great effort, a semblance of life still flickering in his eyes.
"Oh for fuck's sake," he moaned. "Not you."
The morphine often left him delusional. The doctors insisted he wasn't on morphine, but I knew better than some white male "physician."
"Papa," I said as I knelt by his bedside, the floor creaking ominously under my weight. "Papa, I'm sorry I'm late. I tried. I tried so hard."
I struggled not to cry. Not for any foolish, inferior and superstitious taboos about manhood, but because when the collected food waste and unspeakable mung on my cheeks grows moist it's declared a health hazard and I'm removed from the hospital grounds. Ridiculous. Boston urchins often follow me in the rain clattering bowls against spoons, begging for even a small helping. To them it's known as Chipman's Chowder.
"Bob, just . . . just shut up, holy Christ, boy, I ain't got much time, just stop for once."
I shook my head, sobs locked in my chest. "No, no, papa. I have to tell you how I failed. I looked everywhere. Everywhere! Under the sofa cushions. In the Marvel rack at every comic book store. I rewatched every Marvel movie and all the Sam Raimi Spider-Man movies three times to see if it was hidden in the menu or in the post credits scenes. I must have checked the Mother Jones website at least a dozen times. But I couldn't do it. I couldn't do it."
Our eyes met at last. He belched in a way I remembered from many family gatherings. The tears were coming, I knew, and I had to tell him before it was too late.
"Papa, I couldn't find a 1-Up Mushroom anywhere."
My father shook his head, such disappointment in his eyes. You know, it didn't look that different from the way he usually looked at me. I had to smile.
"Bobby . . . c'mere, boy . . . I'm almost done. Just gotta . . . tell you . . . before I go."
I nodded, leaning closer, resting one hand on the hospital bed. The rail buckled.
"Bobby . . . "
"Yes, papa, yes?"
"Bobby . . . I ain't never had the cancer. I'm dyin' of shame. Turn off the fuckin NES and find a woman, would you? That crazy sex magic redhead, maybe . . . "
My father, at least, died with a smile on his lips. However delirious he might have been. At least he didn't have to live in Trump's America.
The tears came; I could not hold them back. And after the hazmat team escorted me out, I gazed up to the Boston skies and vowed: I would find that 1-Up Mushroom, if I had to give up my prosthetic feet to do it.
Just one more play through of Super Mario Bros. 3. For old time's sake.
- Joined
- Jul 10, 2017
- Joined
- Jun 23, 2015
Bob has always have a lack of self awareness. Look at how he dress.
- Joined
- Aug 13, 2016
- Joined
- Mar 28, 2017
Talking about lack of self-awareness. Here we have an 11 minutes preview of Bob's ONE HOUR autistic Batman vs Superman video. For some reason he decided was a good idea talk about his dead parent
- Joined
- Dec 13, 2016
"Jokes"Talking about lack of self-awareness. Here we have an 11 minutes preview of Bob's ONE HOUR autistic Batman vs Superman video. For some reason he decided was a good idea talk about his dead parent
- Joined
- Aug 23, 2014
Kyria the Great
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- Jun 2, 2017
That is just as funny as Bob saying he has a real career.
- Joined
- Jan 3, 2017
Talking about lack of self-awareness. Here we have an 11 minutes preview of Bob's ONE HOUR autistic Batman vs Superman video. For some reason he decided was a good idea talk about his dead parent
The fact that he's egotistical enough to think that one of his dumbfuck movie reviews actually merits a trailer isn't surprising. (Hey, if it's good enough for Plinkett, it's good enough for Bob.) The fact that he couldn't edit down a trailer for an hour long video to under eleven minutes displays an incompetence that is absolutely breathtaking.
- Joined
- Feb 10, 2017
Completely agree. This might be the most egotistical that Bob has ever been. The whole thing isn't a trailer, that only starts around 3:58. He would have saved himself a lot of time by just releasing this excerpt as the actual video.
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