DeagleDad420
kiwifarms.net
Jihadist SIGINT confirms that the goyim is alive and still has access to his cell phone.
CRUCIAL DANGER SITUATION Jace cut down his Internet with a knife, Eli went to the hospital from parkour. -
- Thread starter DeagleDad420
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TheMorawOne
kiwifarms.net
That is good to hear. Perhaps he got in trouble and is back to living with his momma.
Alright gathered from the video:
-What happened during the live stream was an "accident" and Jace somehow took out the internet. Probably smashing stuff and slicing up the cords
-Jace got his welfare and is buying more internet cords.
-Eli DID jump off the balcony and fell right into the table and a chair, hurting one of his legs
-Jace still sounds off his meds, and maybe on something again
-People have been calling him non-stop since the stream.
Good video, nice to know Jace was ok. Whoever posted the video didn't need to get so weeny at the end though.
-What happened during the live stream was an "accident" and Jace somehow took out the internet. Probably smashing stuff and slicing up the cords
-Jace got his welfare and is buying more internet cords.
-Eli DID jump off the balcony and fell right into the table and a chair, hurting one of his legs
-Jace still sounds off his meds, and maybe on something again
-People have been calling him non-stop since the stream.
Good video, nice to know Jace was ok. Whoever posted the video didn't need to get so weeny at the end though.
So Jace literally cut down his own internet? Anyways it's nice to hear the Commander once again.
Eli's not in the hospital "anymore", eh?
Don't drink and parkour, kids.
Don't drink and parkour, kids.
No one ever says "just kidding" to Jace. I think it would be really interesting to see what happens if you said "I'm a cop, I'm from the FBI." and let him wind up before going "Jace, I'm just kidding. Chill". Either he'll have too much momentum and he'll stay angry, or we'd see him laugh at himself for the first time ever.
BADASSMANDO
kiwifarms.net
Good to know he's relatively alright. I don't know what I'd do with myself if he had gotten himself killed.
On an unrelated note;
Does anyone remember that now-deleted video that showed Jace going into a souljaboy chatroom and yelling about tupac being alive in palestine and how he had a "nigga soul"?
I have found documented proof of the latter part
Behold
Germanicus
kiwifarms.net
Oh man, what I would have given to be there when Eli parkoured onto his grandmother's dinner table.
Last edited:
DeagleDad420
kiwifarms.net
The playboy stumbled drunkenly up the stairway, leaning on the railing for support as he went. The second story would be his place of refuge, his calm in the storm, away from the prying eyes of his family: the one place where he could do what he must do in peace. So he put one foot in front of another, holding back vomit and reeking of wine, like a monk climbing a Tibetan mountain, inching step by step towards his salvation: because he must.
After what felt like an eternity, the playboy reached the landing, and continued onto the raised balcony. With one hand he tweeted about his bitch grandma, and with the other, he fumbled in the pocket of his True Religion jeans, seeking the one thing he knew would make it all go away: his weed.
The playboy lit his joint, attempting to blow smoke rings because he heard black people do that sometimes. He failed, but the familiar sensation of THC came back to greet him once again, like a long-lost friend. When the smoke cleared, it was like slipping into a hot bath - relaxation, relief, and a wave of calm that washed over his head. "Haaaaah", he heard himself chuckle lazily to the empty room, in a slurred drawl.
The playboy peered over the precipice in front of him as he leaned on the railing for support, his head hung down like a dog out of a car window, too intoxicated to keep his posture erect. He opened his mouth and let his drool congeal into a glob of spit, and watched it trace it's way lazily to the ground, like a spider descending from the ceiling. Targeting his grandmother's gay-ass candles with laserlike precision, an idea suddenly came to the Icy Playboy.
He began to stammer slightly. His mouth froze, attempting to piece together the words his mind was giving him. "Woah.. like... what if..." He stopped. He was almost there, he could feel it. He could taste victory. "I basically.... uhmmm..." Images flew through his mind, but none too coherent. He knew none of the great thinkers of the world ever came to their conclusions without great struggle, so he persisted, just as he had learned from Sun Zoo. He tried to drown out the sounds of merriment below him, of his more well-adjusted relatives speaking with one another, catching up, joking, laughing... "Uh,
, like... uh... I'm trying... to think... shut.. uh, like, up...freakout alert!", he heard himself declare to the empty room as he slumped to the floor.
After a few seconds - maybe they were minutes, hard to tell when this intoxicated - an idea came to him. A revelation crept out of the sky from the windows, and posessed him. He craned his head backwards and stared at the table below him, it's seats soon to be filled with gay relatives, bitches, and fags. Wasting no time, the playboy took out his phone and began typing. In that moment, he knew what he must do. He would fuel the fight. He would answer the Call of Duty.
The playboy rested, the lingering aroma of marijuana surrounding him like a black cloud, as he waited for his relatives to reach the table. The pieces were all falling into place. The gears and levers in his head began turning, like the action on a finely-crafted battlefield revolver customized with FMJ clips and incendentary bullets. The stage was set. The time was now. All according to plan. The playboy raised his phone once more, waiting for the confirmation he needed.
Within minutes, the ballots were in. The people had spoken. Who was he to second-guess democracy? Who was he to bite the hand that feeds? Sun Zoo would never do that. Sun Zoo would fuel the fight.
And he did.
The dinner was great as always. Mashed potatoes, bread, soup, salad, stuffing, and of course turkey. Not so much wine left after Eli, but the family wouldn't let that ruin their holiday. They didn't expect much from him, and were not so deluded as to think he would join them if he had a choice. But they were a forgiving, patient folk, and they took this time of year to come together, despite their differences. They held hands, reciting their prayer of thanks, and began eating.
Aunt Josie talked about the news. David, his father, told a funny story about office politics. Grandma Deb just wanted to know how her grandchildren were doing.
Her answer came to her in the form of a 230 pound sweaty, hairy manchild slamming into the wooden table in front of her with the force of a freight train, crushing food, silverware, plates and napkins alike under his weight as his IPod blared Nickelback-Hero.mp3 as loudly as it's speakers could muster. The wood cracked. Family members recoiled and screamed. Projectile vomit erupted from her grandson's mouth toward her in a geyser as he rolled his hairy, flabby body off the table, attempting desperately to retreat to safety before he injured himself further. The children began weeping and screaming as the parents tried to comfort them. Deb's husband, Eli's grandfather, looked like he was going to have a heart attack. Little Clarice ran screaming toward the kitchen. Deb's grandson rolled lazily to the floor and hit the ground with a resounding THUD, like a fat sack of potatoes smacking against a concrete wall.
For the Playboy, everything went black. The rest of his family were not so lucky. Even after the holiday had passed, the scars would not fade. They had only memories. There was nothing but pity, psychological trauma and sheer disgust. For Elijah, there was nothing but a hangover and a tweet he didn't remember writing.
After what felt like an eternity, the playboy reached the landing, and continued onto the raised balcony. With one hand he tweeted about his bitch grandma, and with the other, he fumbled in the pocket of his True Religion jeans, seeking the one thing he knew would make it all go away: his weed.
The playboy lit his joint, attempting to blow smoke rings because he heard black people do that sometimes. He failed, but the familiar sensation of THC came back to greet him once again, like a long-lost friend. When the smoke cleared, it was like slipping into a hot bath - relaxation, relief, and a wave of calm that washed over his head. "Haaaaah", he heard himself chuckle lazily to the empty room, in a slurred drawl.
The playboy peered over the precipice in front of him as he leaned on the railing for support, his head hung down like a dog out of a car window, too intoxicated to keep his posture erect. He opened his mouth and let his drool congeal into a glob of spit, and watched it trace it's way lazily to the ground, like a spider descending from the ceiling. Targeting his grandmother's gay-ass candles with laserlike precision, an idea suddenly came to the Icy Playboy.
He began to stammer slightly. His mouth froze, attempting to piece together the words his mind was giving him. "Woah.. like... what if..." He stopped. He was almost there, he could feel it. He could taste victory. "I basically.... uhmmm..." Images flew through his mind, but none too coherent. He knew none of the great thinkers of the world ever came to their conclusions without great struggle, so he persisted, just as he had learned from Sun Zoo. He tried to drown out the sounds of merriment below him, of his more well-adjusted relatives speaking with one another, catching up, joking, laughing... "Uh,
, like... uh... I'm trying... to think... shut.. uh, like, up...freakout alert!", he heard himself declare to the empty room as he slumped to the floor.After a few seconds - maybe they were minutes, hard to tell when this intoxicated - an idea came to him. A revelation crept out of the sky from the windows, and posessed him. He craned his head backwards and stared at the table below him, it's seats soon to be filled with gay relatives, bitches, and fags. Wasting no time, the playboy took out his phone and began typing. In that moment, he knew what he must do. He would fuel the fight. He would answer the Call of Duty.
The playboy rested, the lingering aroma of marijuana surrounding him like a black cloud, as he waited for his relatives to reach the table. The pieces were all falling into place. The gears and levers in his head began turning, like the action on a finely-crafted battlefield revolver customized with FMJ clips and incendentary bullets. The stage was set. The time was now. All according to plan. The playboy raised his phone once more, waiting for the confirmation he needed.
Within minutes, the ballots were in. The people had spoken. Who was he to second-guess democracy? Who was he to bite the hand that feeds? Sun Zoo would never do that. Sun Zoo would fuel the fight.
And he did.
The dinner was great as always. Mashed potatoes, bread, soup, salad, stuffing, and of course turkey. Not so much wine left after Eli, but the family wouldn't let that ruin their holiday. They didn't expect much from him, and were not so deluded as to think he would join them if he had a choice. But they were a forgiving, patient folk, and they took this time of year to come together, despite their differences. They held hands, reciting their prayer of thanks, and began eating.
Aunt Josie talked about the news. David, his father, told a funny story about office politics. Grandma Deb just wanted to know how her grandchildren were doing.
Her answer came to her in the form of a 230 pound sweaty, hairy manchild slamming into the wooden table in front of her with the force of a freight train, crushing food, silverware, plates and napkins alike under his weight as his IPod blared Nickelback-Hero.mp3 as loudly as it's speakers could muster. The wood cracked. Family members recoiled and screamed. Projectile vomit erupted from her grandson's mouth toward her in a geyser as he rolled his hairy, flabby body off the table, attempting desperately to retreat to safety before he injured himself further. The children began weeping and screaming as the parents tried to comfort them. Deb's husband, Eli's grandfather, looked like he was going to have a heart attack. Little Clarice ran screaming toward the kitchen. Deb's grandson rolled lazily to the floor and hit the ground with a resounding THUD, like a fat sack of potatoes smacking against a concrete wall.
For the Playboy, everything went black. The rest of his family were not so lucky. Even after the holiday had passed, the scars would not fade. They had only memories. There was nothing but pity, psychological trauma and sheer disgust. For Elijah, there was nothing but a hangover and a tweet he didn't remember writing.
The writers are taking this to a great place, I can feel it. Next season will be great.
Jesus, I was actually a little worried for the commander. I thought he might have hurt himself after the thanksgiving livestream.
Nah, he's a Marine trained Teen. He knows what he is doing.
-
So, is Eli still in hospital? I hope he's out for Christmas!
It's like a bunch of kids at camp.
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