Saturday, July 12, 2008

Toby Christensen said...

Fighting 3moose1 would be like punching a crippled baby seal or slapping a sack filled with gelatinous fat:
a worthless endeavour that is not wholly or entirely unpleasant.

The true nature of the martial law is wasted on this mindless prepubescent teen nitwit. The honour associated with the fighting arts is missing and lost amongst many of Bullshido's denizens, most notably on the likes of a 3moose1 and his gang of reprobates.

The 3moose1, Dagon the hipster, krazy kaju (accused of being a racist and fascist by the departed Hedgehogey), Claw the McMighty, the accursed Fickle Fingers of Fate and other greater "Motown" dwelling gang of gutterpunks are the United States equivalent to Chavs. I have watched their "throwdown" videos and saw no one minuscule iota of martial skill and instead saw only the grappling equivalent of a honey badger with lumbago attempting to sire an offspring with a pushbroom.

Among the whole of the Detroit lot we are treated to see the spectrum of American eating disorders: the greater sum of them are anorexic and make the Olson twins appear to be the type of fitness model that El Macho obsessively masturbates to.

Then there is the Fickle Finger of Fate whom I presume to be obese and appear to look quite a bit like Rosanne Barr's husband on her self-named television sit-com.

3moose1 deserves not one more story written about him as he is currently basking in the Bullshido limelight and making his own Bullshido thread's drawing attention to his newfound internet fame.

The Claw McMighty is currently hiding under his bed....or from the looks of his waiflike frame hiding under a throwrug.

Dagon is attempting to woo the ladies of Bullshdio with his hipster style and inviting underage boys to his pool party under the auspices of serving them milkshakes.

Krazy Kaju is most likely goose stepping down 8-mile wishing he was Eminem the real slim shady and awaiting his next opportunity to put on a tight, spandex singlet and roll on a mat with another sweaty man, like my twin brother the limp-wristed barrister.

The Fickle Fingers of Fate is most assuredly sitting in an easy chair in his stained boxer shorts, with a large bucket of the Colonel Sander's finest Kentucky Fried Chicken at his side, one sock on, one sock off, a bg of Frito's Corn Chips in his lap, bean-dipping and farting himself to sleep while watching a Monster Truck rally on his television.

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