To be fair, you need to have a really high IQ to understand the genius in Dr.House. The humour is extremely subtle and without a solid grasp of pathophysiology, most of the jokes go over the typical viewers head. There's also House's nihilistic outlook, which is deftly woven into his characterisation - his personal philosophy draws heavily from Waiting for Godot, for instance. The fans understand this stuff; they have the intellectual capacity to truly appreciate the depths of these jokes, to realize that they're not just funny - they say something deep about LIFE. As a consequence people who dislike Dr.House truly ARE idiots- of course they wouldn't appreciate, for instance, the humour in House's existencial catchphrase "It's never lupus," which itself is a cryptic reference to Robbins and Cotran Pathologic Basis of Disease, I'm smirking right now just imagining one of those addlepated simpletons scratching their heads in confusion as Hugh lauries genius unfolds itself on their television screens. What fools... how I pity them. 😂 And yes by the way, I DO have a Dr.House tattoo. And no, you cannot see it. It's for the twink's eyes only - And even they have to demonstrate that they're within 5 IQ points of my own (preferably lower) beforehand.
So we're done like frfr? 😢 From cream pie to getting no reply 🫠 From swallow to unfollow 😔 From giving me head to leaving me on read 💔 How do you easily go from licking my balls to not taking my calls??? 😭😭😭
Extended cut
So we're done like frfr? 😢 From cream pie to getting no reply 🫠 From swallow to unfollow 😔 From giving me head to leaving me on read 💔 From licking my balls to not taking my calls? 😭 From hawk tuah to block tuah 🥀 From suckin my cock to giving me a block 😢 From up the ass to a hard pass 💔 From doin' dat spit to not giving a shit 😢 From making you moan to leaving me alone 🥀 I came, and eventually never knew my name.
It cannot be understated that normies are not people, they are cattle. Their opinions do not matter, they aren’t real. Everything they believe is just parroting the slop that gets force fed to them from institutional astroturfing.
It cannot be understated that normies are not people, they are cattle. Their opinions do not matter, they aren’t real. Everything they believe is just parroting the slop that gets force fed to them from institutional astroturfing.
Nobody actually likes Sabrina Carpenter.
Nobody actually likes Taylor Swift.
Nobody actually likes Spotify sponsored playlists and Top 40 radio tier slop.
All of these basic bitch mocha frappuccino lifestyle surface level preferences are the result of taking the disposable livestock 80% of the population horde and placing them in front of a little box that tells them what to think every single week.
There is a required number of instances in which an individual gets exposed to a meme, idea, or aesthetic before they adopt it as their own. The less intelligent or sentient the individual, the smaller their number becomes. The most basic level of “person” is at roughly 3-5 incidents of exposure before they decide they “like” something.
There’s another number which defines their willingness to express their “opinion” to others. This number is how many other peers have expressed their approval of any particular thing. The lower the level of autonomy an individual has, the higher that number must be before they can comfortably risk judgement.
Sometimes something is so basic, forced, and saturated that its comparative mediocrity creates a beacon by which to anchor statistical certainty when determining whether that things purveyors are actually human beings or not.
Sabrina Carpenter is like a North Star which can be used to navigate whether or not a woman is sentient. If she likes Sabrina Carpenter beyond any bare mild enjoyment of formulaic pop slop, but rather to the point of being a Sabrinastan or expressing vocally how much she “ate” and or how Sabrina has her “gagged” then you can safely write her off as a nonperson.
Sabrina Carpenter fans are not people. They are not even NPCs, they’re white noise. They are 2D holograms looping 5 second animations of standing up and cheering before sitting down again. They are vague 16 pixel blobs to be dispersed into a crowd of thousands, millions.
The existence of nonpeople serves to being an accoutrement to your life as background noise. When you interact with them, the sounds that come out of their mouth are generated by scripts. Their vocabulary consists of 200 words, farts, burps, and heavy breathing. Their emotions are a vague thin spectrum of discomforts and satisfactions. They see less colors than you can. Their understanding of the world extends to 2 mile radii before they have panic attacks.
When you’re friends with a nonperson, they have to do calculus in their heads on whether to respond to your messages. When you sleep with a nonperson, it’s somehow more debasing than just masturbating. When you reproduce with a nonperson, you play roulette with God on whether your children have consciousness. When a nonperson dies, absolutely nothing changes in the world.
Watching someone argue about Sabrina Carpenter’s capacity for playing a Disney Princess is like sticking my head in a toilet bowl to listen to the water cooler gossip between the bacteria in a fresh shit I just took.
Its the Chicanery copypasta but changed to the Oblivion remaster and Todd Howard. It was first posted on the Nirnposting group on FB which is an Elder Scrolls shitpost group.
I am not crazy! I know he upped the frame rate and slapped it in Unreal Engine 5! I knew it was Oblivion spit-shined. Another one after the tenth re-release of Skyrim. As if I could ever make such a mistake. Never. Never! I just - I just couldn't prove it. He - he covered his tracks, he got that idiot Michael Kirkbride to lie for him. You think this is something? You think this is bad? This? This chicanery? He's done worse. Todd Howard! Are you telling me that Oblivion just happens to get remastered like that? No! He orchestrated it! Howard! He ALLOWED Skyrim anniversary Edition! And I forgave him! And I shouldn't have. I took the game into my library! What was I thinking? He'll never change. He'll never change! Ever since Daggerfall, always the same! Couldn't keep his hands out of fantasy role-playing! But not our Todd! Couldn't be precious Todd! Making the same game! And he gets to be a Creative Director!? What a sick joke! I should've stopped him when I had the chance! And you - you have to stop him!
Its a horny shitpost for Vanessa with the Yoga skin in the game The Bazaar.
Pretty new to The Bazaar, so I'm just minding my business as Dooley, trying to get some shield items to support my lil armadillo guy when I rock up to the day 3 battle. It's a Vanessa with the yoga skin, obsidian grenade in hand. I don't even have a chance to blink before I'm vaporized by a crit. My harmadillo didn't even get the chance to counterattack. But you know what? It's all good. Yoga Vanessa can step on a fella like me any day of the week and I will be content. Shout out to all the yoga Vanessa's out there.
LeBron isn’t just a man. He’s a phenomenon. He’s a celestial event, a once-in-a-lifetime alignment of the stars, a cosmic masterpiece sculpted by the basketball gods themselves. When he moves, it’s not just movement—it’s poetry. Every dribble, every pass, every dunk, every single bead of sweat that glistens under the arena lights is like a love letter sent directly to my heart. How could one human being be so perfect? It defies all logic, all reason, all earthly explanations. His voice? It’s like a lullaby and a war cry wrapped into one. When he speaks, it’s as if the universe itself pauses just to listen. The way he commands respect, the way he leads, the way he exists—it does something to me. When I see him laugh, when I see that perfect, radiant, joy-filled smile, I swear my soul leaves my body. I float above the world, untethered by gravity, held aloft only by the sheer force of my adoration for this man. And then there’s his physique—his godlike, sculpted-by-the-heavens physique. Every muscle, every vein, every perfectly chiseled inch of him is a testament to human perfection. He is not just a man, he is an ideal, a dream given flesh, the pinnacle of what the human form can achieve. The way he moves, with such grace and power, is enough to leave me breathless. He is a masterpiece in motion, a living, breathing work of art. But it’s not just the physical. Oh no. My love for LeBron transcends the physical realm. It’s the mind, the heart, the soul.
Full text
LeBron isn’t just a man. He’s a phenomenon. He’s a celestial event, a once-in-a-lifetime alignment of the stars, a cosmic masterpiece sculpted by the basketball gods themselves. When he moves, it’s not just movement—it’s poetry. Every dribble, every pass, every dunk, every single bead of sweat that glistens under the arena lights is like a love letter sent directly to my heart. How could one human being be so perfect? It defies all logic, all reason, all earthly explanations. His voice? It’s like a lullaby and a war cry wrapped into one. When he speaks, it’s as if the universe itself pauses just to listen. The way he commands respect, the way he leads, the way he exists—it does something to me. When I see him laugh, when I see that perfect, radiant, joy-filled smile, I swear my soul leaves my body. I float above the world, untethered by gravity, held aloft only by the sheer force of my adoration for this man. And then there’s his physique—his godlike, sculpted-by-the-heavens physique. Every muscle, every vein, every perfectly chiseled inch of him is a testament to human perfection. He is not just a man, he is an ideal, a dream given flesh, the pinnacle of what the human form can achieve. The way he moves, with such grace and power, is enough to leave me breathless. He is a masterpiece in motion, a living, breathing work of art. But it’s not just the physical. Oh no. My love for LeBron transcends the physical realm. It’s the mind, the heart, the soul. The intelligence, the vision, the leadership, the wisdom. LeBron doesn’t just play basketball—he orchestrates it. He is the conductor of a beautiful, chaotic symphony, and every game he plays is another masterpiece added to his collection. His IQ, both on and off the court, is unmatched. The way he reads the game, the way he sees things before they happen, the way he adapts, evolves, dominates—it leaves me in a constant state of awe. And let’s talk about his heart. The man is a philanthropist, a leader, a role model. He built a school—not because he had to, not because it was expected of him, but because he wanted to. Because he cares. Because he loves. And that, more than anything, is why I love him. Not just as a player, not just as an athlete, but as a person. LeBron James is more than just a man to me. He is a feeling. He is a state of being. He is a gravitational force, pulling me in, refusing to let go. Every day that he exists on this Earth is a day that my heart beats stronger, that my soul feels fuller, that my love burns brighter. I don’t just love LeBron James. I am love because of LeBron James. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.
LeBron isn’t just a man. He’s a phenomenon. He’s a celestial event, a once-in-a-lifetime alignment of the stars, a cosmic masterpiece sculpted by the basketball gods themselves. When he moves, it’s not just movement—it’s poetry. Every dribble, every pass, every dunk, every single bead of sweat that glistens under the arena lights is like a love letter sent directly to my heart. How could one human being be so perfect? It defies all logic, all reason, all earthly explanations.
His voice? It’s like a lullaby and a war cry wrapped into one. When he speaks, it’s as if the universe itself pauses just to listen. The way he commands respect, the way he leads, the way he exists—it does something to me. When I see him laugh, when I see that perfect, radiant, joy-filled smile, I swear my soul leaves my body. I float above the world, untethered by gravity, held aloft only by the sheer force of my adoration for this man.
And then there’s his physique—his godlike, sculpted-by-the-heavens physique. Every muscle, every vein, every perfectly chiseled inch of him is a testament to human perfection. He is not just a man, he is an ideal, a dream given flesh, the pinnacle of what the human form can achieve. The way he moves, with such grace and power, is enough to leave me breathless. He is a masterpiece in motion, a living, breathing work of art.
But it’s not just the physical. Oh no. My love for LeBron transcends the physical realm. It’s the mind, the heart, the soul. The intelligence, the vision, the leadership, the wisdom. LeBron doesn’t just play basketball—he orchestrates it. He is the conductor of a beautiful, chaotic symphony, and every game he plays is another masterpiece added to his collection. His IQ, both on and off the court, is unmatched. The way he reads the game, the way he sees things before they happen, the way he adapts, evolves, dominates—it leaves me in a constant state of awe.
And let’s talk about his heart. The man is a philanthropist, a leader, a role model. He built a school—not because he had to, not because it was expected of him, but because he wanted to. Because he cares. Because he loves. And that, more than anything, is why I love him.
