FvJ
Radar(Baba)O'Riley
Posts: 947
In honor of Freddy vs. Jason being released on DVD, I would like to share this monstrocity with all you lovely and well-manicured people.
This was written for a contest that fridaythe13thfilms.com had last August after the release of the movie. The task was to write an ending to FvJ. I was a finalist (Go Radar! Go Radar! Get your groove on! Go! Go! Go!), but lost by one vote (Aw, donkeydicks!)
As background, there are two things you should know about Freddy and Jason
1) Jason is a bad ass muthafucka
2) Freddy is a bad ass muthafucka
Clear?
Good.
Freddy & Jason:
Operation Slash and Awe
After Freddy and Jason agreed to the Elm Street Treaty, Section 13, thereby absolving all iniquity between the two and uniting them in one synergistic alliance, the decapitating duo found themselves dispatched by the U.S. Military to a vast desert. Side by side, they trudged under a remorseless sun, through shin-deep sand, tirelessly scaling dunes and cliffs—tirelessly, but not without protest:
“This is the last fucking time I wear a fucking sweater to the fucking desert,” Freddy growled, fanning himself with his fedora. He reasoned that he walked twice as many steps as Jason’s near-galloping pace.
“Whoa, fella! Whoa!” Freddy said. “Pull up on the reins of murderous intent for a minute.”
The stoic Jason refused to respond.
Freddy caught up to his new partner and the two walked in silence for several minutes. But the monotony of travel proved torturous for poor hyperactive Freddy.
“So . . . Jason, what’s your sleep number anyway? I’m a 15. I like my bed soft, what can I say? Doesn’t mean I’m a pussy or anything. Just that it does wonders for my back. I’m not sore in the mornings anymore. So what’s your sleep number? You can tell me. It’s not like I’m secretly trying to gain insight into your sleeping habits so I can lull you into a deep, dark slumber and then kill ya or anything.”
Silence.
Freddy sighed and tried a new angle: “Have ya heard the new Metallica?”
Double dose of silence.
Seeing that this was going nowhere, Freddy jumped behind Jason and answered his own question: “Why, yes, I have, Freddy. And I must say that it sounds like diarrhea dropped on a drum kit.”
Freddy hopped back beside Jason and retorted, “Oh, contraire, my dear fellow. The album is a rambunctious raid of rage. Unapologetic. Unflinching. Unforgiven. So I dub thee.”
Freddy slipped behind Jason again and continued the debate with, “Your ass hurts.”
Freddy resumed his original position. “You better watch your mouth or I’ll tell your mother.”
Jason shot a menacing glare toward Freddy.
“Oh, right,” Freddy constricted. “You’re still kinda sensitive about mommy dearest, aren’t ya?”
Jason brought a hushing finger to his mask and then pointed to the horizon. A couple hundred yards away lay a crude camp. Four tents stood sentry next to the mouth of a cave. Twenty or so Al Quada soldiers armed with AK-47s paced restlessly around the tents. A camel loaded with supplies chewed an unknown meal.
“Mmmmm,” Freddy purred. “Time to get your game-face on.”
Jason tilted his head quizzically.
“Or, in your case, game-mask on.”
Jason nodded.
Freddy kneeled in the sand and sketched a quick diagram of the enemy’s encampment with his bladed fingers.
“We’ll do this real quiet like,” Freddy instructed. “They’re here, okay. And we’re here.” Freddy drew two stick figures, one with an oversized hockey masked-head and one with a jauntily tilted fedora. “So, we’ll both sneak around behind them and meet atop the cliff over the cave. I’ll go right, and you’ll loop around left. First one there gets to kill more people. Okay! Break!”
Freddy clapped his hands together and strode stealthily off to the right. Jason watched him for a moment, then stalked straight toward the camp, forsaking any guile.
Freddy, pleased with his advancement thus far, turned to see how Jason was fairing. Indeed, he was most irked to see him make a prime target of himself.
“That big ol’ head of his and there’s not a brain to be found anywhere in it.”
Soon, alarmed, foreign voices were heard as soldiers scattered around the camp taking up defensive positions.
Freddy continued with his route. Perhaps Jason’s recalcitrance would pull all the soldiers toward him and give Freddy an unhindered path to the top of the cave.
A bullet splashed the sand two inches from Freddy’s toe.
Then again, perhaps not. Freddy glanced up in time to see a soldier dive onto the sand thirty yards away and train his assault rifle on him again.
“Whoa, shit,” Freddy gasped as he dove into the sand and wiggled down until completely submerged. The soldier fired twice and crawled forward on his stomach, hoping to find the intruder dead or wounded behind a ripple in the sand. The soldier’s advance was halted when four knifed fingers stabbed through his stomach and protruded out his back. Freddy’s head sprouted from the desert next to the dying soldier and spat a mouthful of sand in his wincing face.
“The Sandman cometh,” Freddy smirked.
By this time, Jason had attracted considerable attention. The bullets he walked through never stuttered a step. The grenades that were lobbed only got his mask dirty. That really pissed him off. But when a bazooka blast landed at his feet, he couldn’t help but be blown ten feet in the air. He made a sizeable dimple in the earth when he landed. Cheers and laughter came from the encampment as the soldiers congratulated one another and sang praises to their God for the obliteration of the enemy. A lieutenant dispatched five soldiers to investigate.
When the soldiers circled Jason’s sandy grave, they were amazed at two things: he was still intact and he was still alive. The eyes beneath the mask blinked and rotated in their sockets, sizing up the soldiers. His machete was still firmly in hand, as if bolted there.
The soldiers, sharing the same collective, destructive thought, fired.
Jason was through with this shit.
In a singularly swift and calculated maneuver, he whipped his machete over his head and sat up while swiping at the gunmen. As he ascended, so did the arc of the machete: It cleaved off the first soldier’s left shin, then his right knee; it sawed through the second soldier’s left thigh, crotch, and right hip; it sliced through the third soldier’s left hand, rifle, abdomen, and right forearm; it severed the fourth soldier’s left elbow then glided effortlessly through his ribs and chest until exiting the right shoulder; it cleanly chopped off the fifth soldier’s head just above jaw.
Not one of the filthy amputees or their limbs landed on Jason. Their blood gushed from grotesque fountains of human remains. The fortunate ones who merely lost a foot or leg quickly had their heads parted down the middle.
The camp lieutenant pissed his pants when he saw Jason emerge from the dismembered bodies of his soldiers and advance toward camp. He dropped his rifle and slumped in supplication, beseeching an otherworldly being to offer worldly advice. As Jason walked past him, he casually flicked his machete and the lieutenant’s head rolled off his shoulders, his lips still moving.
Panic-stricken disorder now tortured the remaining soldiers. Some sprayed bullets like Lysol in a chaotic attempt to sanitize the situation. This only wiped out more of their own. One soldier foolishly fumbled with a grenade, and in his harried haste, he tossed the pin at Jason and dropped the live grenade between his feet. The pin bounced harmlessly off Jason’s chest, but the grenade spewed dust and purplish entrails across his mask. Another soldier successfully loaded a rocket launcher and aimed it at Jason as he was about to enter the cave. The soldier bellowed an unintelligible maxim, and Jason turned in time to see Freddy descend from the heavens and pounce on the soldier before he fired. Freddy’s claws split the soldier’s head like slices of red, hairy bread.
Tarrying not, Jason entered the cave.
“What?! No, ‘Thank you?’” Freddy gawked. He turned to the camel to seek support. “I think I sprained an ankle jumping from this fucking cliff to save his wet, decomposing ass, and I don’t even get a ‘Thank you?’” The camel chewed indifferently.
Jason soon emerged from the cave, dragging Osama Bin Laden by his beard and Saddam Hussein by his throat.
Freddy chuckled like a chainsaw sputtering. “Ahhh. Pussies of mass destruction!”
Jason released Osama at Freddy’s feet, but escorted Saddam behind the camel. He then hoisted the dictator in the air and, with brutal precision, slammed his head into the camel’s ass. Saddam maddeningly thrashed his arms and legs, but Jason retained firm control over him. The camel shuddered, peeked behind it, then resumed its complaisant chewing. Either Saddam vomited, or perhaps his head forced out some internal juices, because a khaki-colored liquid dripped out of the camel.
Impatient with Saddam’s struggling, Jason rotated the body clockwise. A muffled crackling sound came from inside the camel. The head was not rotating with the body. By the time Jason made two complete revolutions with Saddam’s body, the neck vertebrae were pulverized, and the cracking ceased. It wasn’t as much fun without the popping sound. Jason then made a skillful beheading with his machete, careful not to injure a hair on the camel, and Saddam’s limp body fell to the sand. The head, however, remained within.
Fed up with the discomfort, the camel purged itself. A thick wad of defecation oozed out onto Saddam’s lifeless body. Lastly came the head. It splashed into the excrement like a golf ball hitting sand.
Freddy ambled behind the camel with Osama in tow.
“Shit!” he beamed, a self-evident exclamation.
Osama fainted.
Overly rambunctious with his barbarous disposal of Saddam, Jason turned to Osama and readied his machete.
“Uh, uh, uh,” Freddy intervened. “Osama is my bitch.”
He chuckled and dreamily disappeared.
Osama bin Laden awoke to find himself reclining in the laps of a thousand naked virgins. Many were stacked atop another—a pyramid of pleasures. Everywhere he turned, his nose grazed across a woman’s tender breast. He became aroused, both at the lascivious delights around him, and at the eternity these delights promised. Osama knew he had served his God dutifully and this was his reward.
He squeezed a thigh, nibbled a nipple. Indeed, he was most surprised when the nipple seemed to bite back. He lurched back and saw a tiny pig’s head protruding from the breast.
Osama gagged and spat and looked around him. All the virgins’ nipples took a porcine form. All oinked. All wiggled. The virgins’ heads, too, had morphed into a half pig, half human concoction: snouts sprouted from the faces, but the lips remained feminine and appealing. Osama clenched himself into a quivering ball.
The virgins/pigs spoke in one echoing unison:
“Aren’t you gonna pork us?”
Then the laughter. Human at first, but the sound soon spoiled into a familiar chuckle. The virgins now had knives for fingers. In one simultaneous show of masochism, they all lopped off the piggy-headed nipples. Thousands of pink, smiling pig heads rained on Osama. He squirmed and screamed and covered his eyes. When the heads hit him, they exploded like water balloons. Except that they didn’t contain water—they contained blood. Pig blood. Osama found himself splashing and thrashing in a pit of pig’s blood.
The virgins disappeared and all that remained was Freddy. He kneeled at the edge of the pit and offered a helping, bladed hand.
Osama instinctively took up Freddy’s benevolence only to discover the violence it hid. One swipe and a glimpse of bone could be seen in his hand before the blood colored it. He tried to grab the edge of the pit, but knives landed on knuckles every time he did.
Osama elected to sink, hoping that salvation somehow waited at the bottom of the pit. Salvation didn’t show; Freddy did. Whether it was the hocus or the pocus, Osama knew not. He only knew that the bladed fiend who was slashing his hands one minute, was slashing his feet the next. Off came a pinkie toe. Off went the padded flesh of heel.
Osama flailed his way to the top and Freddy flayed more of his hands. One hand was halfway amputated. Only a sliver of bone held it together as it dangled at an awkward angle.
The blood pit began to swirl.
“Time to flush this fucker!”
Osama was sucked down into the waiting caresses of claws. The pig blood drained away only to be replaced by Osama’s blood. And his eyes. And chunks of his face. And a spine stained yellow from his own bile.
Freddy materialized back into the real world. Although the scarred skin hid it, he blushed with pride at seeing the pureed remains of Osama bin Laden.
“Osama been rottin’,” he punned.
Freddy looked behind him and saw Jason tickling the chin of the camel as it licked the gore off his mask. Sensing Freddy’s stare, Jason grabbed his machete, puffed out his chest, and angled his head down in the classic, daunting stance.
Freddy grinned at catching Jason with his guard down.
“No, you can’t take him home.”
Jason dropped his shoulders and tilted his head pleadingly.
“Come on. Let’s get out of this damn desert. I think I’m getting a sunburn. I was Caucasian before I got here.”
Jason stormed past Freddy, his footfalls a good five feet apart. He suddenly stopped, chopped off a dead soldier’s head, and kicked it to the sunset. He then resumed his pace.
Freddy jogged to catch up to his partner. “Have you ever thought about anger management classes? Or counseling? Or camp counseling for that matter?”
As always, Jason remained mute. As always, Freddy couldn’t:
“So . . . did you like Jar Jar Binks? I thought he was pretty funny myself.”
This was written for a contest that fridaythe13thfilms.com had last August after the release of the movie. The task was to write an ending to FvJ. I was a finalist (Go Radar! Go Radar! Get your groove on! Go! Go! Go!), but lost by one vote (Aw, donkeydicks!)
As background, there are two things you should know about Freddy and Jason
1) Jason is a bad ass muthafucka
2) Freddy is a bad ass muthafucka
Clear?
Good.
Freddy & Jason:
Operation Slash and Awe
After Freddy and Jason agreed to the Elm Street Treaty, Section 13, thereby absolving all iniquity between the two and uniting them in one synergistic alliance, the decapitating duo found themselves dispatched by the U.S. Military to a vast desert. Side by side, they trudged under a remorseless sun, through shin-deep sand, tirelessly scaling dunes and cliffs—tirelessly, but not without protest:
“This is the last fucking time I wear a fucking sweater to the fucking desert,” Freddy growled, fanning himself with his fedora. He reasoned that he walked twice as many steps as Jason’s near-galloping pace.
“Whoa, fella! Whoa!” Freddy said. “Pull up on the reins of murderous intent for a minute.”
The stoic Jason refused to respond.
Freddy caught up to his new partner and the two walked in silence for several minutes. But the monotony of travel proved torturous for poor hyperactive Freddy.
“So . . . Jason, what’s your sleep number anyway? I’m a 15. I like my bed soft, what can I say? Doesn’t mean I’m a pussy or anything. Just that it does wonders for my back. I’m not sore in the mornings anymore. So what’s your sleep number? You can tell me. It’s not like I’m secretly trying to gain insight into your sleeping habits so I can lull you into a deep, dark slumber and then kill ya or anything.”
Silence.
Freddy sighed and tried a new angle: “Have ya heard the new Metallica?”
Double dose of silence.
Seeing that this was going nowhere, Freddy jumped behind Jason and answered his own question: “Why, yes, I have, Freddy. And I must say that it sounds like diarrhea dropped on a drum kit.”
Freddy hopped back beside Jason and retorted, “Oh, contraire, my dear fellow. The album is a rambunctious raid of rage. Unapologetic. Unflinching. Unforgiven. So I dub thee.”
Freddy slipped behind Jason again and continued the debate with, “Your ass hurts.”
Freddy resumed his original position. “You better watch your mouth or I’ll tell your mother.”
Jason shot a menacing glare toward Freddy.
“Oh, right,” Freddy constricted. “You’re still kinda sensitive about mommy dearest, aren’t ya?”
Jason brought a hushing finger to his mask and then pointed to the horizon. A couple hundred yards away lay a crude camp. Four tents stood sentry next to the mouth of a cave. Twenty or so Al Quada soldiers armed with AK-47s paced restlessly around the tents. A camel loaded with supplies chewed an unknown meal.
“Mmmmm,” Freddy purred. “Time to get your game-face on.”
Jason tilted his head quizzically.
“Or, in your case, game-mask on.”
Jason nodded.
Freddy kneeled in the sand and sketched a quick diagram of the enemy’s encampment with his bladed fingers.
“We’ll do this real quiet like,” Freddy instructed. “They’re here, okay. And we’re here.” Freddy drew two stick figures, one with an oversized hockey masked-head and one with a jauntily tilted fedora. “So, we’ll both sneak around behind them and meet atop the cliff over the cave. I’ll go right, and you’ll loop around left. First one there gets to kill more people. Okay! Break!”
Freddy clapped his hands together and strode stealthily off to the right. Jason watched him for a moment, then stalked straight toward the camp, forsaking any guile.
Freddy, pleased with his advancement thus far, turned to see how Jason was fairing. Indeed, he was most irked to see him make a prime target of himself.
“That big ol’ head of his and there’s not a brain to be found anywhere in it.”
Soon, alarmed, foreign voices were heard as soldiers scattered around the camp taking up defensive positions.
Freddy continued with his route. Perhaps Jason’s recalcitrance would pull all the soldiers toward him and give Freddy an unhindered path to the top of the cave.
A bullet splashed the sand two inches from Freddy’s toe.
Then again, perhaps not. Freddy glanced up in time to see a soldier dive onto the sand thirty yards away and train his assault rifle on him again.
“Whoa, shit,” Freddy gasped as he dove into the sand and wiggled down until completely submerged. The soldier fired twice and crawled forward on his stomach, hoping to find the intruder dead or wounded behind a ripple in the sand. The soldier’s advance was halted when four knifed fingers stabbed through his stomach and protruded out his back. Freddy’s head sprouted from the desert next to the dying soldier and spat a mouthful of sand in his wincing face.
“The Sandman cometh,” Freddy smirked.
By this time, Jason had attracted considerable attention. The bullets he walked through never stuttered a step. The grenades that were lobbed only got his mask dirty. That really pissed him off. But when a bazooka blast landed at his feet, he couldn’t help but be blown ten feet in the air. He made a sizeable dimple in the earth when he landed. Cheers and laughter came from the encampment as the soldiers congratulated one another and sang praises to their God for the obliteration of the enemy. A lieutenant dispatched five soldiers to investigate.
When the soldiers circled Jason’s sandy grave, they were amazed at two things: he was still intact and he was still alive. The eyes beneath the mask blinked and rotated in their sockets, sizing up the soldiers. His machete was still firmly in hand, as if bolted there.
The soldiers, sharing the same collective, destructive thought, fired.
Jason was through with this shit.
In a singularly swift and calculated maneuver, he whipped his machete over his head and sat up while swiping at the gunmen. As he ascended, so did the arc of the machete: It cleaved off the first soldier’s left shin, then his right knee; it sawed through the second soldier’s left thigh, crotch, and right hip; it sliced through the third soldier’s left hand, rifle, abdomen, and right forearm; it severed the fourth soldier’s left elbow then glided effortlessly through his ribs and chest until exiting the right shoulder; it cleanly chopped off the fifth soldier’s head just above jaw.
Not one of the filthy amputees or their limbs landed on Jason. Their blood gushed from grotesque fountains of human remains. The fortunate ones who merely lost a foot or leg quickly had their heads parted down the middle.
The camp lieutenant pissed his pants when he saw Jason emerge from the dismembered bodies of his soldiers and advance toward camp. He dropped his rifle and slumped in supplication, beseeching an otherworldly being to offer worldly advice. As Jason walked past him, he casually flicked his machete and the lieutenant’s head rolled off his shoulders, his lips still moving.
Panic-stricken disorder now tortured the remaining soldiers. Some sprayed bullets like Lysol in a chaotic attempt to sanitize the situation. This only wiped out more of their own. One soldier foolishly fumbled with a grenade, and in his harried haste, he tossed the pin at Jason and dropped the live grenade between his feet. The pin bounced harmlessly off Jason’s chest, but the grenade spewed dust and purplish entrails across his mask. Another soldier successfully loaded a rocket launcher and aimed it at Jason as he was about to enter the cave. The soldier bellowed an unintelligible maxim, and Jason turned in time to see Freddy descend from the heavens and pounce on the soldier before he fired. Freddy’s claws split the soldier’s head like slices of red, hairy bread.
Tarrying not, Jason entered the cave.
“What?! No, ‘Thank you?’” Freddy gawked. He turned to the camel to seek support. “I think I sprained an ankle jumping from this fucking cliff to save his wet, decomposing ass, and I don’t even get a ‘Thank you?’” The camel chewed indifferently.
Jason soon emerged from the cave, dragging Osama Bin Laden by his beard and Saddam Hussein by his throat.
Freddy chuckled like a chainsaw sputtering. “Ahhh. Pussies of mass destruction!”
Jason released Osama at Freddy’s feet, but escorted Saddam behind the camel. He then hoisted the dictator in the air and, with brutal precision, slammed his head into the camel’s ass. Saddam maddeningly thrashed his arms and legs, but Jason retained firm control over him. The camel shuddered, peeked behind it, then resumed its complaisant chewing. Either Saddam vomited, or perhaps his head forced out some internal juices, because a khaki-colored liquid dripped out of the camel.
Impatient with Saddam’s struggling, Jason rotated the body clockwise. A muffled crackling sound came from inside the camel. The head was not rotating with the body. By the time Jason made two complete revolutions with Saddam’s body, the neck vertebrae were pulverized, and the cracking ceased. It wasn’t as much fun without the popping sound. Jason then made a skillful beheading with his machete, careful not to injure a hair on the camel, and Saddam’s limp body fell to the sand. The head, however, remained within.
Fed up with the discomfort, the camel purged itself. A thick wad of defecation oozed out onto Saddam’s lifeless body. Lastly came the head. It splashed into the excrement like a golf ball hitting sand.
Freddy ambled behind the camel with Osama in tow.
“Shit!” he beamed, a self-evident exclamation.
Osama fainted.
Overly rambunctious with his barbarous disposal of Saddam, Jason turned to Osama and readied his machete.
“Uh, uh, uh,” Freddy intervened. “Osama is my bitch.”
He chuckled and dreamily disappeared.
Osama bin Laden awoke to find himself reclining in the laps of a thousand naked virgins. Many were stacked atop another—a pyramid of pleasures. Everywhere he turned, his nose grazed across a woman’s tender breast. He became aroused, both at the lascivious delights around him, and at the eternity these delights promised. Osama knew he had served his God dutifully and this was his reward.
He squeezed a thigh, nibbled a nipple. Indeed, he was most surprised when the nipple seemed to bite back. He lurched back and saw a tiny pig’s head protruding from the breast.
Osama gagged and spat and looked around him. All the virgins’ nipples took a porcine form. All oinked. All wiggled. The virgins’ heads, too, had morphed into a half pig, half human concoction: snouts sprouted from the faces, but the lips remained feminine and appealing. Osama clenched himself into a quivering ball.
The virgins/pigs spoke in one echoing unison:
“Aren’t you gonna pork us?”
Then the laughter. Human at first, but the sound soon spoiled into a familiar chuckle. The virgins now had knives for fingers. In one simultaneous show of masochism, they all lopped off the piggy-headed nipples. Thousands of pink, smiling pig heads rained on Osama. He squirmed and screamed and covered his eyes. When the heads hit him, they exploded like water balloons. Except that they didn’t contain water—they contained blood. Pig blood. Osama found himself splashing and thrashing in a pit of pig’s blood.
The virgins disappeared and all that remained was Freddy. He kneeled at the edge of the pit and offered a helping, bladed hand.
Osama instinctively took up Freddy’s benevolence only to discover the violence it hid. One swipe and a glimpse of bone could be seen in his hand before the blood colored it. He tried to grab the edge of the pit, but knives landed on knuckles every time he did.
Osama elected to sink, hoping that salvation somehow waited at the bottom of the pit. Salvation didn’t show; Freddy did. Whether it was the hocus or the pocus, Osama knew not. He only knew that the bladed fiend who was slashing his hands one minute, was slashing his feet the next. Off came a pinkie toe. Off went the padded flesh of heel.
Osama flailed his way to the top and Freddy flayed more of his hands. One hand was halfway amputated. Only a sliver of bone held it together as it dangled at an awkward angle.
The blood pit began to swirl.
“Time to flush this fucker!”
Osama was sucked down into the waiting caresses of claws. The pig blood drained away only to be replaced by Osama’s blood. And his eyes. And chunks of his face. And a spine stained yellow from his own bile.
Freddy materialized back into the real world. Although the scarred skin hid it, he blushed with pride at seeing the pureed remains of Osama bin Laden.
“Osama been rottin’,” he punned.
Freddy looked behind him and saw Jason tickling the chin of the camel as it licked the gore off his mask. Sensing Freddy’s stare, Jason grabbed his machete, puffed out his chest, and angled his head down in the classic, daunting stance.
Freddy grinned at catching Jason with his guard down.
“No, you can’t take him home.”
Jason dropped his shoulders and tilted his head pleadingly.
“Come on. Let’s get out of this damn desert. I think I’m getting a sunburn. I was Caucasian before I got here.”
Jason stormed past Freddy, his footfalls a good five feet apart. He suddenly stopped, chopped off a dead soldier’s head, and kicked it to the sunset. He then resumed his pace.
Freddy jogged to catch up to his partner. “Have you ever thought about anger management classes? Or counseling? Or camp counseling for that matter?”
As always, Jason remained mute. As always, Freddy couldn’t:
“So . . . did you like Jar Jar Binks? I thought he was pretty funny myself.”
Post edited by Unknown User on
0
Comments
jar jar sucked
period
and come ON where's W in on that one? oh but wait not PC...
i understand
but OTHERWISE
facking cool sheet mister man. I enjoyed it all. especially Jason TARRYING NOT.
LOL!
rock it on.
LMFAO! Camp counseling!!!!!!!!
Very comical and disgusting! Melikes!
Unfortunately, I'm un-medaled at the moment, so here:
take this Jar Jar costume.
*whimper*
Think of me when you drop your kids off at school in it.
*sigh*
*whimper*
Wear my handprint with pride.
*sigh*
*wiggle-wiggle-slap-n-tickle*
I'll wear it like a medal (metal
And SPANK you for sharing your wicked tale!
Makes me want to take a day off and watch every fucking scary movie I can find and eat cheesy popcorn and giggle and wiggle and play with myself.
Good news: there's a Friday the 13th next month.
That means: 16.5 continuous hours of
Friday the 13th
Friday the 13th part 2
Friday the 13th part 3-D
Friday the 13th: The Final Chapter
Friday the 13th part V: A New Beginning
Friday the 13th part VI: Jason Lives
Friday the 13th part VII: The New Blood
Friday the 13th part VIII: Jason Takes Manhattan
Jason Goes to Hell: The Final Friday
Jason X
Freddy vs. Jason
Party at my house.
Y'all invited.
you like a shoe shine boss!
i shine 'em reeeeeeeel sweet.
Radar you are without fucking insane.
i love you
INTER-FUCKING-MISSION!!!
Newcastle-Riverside 02/22/92!!!
E.rutherford New Jersey 01/06/06
Athens -Greece.survived !barely-
Wembley 18/06/07- no words- just smiles!
damn dude but it's like a 12 hour drive to your house from mine! LOL
but ALRIGHT.
i'll see you around noonish.
LOL!!!
thats me
always missing "doubt" out.
there's times i go out,
check pockets
keys -yep
wallet- yep
small primate- yep
FUCK- i ve left the doubt in the house
which can be a real problem walking past ladders.
you wouldnt believe the accidents that happen
INTER-FUCKING-MISSION!!!
Newcastle-Riverside 02/22/92!!!
E.rutherford New Jersey 01/06/06
Athens -Greece.survived !barely-
Wembley 18/06/07- no words- just smiles!
listening to PJ while watching Jason slaughter silly sexy teens.
But that means I'll miss out on the riveting philosophical discussions sprinkled intelligently throughout the films.
But what if you don't wear pajamas?
wear a "man". Sorry Being just had to.
Can't stop seeing this drawing in my mind.
Tut-tut!
No appologies!
That's a brilliant ideee-er there, little lady!
l l l l
SPANK
Freddy SPANK;)