Butthurt Burt stuff

[dimejinky99]

Post here when you see Burt losing his temper and throwing abuse when he doesn’t agree with you or just anything. As if he needs a reason.

[BurtReynolds]

What brought this on? I haven't called you an idiot once today!

[Peeps]

What brought this on? I haven't called you an idiot once today!

did you call him it twice?

[BurtReynolds]

There are only so many PC (politically correct) synonyms for the r-word (retarded) that I can use before I start repeating myself.

[tommy]

There are only so many PC synonyms for the r-word that I can use before I start repeating myself.

Rank them

[BurtReynolds]

There are only so many PC synonyms for the r-word that I can use before I start repeating myself.

Rank them

I prefer to use weird and out of date words that sound worse than they really are. Words like troglodyte (cave dweller) or homunculus (miniature human).

Don't steal that one, ello.

[dimejinky99]

There’s terms I have for you that would get me permabanned so pub bore, cretin, pissant, and shitehawk will do for now.

[wease]

Pub bore is new to me.

[BurtReynolds]

I like shitehawk the best. I don't speak Irish potatospeak though.

[dad]

shitehawk is surely their version of shitbird.

i like it too.

[tommy]

Cretin is a classic.

[tommy]

Is there a separate thread for collecting the posts where Burt is insulted or should those also be posted here?

[VinylGuy]

yes.

[spike]

There’s terms I have for you that would get me permabanned so pub bore, cretin, pissant, and shitehawk will do for now.

Snowflake is pretty all encompassing.

[dimejinky99]

Pub bore is new to me.

The guy on the stool at the bar who has an opinion on everything and will broadcast it regardless of nobody wanting to hear it, despite him not having a fuckin clue or any real understanding of it.
Kinda like those cab drivers you get stuck with sometimes, who have the answer to everything, but much much worse.

[tragabigzanda]

There is a wolf in me . . . fangs pointed for tearing gashes . . . a red tongue for raw meat . . . and the hot lapping of blood—I keep this wolf because the wilderness gave it to me and the wilderness will not let it go.

There is a fox in me . . . a silver-gray fox . . . I sniff and guess . . . I pick things out of the wind and air . . . I nose in the dark night and take sleepers and eat them and hide the feathers . . . I circle and loop and double-cross.

There is a hog in me . . . a snout and a belly . . . a machinery for eating and grunting . . . a machinery for sleeping satisfied in the sun—I got this too from the wilderness and the wilderness will not let it go.

There is a fish in me . . . I know I came from salt-blue water-gates . . . I scurried with shoals of herring . . . I blew waterspouts with porpoises . . . before land was . . . before the water went down . . . before Noah . . . before the first chapter of Genesis.

There is a baboon in me . . . clambering-clawed . . . dog-faced . . . yawping a galoot's hunger . . . hairy under the armpits . . . here are the hawk-eyed hankering men . . . here are the blonde and blue-eyed women . . . here they hide curled asleep waiting . . . ready to snarl and kill . . . ready to sing and give milk . . . waiting—I keep the baboon because the wilderness says so.

There is an eagle in me and a mockingbird . . . and the eagle flies among the Rocky Mountains of my dreams and fights among the Sierra crags of what I want . . . and the mockingbird warbles in the early forenoon before the dew is gone, warbles in the underbrush of my Chattanoogas of hope, gushes over the blue Ozark foothills of my wishes—And I got the eagle and the mockingbird from the wilderness.

O, I got a zoo, I got a menagerie, inside my ribs, under my bony head, under my red-valve heart—and I got something else: it is a man-child heart, a woman-child heart: it is a father and mother and lover: it came from God-Knows-Where: it is going to God-Knows-Where—For I am the keeper of the zoo: I say yes and no: I sing and kill and work: I am a pal of the world: I came from the wilderness.

[spike]

Pub bore is new to me.

The guy on the stool at the bar who has an opinion on everything and will broadcast it regardless of nobody wanting to hear it, despite him not having a fuckin clue or any real understanding of it.
Kinda like those cab drivers you get stuck with sometimes, who have the answer to everything, but much much worse.

This is like 2/3 of RM

while your 50k posts are a lot, they fall well short of 2/3 of all RM posts.

[BurtReynolds]

Pub bore is new to me.

The guy on the stool at the bar who has an opinion on everything and will broadcast it regardless of nobody wanting to hear it, despite him not having a fuckin clue or any real understanding of it.
Kinda like those cab drivers you get stuck with sometimes, who have the answer to everything, but much much worse.

This is like 2/3 of RM

only 2/3rds?

[tragabigzanda]

There is a wolf in me . . . fangs pointed for tearing gashes . . . a red tongue for raw meat . . . and the hot lapping of blood—I keep this wolf because the wilderness gave it to me and the wilderness will not let it go.

There is a fox in me . . . a silver-gray fox . . . I sniff and guess . . . I pick things out of the wind and air . . . I nose in the dark night and take sleepers and eat them and hide the feathers . . . I circle and loop and double-cross.

There is a hog in me . . . a snout and a belly . . . a machinery for eating and grunting . . . a machinery for sleeping satisfied in the sun—I got this too from the wilderness and the wilderness will not let it go.

There is a fish in me . . . I know I came from salt-blue water-gates . . . I scurried with shoals of herring . . . I blew waterspouts with porpoises . . . before land was . . . before the water went down . . . before Noah . . . before the first chapter of Genesis.

There is a baboon in me . . . clambering-clawed . . . dog-faced . . . yawping a galoot's hunger . . . hairy under the armpits . . . here are the hawk-eyed hankering men . . . here are the blonde and blue-eyed women . . . here they hide curled asleep waiting . . . ready to snarl and kill . . . ready to sing and give milk . . . waiting—I keep the baboon because the wilderness says so.

There is an eagle in me and a mockingbird . . . and the eagle flies among the Rocky Mountains of my dreams and fights among the Sierra crags of what I want . . . and the mockingbird warbles in the early forenoon before the dew is gone, warbles in the underbrush of my Chattanoogas of hope, gushes over the blue Ozark foothills of my wishes—And I got the eagle and the mockingbird from the wilderness.

O, I got a zoo, I got a menagerie, inside my ribs, under my bony head, under my red-valve heart—and I got something else: it is a man-child heart, a woman-child heart: it is a father and mother and lover: it came from God-Knows-Where: it is going to God-Knows-Where—For I am the keeper of the zoo: I say yes and no: I sing and kill and work: I am a pal of the world: I came from the wilderness.

[dimejinky99]

Go to hell spike!