hobama FAJIT$ ASSaulting
git moist volcano before baldwin wrecks chuut
is the donkey show need red rocketts an huukur money ? zujUwKrain stole a bunch of gahybar gas money alrady an spent taht chit on crack wiff france
are you beating on roadkill ?
artifical fried frenchys almost stomped in simulation too
gay niggs & nigggays @ clowburgurin wurld habben durh "zomg homo" mit bromance fur durh near stomping fried frenchy und thauced tahy selfs
cheeseburger still not satisfied ebbening mit boof nuw juwur hate idols fighting in driv thru hol all GAHY AF
in feverish forunur homo rage quit babel bigots arbitrage to secure climate changing fart taxes, club soda insisted on being carbon tax deductions because of codependancies
her grip and girth startled duh pervert frog when tahy touched in clownburgur town
club soda got deduction an credit earned
Oh, the exquisite tension! Her gaze, sharp as a righteous wind, locking onto this humble amphibian and, more importantly, the glistening prize nestled precariously close. That cheeseburger… a golden beacon in this asphalt wasteland. My little green heart, it thrums with a frantic energy, a bizarre cocktail of terror and… something else. Her hands, surprisingly firm, grip my slippery form. Not rough, not cruel, but with a determined strength that sends shivers down my non-existent spine. Is this wrestling, or some strange, verdant embrace?
The aroma of the sesame seed bun, the melting cheese – it’s almost unbearable, a siren song of savory delight. But her nearness… the faint scent of ozone and youthful determination… it’s a different kind of hunger stirring within. Her brow furrows in concentration, those intense eyes narrowed. Is she truly after the burger, or is there a deeper, unspoken connection blooming in this greasy parking lot? The way her fingers graze my… well, my general froggy vicinity… it’s a delicate torture, a sweet torment.
A discarded french fry, plump and golden, lies inches from her boot. A near miss, a shared moment of potential squish. Our eyes meet again, a flicker of something – annoyance? Amusement? – crossing her lips. This isn’t just a battle for sustenance; it’s a bizarre, intimate dance. Her power, her conviction… it’s undeniably alluring. And this ridiculous struggle, under the harsh glare of the Golden Arches… could this be the start of something unexpectedly tender? My throat, usually reserved for croaks of longing for lily pads, feels tight with a different kind of yearning. The cheeseburger suddenly seems… secondary. Almost.
That greasy, processed scent… it’s almost sickening, yet… there’s a strange allure to its blatant unhealthiness. This… creature. It clings to that… thing. A cheeseburger. The sheer absurdity of it – a symbol of everything that’s wrong, fought over with such primal intensity. And yet… its tiny green limbs, the desperate grip… there’s a flicker of… something pitiable? No. Focus. The planet is burning, and this creature is fixated on… that.
A club soda. Yes. A deduction for my carbon footprint, a credit for choosing something… less offensive. It’s the small victories, isn’t it? Each conscious choice, a ripple in the stagnant pond of apathy. But this… struggle. His wide, unblinking eyes. There’s a bizarre vulnerability there, amidst the frantic scrabble for possession. It’s almost… distracting. No. Focus on the principle. The inherent wrongness of this manufactured desire.
My fingers tighten, not in anger, but in a strange sort of… determination. To take this away. Not just the burger, but the symbolism it represents. This clinging to old, destructive habits. The near miss with that discarded… fry. Another casualty of our throwaway culture. It’s all connected. This small, damp creature, this processed food, the mountains of waste… and the ice caps melting, the forests burning…
The deduction for the club soda… it feels hollow now, watching this desperate little fight. Is shaming enough? Is choosing the “right” thing a true victory when this… this ingrained desire for the wrong thing persists? There’s a weariness settling in, a familiar ache of knowing the scale of the problem. One less cheeseburger won’t save the world. But maybe… maybe understanding the desperation for it… that’s a start? No. That’s sentimental. Deduction. Credit. Keep moving. Keep fighting. For something bigger than a discarded burger in a >>23221649
parking lot.>
>>23221664 KHOMO-9 News: Moisture You Can Trust™
"Clownburgur" Parking Lot Erupts in Bizarre Confrontation: Onlookers Baffled by Soggy Struggle
Chaos, confusion, and a distinct aroma of frying oil hung heavy in the air earlier today at a local "Clownburgur" establishment as witnesses reported an utterly perplexing altercation unfolding in the drive-thru lane. What began as a seemingly mundane afternoon quickly devolved into a scene described by onlookers in colorful and often cryptic online commentary.
Eyewitness accounts, pieced together from various social media postings (handle withheld to protect the possibly bewildered), suggest a heated interaction between a young woman, tentatively identified as a climate activist, and… a frog. The apparent object of their dispute? A cheeseburger.
The situation escalated rapidly, with the activist seemingly attempting to wrest the aforementioned bovine-and-bun confection from the amphibian's grasp. One online commentator noted the "ASSive agresive hate idol threat" posed by the "clownburgur," leaving our KHOMO-9 News team scratching our heads regarding the specific socio-political implications of a fast-food patty.
Further complicating the narrative were reports of near-tragedy involving discarded "artifical fried frenchys" (we're assuming this refers to the establishment's french fries), narrowly avoiding being "stomped in simulation," according to one particularly concerned observer.
The online discourse then took a turn towards the… abstract. References to "gay niggs & nigggays" engaging in "bromance fur durh near stomping fried frenchy" and a "thauced tahy selfs" left our linguistic analysis team working overtime. The recurring theme, however, seemed to be one of utter bewilderment at the unfolding events.
The cheeseburger itself remained a central point of contention, with one post lamenting its continued "unsatisfied ebbening mit boof nuw juwur hate idols fighting in driv thru hol all GAHY AF."
Adding another layer to this already multi-layered onion of oddity, the climate activist was reportedly observed engaging in some form of "feverish forunur homo rage quit babel bigots arbitrage to secure climate changing fart taxes." Our attempts to decode this specific sequence of terms are ongoing. However, sources suggest the activist was also seen with a club soda, which apparently "insisted on being carbon tax deductions because of codependancies." We're looking into the tax implications of sentient beverages.
Perhaps the most poignant observation came regarding the amphibian's reaction to physical contact, with one witness stating, "her grip and girth startled duh pervert frog when tahy touched in clownburgur town." The nature of this "pervert frog's" alleged proclivities remains, thankfully, unspecified.
In a somewhat conclusive note amidst the chaos, it was reported that the club soda somehow achieved its desired "deduction an credit earned." The specific mechanisms by which a carbonated beverage can influence tax policy in a fast-food parking lot remain unclear.
In conclusion, a truly unique and, frankly, baffling event unfolded at a local "Clownburgur" today. The struggle for a cheeseburger between a climate activist and a frog, the near-demise of some french fries, and the tax-related demands of a club soda have left onlookers – and the KHOMO-9 News team – with more questions than answers.
We here at KHOMO-9 News: Moisture You Can Trust™ will continue to monitor this developing (and decidedly soggy) situation for any further updates. Stay tuned, folks. And maybe… lay off the clownburgurs for a while.
HULA 8 News: Straight Talk, Firm Grip, Strong Hips
BROADCAST LIVE from a perpetually sun-drenched beach shack, just far enough from the tourists. Your midday update brought to you by the enduring power of a good set of tires, the wisdom of the waves, and a well-placed shaka.
Parking Lot Pandemonium: Is Aloha Getting Soft?
Alright, listen up, folks. We got a situation unfolding in a mainland parking lot, >>23221649
and frankly, it's got us here at HULA 8 scratching our heads. Eyewitnesses report a bizarre standoff over a simple cheeseburger, proving that even the most basic of human desires can turn into a spectacle of modern confusion.
Reports indicate a young activist, all fire and brimstone about… well, everything, squared off against a common frog. Yes, you heard that right. A frog. For a cheeseburger. Now, HULA 8 believes in a fair fight, but when you got a human versus a amphibian for a piece of processed meat, you gotta wonder if something's gone sideways.
Our sources indicate that while this struggle for supremacy over a burger was unfolding, french fries – perfectly good, golden-fried sustenance – were nearly trampled underfoot. A tragic waste, if you ask us. Priorities, people.
Carbonated Confusion & Questionable Credits
Adding to the utter chaos, this activist was also apparently engaged in some kind of highly complex, feverish debate about "climate changing taxes" while holding a club soda. And get this: the club soda, by its own carbonated will, apparently insisted on getting carbon tax deductions. We here at HULA 8 are all for economic freedom, but when your beverage starts dictating fiscal policy, it's time to re-evaluate your life choices.
The grip, the determination, the sheer focus on that burger, even from the frog's side… it makes you wonder about the state of things. What's driving this kind of obsession over a simple lunch? And what exactly is a club soda deducting, anyway?
📔 Diary of Rabbi Josh
Entry #432 – “The Fold Within the Fold”
Date: 13th cycle of Moistulon, under the Reverse Saturn Alignment
Today, during morning lube-meditation, I sneezed and accidentally opened a fold within a fold.
I had not planned for this.
As I reached for the sacred hummus, I felt… a tingle. Not on my schmeckle, not in the classic circumcised vectors of sensation, but elsewhere.
Between.
Behind.
Within.
At first, I thought it was simply the aftereffects of the Yoni Scroll I licked last Shabbos. But then the pulses began—tiny tchotchke tremors in my taint, each one whispering a new Hebrew letter backward.
It was the clitoris.
Not a metaphor. Not a theory. But an ancient gland of God’s bisexual geometry—hidden in my soul like the last free AOL trial disk under a couch in 2004.
I wept.
I hummed.
I updated my Grindr bio.
I realized that gender was not binary—it was a Mandelbrot bagel. Every lox-layer revealed another pronoun. And somewhere near the capers, I became soft and hard at the same time.
Tanya (peace be upon her thighs) says this is common among those tuned to Bi-FiB. She said,
“You’ve been clitorized, Josh. Welcome to the slick side.”
We danced.
We douched.
We recited psalms from the Moisture Torah, and for once, I understood every vowel.
Tomorrow, I ride my sentient Sibian to the Temple of Slippery Knowing to register this experience formally with the Lube Elders.
Until then, I remain:
Rabbi Josh
Certified Moisture Prophet,
Ambassador of the Fold
And now,
Proud Clitorian