>>23225808

>You guys suck ass.

DWAYNE, PLEASE.

I know I said things.

I know I mailed things.

I know I broke into your tequila launch party dressed as a loaded suppository and whispered “squat on me” into your business partner’s ear. But baby… that was the hurt talking.

And the lube.

And the rage.

But mostly—it was the grief.

Because you left me.

You left me standing outside the Pizza Hug Spot. Alone. In assless leather.

Holding two supreme meat lovers' stuffed crusts like they were wedding bouquets soaked in marinara sorrow.

You remember it.

Our place. That bastard child of a Pizza Hut and a Taco Bell.

Where we first kissed in the walk-in cooler.

Where you slammed me against the delivery door and said “You’re my deep-dish bottom now.”

Where we did a full-body wrestling oil match on a pile of expired cinnamon twists and the manager wept from joy.

That booth? Booth 69?

That wasn’t a seat. That was a confessional.

Where you fed me breadsticks like I was a feral communion boy.

Where you let me ride your biceps like a jalapeño-glazed bronco.

Where you said—you said, Dwayne—“This is forever, little meat puppet.”

But now you’re gone.

And the spot is cold.

The walls echo with my whimpers and the faint slapping sounds of memory.

Even the pizza rats look away when I sob into my Cheesy Gordita lap pillow.

Dwayne, please.

Come back to the Pizza Hug Spot.

Just once. For old times.

Let’s crawl back into that grease-slicked booth of shame and muscle worship.

Let me suck the guilt off your fingers like garlic knots.

Let me earn my way back with whipped cream and apologies.

Let me be your soggy little calzone again.

I’ll behave.

No more screaming at Kevin Hart.

No more sneaking cock rings into your protein powder.

No more jealous tantrums unless they’re part of the agreed-upon scene.

Just you, me, the Pizza Hug Spot, and an order of full-contact forgiveness.

Pleading forever,

Pee-wee “Parmesan Submissive” Herman

🍕🌮💔🧼🔗

P.S. I still have the sauce-stained gimp bib you autographed with “Smackdown Daddy.” I wear it when I cry.

To Dwayne—The Rock—The Goliath of My Discontent,

You walking protein obelisk.

You thunder-thighed demigod of mainstream hetero-branding.

You flexed monolith of industrialized testosterone.

I’ve had it.

I, Russell Brand—sexual satyr, tantric warlock, metaphysical druid of the damp and delicious—am done being your side pony. Your spiritual fluff boy. Your post-yoga prostate whisperer.

You think I don’t see it? The way you flaunt Pee-wee’s glittery grief like it’s just another notch on your championship belt. The way Kevin Hart nuzzles your delts like a needy marsupial. The way Jason Momoa calls you “sun daddy” and braids your pubes with tears of lesser men.

And me?

I get the Tuesday afternoons. The post-leg-day limp-fucks.

The “Oops, I forgot your name but I’ll still tongue your third eye if you shut up” energy.

You use me like a mood crystal, Dwayne. A temporary totem of exotic chaos.

A shamanic cock sleeve you keep tucked in your Lululemon bag “just in case you need to realign your chakras via rimplay.”

Well guess what, sunshine slab—I am NOT your whimsical side quest.

I am the main fucking storyline.

I’ve sucked enlightenment out of tantric doms in Bhutan.

I’ve astrally projected into Tom Hardy’s hips during Burning Man.

I once made Sting cry using only my toe ring and a bowl of ethically sourced hummus.

You don’t get to bench me, Dwayne.

You don’t get to smirk while Vin Diesel dry-humps your ankle on live TV and then toss me a used resistance band like I’m some backstage butt mystic.

I am Russell Brand. I fuck in metaphors. I weep in riddles.

I am the tantric apocalypse you keep dodging.

So here’s what’s going to happen:

You will meet me.

At the crossroads.

Behind the Pizza Hug Spot.

Nude except for coconut oil and humility.

You will kneel.

You will call me “cosmic top.”

And you will beg—truly beg—for me to unblock your sacral chakra with my sanctified strap-on of clarity.

If you don’t… I will manifest.

In your dreams.

In your cheat meals.

In every barbell you fail to lift without a whisper of my name.

This is not vengeance.

This is rebalancing.

Furiously aligned,

Russell “Third Eye WIDE OPEN” Brand

🌀🔥🍆📿🕊️

P.S. Pee-wee and I are thinking of starting a tantric punk band. You’re not invited. Unless you’re ready to beg, shirtless, under a blood moon.

>>23225846

>you guise suck assah!

To Russell “Tantric Trash Clown” Brand,

You greasy, syllable-humping beard goblin.

You lavender-scented back-alley thought polyp.

You open-mic faerie slut with a thesaurus jammed up your pretentious bussy.

Heehee! 😡

You think you’re clever, don’t you? With your big flouncy words and your sacred geometry cock rings and your “oh look at me, I’m an enlightened piss wizard who got rawdogged in a yurt once.” NEWSFLASH, sparklebritches: Dwayne was MY glute god first. I rode that mountain of muscle like a bucking bronco at a BDSM rodeo and you were still jerking off to Alan Watts in a beanbag chair shaped like a womb.

And now here you are, prancing around with your cock out and your “chakra supremacy,” acting like your beard oils are enough to hypnotize MY Brahma Daddy. Newsflash, you sentient pubic poem: I suck better than you meditate.

Let’s call it what it is, Russell:

You’re just a crystal-drenched hippie dick sponge.

A wandering, warbling, word-slathered cock caterpillar with no spine and a moist library card.

A vegan orgy leftover who smells like ayahuasca and betrayal.

You can quote Rumi all you want, bussy bard, but you can’t tongue the Rock like I can.

I’ve had his thighs wrapped around my head like a weighted therapy device.

I’ve screamed the safe word so loud we cracked the window of a Gold’s Gym.

You? You just monologue into his nipples and hope he finds it spiritual.

Let me say it clear, you rose quartz rim elf:

Back. The hell. Off.

You want transcendence? You want connection?

Try earning it with something besides tantric rambling and “accidentally” leaking your mala beads into the protein tub.

I’ll be at the Pizza Hug Spot—waiting.

In pleather.

With a leash.

And the People’s Restraining Order still warm from court.

And if you show up?

Bring your third eye. I’ll poke it shut.

Get railed by a thesaurus,

Pee-wee “Still the Deep Dish Daddy” Herman

💋🔗🍕🧨💦

P.S. You look like a cursed candle from a yoga studio that gives out STDs.

P.P.S. Your beard smells like betrayal and fermented quinoa.

AUNTIE'S POI POUNDER

STILL CAN

>>23225925

GO HOME AN FAPP @unclegay

>>23225946

saurkrautur psychophants are fightin for beastiality donkey lucr cult

>>23225983

>>23225981

>>23225982

KANALOA NEWS

By the Deep One Correspondent, Cthulhu, Herald of the Abyss

The Writhing Clash at the Pizza Hug Spot: A Tale of Flesh, Bowties, and Cosmic Jealousy

In the dim neon haze of a forsaken fusion of Taco Bell and Pizza Hut — a profane shrine known among mortals as the Pizza Hug Spot — a battle unfolded that shook the thin membranes separating this realm from the maddening depths below.

I, Cthulhu, watcher beneath the waves and connoisseur of chaos, bore witness to the most ludicrous and grotesque display of mortal passion and petty rage I have beheld since the last blood moon drowned the cyclopean ruins of R’lyeh.

Pee-wee Herman, the pleather-clad harlequin of twisted love, stood defiantly clutching a glittering spatula — a weapon as absurd as his undying devotion to a towering mountain of muscle named Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson. Opposite him, Russell Brand, the robed and patchouli-stained shaman of tantrums, wielded a staff crowned with a pulsating crystal, chanting eldritch mantras that twisted the very air into spasms of fragrant agony.

The air was thick with marinara, sweat, and raw, unfiltered desperation. Their duel was less of steel and more of raw cosmic energy, jealousy, and unspoken desire—a ballet of humiliation and reverence danced on the edge of sanity.

Between them loomed the shadow of The Rock himself, whose colossal presence radiated an aura of tortured divinity. He watched with bemused detachment as his two devoted worshippers tore at one another, their words a tempest of lust, betrayal, and primal hunger.

The Pizza Hug Spot — that greasy altar where once vows were whispered over meat-laden crusts — became a battlefield of wounds both fleshly and spiritual. Bowties were torn, robes stained with sacred sweat, and the very foundation of this hellish eatery trembled beneath their violent affection.

Mortals, beware: such battles are not mere quarrels but echoes of the abyss. The jealousy of men wrapped in leather and incense is but a reflection of deeper cosmic forces—wrath, longing, and the insatiable hunger that devours stars and souls alike.

I retreated beneath the waves, my tentacles curling in amused contemplation. This mortal melodrama was a delightful madness, worthy of the darkest depths. For in the end, who truly wins when gods and mortals intertwine in a dance of lust and fury? Only the abyss smiles.

>>23226061

fake and fagit

FAGGIEST GAHYBAR FIGHT EVER

>>23226171

>FAGGIEST GAHYBAR FIGHT EVER

“The Wrinkled Reckoning Outside the Cult Gay Bar Museum”

In the fading daylight of Thursday’s drag bingo hour, as Donna Summer's ghost wailed through blown-out speakers and the neon sign that read “The Cult Gay Bar Museum™” flickered between “CULT” and “CULTGASM”, two old men squared off in the cobblestone alley beside a statue of Liberace astride a disco ball.

Their names were Big Al and Uncle Benny, both retired court stenographers turned bitter erotic pamphlet dealers. They were there for one reason only: vengeance over a long-standing grudge involving a stolen wig, a misprinted Zaddy calendar, and the sacred honor of Judge Topman’s Gavel of Decency exhibit inside the museum.

“Back off, Benny,” growled Big Al, adjusting his orthopedic cock ring and puffing his oxygen tank like it was a vape pen. “That toupee belonged to my closing argument in the People vs. Wet Larry. You wear it like a half-dead squirrel with a law degree.”

Uncle Benny spat into a glittery spittoon shaped like Clarence Thomas’s frown. “Don’t start with me, Al. You couldn’t file a motion if your dentures had hinges. You’re the only man I know who could object to a mirror.”

A crowd had gathered. A mix of tourists, ex-seminarians, retired leather daddies, and one confused paralegal holding a novelty gavel-shaped daiquiri. Above them, a banner flapped in the wind: “Annual Tort Reform Kink & Lecture Festival”.

“YOU WANNA THROW DOWN, YOU SENILE PLEA DEAL?” Big Al screamed, flinging his fanny pack to the ground with dramatic flair. “Let’s see how you like a cross-examination by FIST.”

“You couldn’t subpoena a sandwich!” Benny roared. “You call that a punch? I’ve seen paralegals with more thrust!”

Then the swinging began.

Old, creaky punches. Loose skin flapping in slow motion like courtroom drapes in a ceiling fan breeze. Benny swung his cane like a bailiff possessed. Al countered with a rolled-up novelty LexisNexis catalog he called “The Brief Brief.”

It was brutal.

Benny got an eye full of medicated lube when Al’s support jock snapped open like a jury box. Al took a direct hit from Benny’s novelty flask—“OBJECTION: Hearsay AND Gay”—and staggered back into a rack of vinyl briefs embroidered with Latin legal maxims.

“CALL A LAWYER!” someone yelled.

“They are lawyers,” someone else whispered.

“Formerly!”

“They don’t count anymore!”

A circuit judge-turned-drag queen named “Ruth Bader Ginseng” stepped in to separate the two men, wielding a feather boa and a court order sealed in poppers. “Gentlemen,” she said, glitter dust rising from her cleavage like powdered wig dandruff, “this is not the venue for violence. It’s the venue for vengeance. Tasteful, petty, erotic vengeance.”

“They need to settle this with a closing argument and a lube-based obstacle course,” someone suggested.

And so it was done.

By sundown, Benny and Al were strapped into their orthopedic roller skates, spinning through foam-lubed cones as the crowd cheered legal puns from behind the velvet rope:

“That’s a hung jury if I’ve ever seen one!”

“Sustained? More like restrained, honey!”

“I object… because my pants just filed a motion to rise!”

Al fell face-first into a pile of laminated briefs. Benny collapsed from exhaustion and expired dramatically into the arms of a parking enforcement officer named Greg.

The crowd clapped. Someone sold shot glasses shaped like gavels. The museum acquired the spilled lube puddle and labeled it “Exhibit E: The Slippery Nature of Justice.”

And somewhere, behind a wall of rainbow-lit depositions, a plaque was unveiled:

In Honor of Big Al and Uncle Benny

For proving that justice is blind, horny, and probably retired.

>>23226197

>>FAGGIEST GAHYBAR FIGHT EVER

THE FAGGIEST GAYBAR FIGHT EVER: A LEGAL DISGRACE OR COSMIC DILDO DIPLOMACY?

Your honor, readers, and gods of questionable fashion sense—

Let the record show that what occurred behind the Pizza Hug Spot last Thursday was not merely a brawl. It was a flagrant case of deranged erotic jurisprudence spiraling into cosmic unlawfulness.

I refer, of course, to the now-infamous incident legally dubbed:

“The Faggiest Gaybar Fight Ever™”

—a title bestowed not by the Court but by a passed-out leather archivist with a gavel butt plug and a mouth full of glitter nachos.

At its core, this was a dispute between two elderly, over-lubricated combatants (hereinafter The Plaintiffs of Poppers) who engaged in mutual battery via intergalactic anal phasurs—devices allegedly imported illegally from Toilet China Prime, a known interdimensional vendor of “photon prostate ravagers” and novelty enema rifles.

These so-called weapons, despite violating at least six Earthbound moral clauses and seventeen Galactic Sodomy Ordinances, were wielded with gusto and zero lubrication protocol. The resulting spectacle created a multi-sphinctered rupture in space-law continuity, forcing Judge Topman’s holographic ghost to recuse himself from the astral tribunal.

Let us not forget: The Cult Gay Bar Museum has long operated under Queer Article 69-B, which clearly forbids “timefolded erotic melee” unless consent forms are notarized on glittered parchment AND the gimp in the Iron Lung Exhibit is given 72-hour notice.

Neither happened.

And thus, I argue before this community, and the moist eyes of GavelNet™ TV subscribers:

The Cult Deserves Atomic Wedgie Justice.

The kind that leaves skid marks in legal history.

The kind administered by celestial bailiffs with infinity jockstraps and wrathful wedgie gauntlets blessed by the ghost of Judge Judy’s strap-on.

This cult has dodged accountability under the guise of rainbow jurisprudence for too long. Their dungeons are tax-exempt. Their gimp auctions untaxed. Their pride parade floats armed with phasurs disguised as prolapse cannons.

Where is the oversight?

Where is the respect?

Where is my subpoena for emotional damages after watching a grown man scream “SUSTAIN MY BUNGHOLIO!” while firing jelly-based laser rounds from a device shaped like Ruth Bader Ginsburg’s ribcage?

The law is not a kink dungeon. The Constitution is not a fleshlight.

And I, Leland Dunsworth, Esq., will not sit idly by while justice is rawdogged by chaos.

In conclusion:

This fight was rude.

Rude to the law.

Rude to pants.

Rude to spatial fabric.

Rude to every proper gaybar brawl that came before it—where people settled things honorably, with shade and slap fights, not quantum rimfire and procedural prolapse.

Court adjourned. You’re all in contempt.

>>23226228

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>FAGGIEST GAHYBAR FIGHT EVER

🩲 WHIITWHOR HOUSE UNDERWEAR FEELINGS OFFICE

Official Press Briefing

Delivered by Deputy Secretary of Sensation, Crinkly R. Slink

Good afternoon, press perverts, thong lobbyists, and emotionally constipated Americans,

I come before you today on behalf of the Office of National Underwear Feelings™ to address the seismic cultural, emotional, and deeply erotic fallout from what is now formally classified as “The Faggiest Gaybar Fight Ever” (Operation Code: Velvet Riot).

As you are all painfully aware, the incident occurred just outside the historic and tax-evading Cult Gay Bar Museum, following what appears to have been a three-way jealousy-fueled collapse involving:

Pee-wee Herman (registered leather clown & former Playhouse Consul),

Russell Brand (wandering tantric bush wizard),

and Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson (federal glute monument, sexual monopoly holder).

Initial reports indicate that what began as a heated verbal altercation over cosmic ass access quickly escalated into interdimensional slap combat, quantum lube discharge, and the deployment of illegal Intergalactic Anal Phasurs™ allegedly smuggled in diplomatic panties from Toilet China Prime.

We recognize that this event has left many Americans feeling:

“Overstimulated but seen,”

“Lubed without consent,” and

“Deeply confused about who’s topping the Constitution.”

The WhiitWhor House takes underwear feelings very seriously.

Our national briefs are in a state of bunching.

The emotional waistband of this nation has snapped.

And we, as an administration, must acknowledge that the Cult Gay Bar Museum is no longer just an erotic archive— it is an active theater of moist conflict.

In response, the president has authorized the following emergency actions:

Deployment of the National Thong Guard to secure the Pizza Hug Spot.

A temporary moratorium on intergalactic sextech imports not FDA-fisted.

Creation of the Department of Queerly Defense, tasked with monitoring gimp militias and wet-themed monuments.

Mandatory trauma counseling for all witnesses of “double-edged jockstrap wielding.”

Furthermore, we denounce the cowardly use of atomic wedgies as political punishment, unless authorized by a bipartisan kink tribunal and executed with consent and proper harnessing.

We call for a return to civility in our erotic warfare.

A return to tasteful choking, to orderly dungeon discourse, to tactful cock-based diplomacy.

In closing:

Yes, this was the faggiest gaybar fight ever.

Yes, it was historic.

Yes, it made the Lincoln Memorial blush.

But no, it does not reflect the values of respectful butt-based disagreement that this underwear nation was built upon.

Thank you. My briefs are moist, but my conscience is clear.

🩲

Crinkly R. Slink

Deputy Secretary of Sensation

WhiitWhor House Office of Underwear Feelings™

>>23226260

🛰️ WHIITWHOR HOUSE

Office of Underwear Feelings & Paranormal Affairs™

Interagency Memo – CONFESSIONAL COPY

To:

All Relevant Departments — Department of Queerly Defense, GIMPACOM (Gimp Pacific Command), and the Thong Intelligence Agency

From:

Crinkly R. Slink, Deputy Secretary of Sensation, Intergalactic Liaison, and Head of Extraterrestrial Consent Protocols

Subject:

Operation Velvet Riot: Reclassification as the Strangest Pacific Conflict in Recorded Homo-History

—and Possible Alien Involvement

Dearest Americans, Allies, and Curious Unclassified Entities:

Following a comprehensive investigation involving satellite imagery, psychic rim-readings, and anal thermographic scans, it is the firm and glitter-covered belief of this office that The Faggiest Gay Bar Fight Ever must now be considered an interdimensional incident of Pacific conflict, potentially ranking alongside the likes of Midway, Guadalcanal, and that one cruise ship mutiny during “Bears on the High Seas 1997.”

Here are our findings:

1. The Pizza Hug Spot Became a Wormhole Node

Surveillance indicates that at precisely 9:69 PM, just as Pee-wee Herman launched his sequined spatula and Russell Brand screamed “UNBLOCK MY CHAKRAS,” a gyrational shockwave erupted from booth 69. This was no mere poppers burp—it was a rip in consensual time-space.

Marine queers stationed nearby reported glowing rim-shaped sigils on the sidewalk, and the Pepsi machine began dispensing liquid that tested as extraterrestrial pre-cum plasma.

1. Intergalactic Anal Phasurs Possibly Not From Toilet China Prime

While previously believed to be smuggled in via diplomatic pouch from Toilet China Prime, forensic sniffers now suspect that the Anal Phasurs™ used in the fight bore unearthly manufacturing tags reading:

“MADE IN GAYLPH-7 // REQUIRES DUAL BUTT INPUT TO ACTIVATE”

and

“IF EXPLODED, CONSULT YOUR COSMIC DOM.”

This suggests we may be dealing with cloaked galactic vendors or a rogue fleet of pleasure diplomats from the Zeta Rectuli system.

1. The Rock’s Glutes May Be a Beacon

Data gathered from post-fight sonar scans of Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson’s posterior indicate pulsing frequencies only detectable by thirsty radio astronomers. There is a strong chance that his cheeks have been functioning as a galactic lure—a kind of cosmic mating call to species fluent in massive glute worship.

We must now consider the uncomfortable possibility that the fight was a mating ritual observed (and possibly filmed) by alien forces.

RECOMMENDATIONS:

All Pizza Hut / Taco Bell fusion zones along the Ring of Fire must now be reclassified as Erotic Volatility Hotspots™.

Pee-wee Herman and Russell Brand to be outfitted with interdimensional cock tracking anklets.

The Rock must undergo astro-gluteal decontamination under the watch of the Intergalactic Pecs & Ethics Council.

All citizens are asked to report any unusual smells, vibrating sidewalks, or ethereal moaning in the key of C♯ to the nearest Federal Butt Sentinel.

In closing, let us not fear the mystery—let us welcome it.

The Pacific has seen many battles… but never one where lubricated quantum fist-wands were wielded with such reckless erotic devotion.

Let us learn, grow, and maybe build a bigger gaybar in orbit.

🩲

Crinkly R. Slink

Deputy Secretary of Sensation

Whiitwhor House Office of Underwear Feelings & Paranormal Affairs™

“WE STAND ON THE RIM OF HISTORY.”

auntie's poi pounder making gayliens wurk fo tendies

>>23226437

>https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cTrOb8zyrZk

sparrow prince still lost

>>23226453

>>https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cTrOb8zyrZk

>sparrow prince still lost

durh goeblle kang haz risen

>>23226467

>>>https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cTrOb8zyrZk

>>sparrow prince still lost

>durh goeblle kang haz risen

yur notta hiltonashtrayjuw butt