JesuOtaku: Lying manipulative cunt, aspiring to be a real boy

[VoiceOfReasonPast]

It's the only type of entertainment that their manchild brains can comprehend anymore.

[Kugelfisch]

It's the only type of entertainment that their manchild brains can comprehend anymore.

I bet the concept of kayfabe is also very appealing to them. It's what they do on social media all day.

[VoiceOfReasonPast]

The common war cry of wrasslin fans and troons worldwide:

[rabidtictac]

Wrasslin fans are comorbid with all forms of mental illness and disability, including gender dysphoria, depression, autism, addictive personality and BPD.

[ebin namefag]

Doesn't get more morbid than being a troon.

[Kugelfisch]

Doesn't get more morbid than being a troon.

They are drawn to the grave.
Lyrical genius and, hilariously, demonic but utterly incomprehensible sounding Lord Worm predicted transfaggotry in a roundabout way.


Adherence to the principle
Of "man by woman born":
Anachronistic ritual
Soon to be obsolete

and

Nature abhors a vacuum,
The same is true to a tomb:
It cannot be empty.
A barren womb of plenty;
A vacant grave must be filled
For this the Fathers' will

[ebin namefag]

Lord Worm predicted transfaggotry in a roundabout way.

Good to know Jim Norton writes songs about his favorite subject.

[Kugelfisch]

Lord Worm predicted transfaggotry in a roundabout way.

Good to know Jim Norton writes songs about his favorite subject.

Jim Norton is the subject! Lord Worm was named such because he eats worms, he lords over them!

[rabidtictac]

Lo! 'tis a gala night
Within the lonesome latter years!
An angel throng, bewinged, bedight
In veils, and drowned in tears,
Sit in a theatre, to see
A play of hopes and fears,
While the orchestra breathes fitfully
The music of the spheres.

Mimes, in the form of God on high,
Mutter and mumble low,
And hither and thither fly—
Mere puppets they, who come and go
At bidding of vast formless things
That shift the scenery to and fro,
Flapping from out their Condor wings
Invisible Wo!

That motley drama—oh, be sure
It shall not be forgot!
With its Phantom chased for evermore,
By a crowd that seize it not,
Through a circle that ever returneth in
To the self-same spot,
And much of Madness, and more of Sin,
And Horror the soul of the plot.

But see, amid the mimic rout
A crawling shape intrude!
A blood-red thing that writhes from out
The scenic solitude!
It writhes!—it writhes!—with mortal pangs
The mimes become its food,
And the angels sob at vermin fangs
In human gore imbued.

Out—out are the lights—out all!
And, over each quivering form,
The curtain, a funeral pall,
Comes down with the rush of a storm,
And the angels, all pallid and wan,
Uprising, unveiling, affirm
That the play is the tragedy, "Man,"
And its hero the Conqueror Worm.

The Conqueror Worm takes his due from transsexuals, truly. The 40-odd percent form his feast before their lives are half lived.

[ebin namefag]

Lol 'tis a gayla night