Because you're intimidated by high IQ's and monster *****? Bosk would also bring something to the table...
Off-topic Survivor: Cockburn. Banter and gossip thread
- Thread starter JoseMourinho
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Because you're intimidated by high IQ's and monster *****? Bosk would also bring something to the table...
A Cut Above
🏆🏆🏆🏆🏆🏆🏆🏆🏆🏆🏆 in my lifetime 😁
Increased honesty.
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is that what they said just before you exploded them underground? (and I say that with all due respect and not wanting to be exploded)
no silly!
They are the ones that got saved. The others like Benwah's. I took that as a personal insult about me being shit at photoshop.
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Dapper one, please excuse the personal insults of the other people on the Island. They do not know of your greatness and intellectual vigor and are afraid of your charismatic nature.
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There's not much to do around the campfire here on the island, tonight could you tell us all the story of the one time you played golf, great one?
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Yeah of course! That's more of a short story though. I kinda just aced it and left.
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i got this email
JoseMourinho
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Power Rankings just rankthats the best list so far. JoseMourinho take note
Google 'funny'
bontshow
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Links to challenger entries, check.
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Correct name capitalization, check.
Team allegiance sub-sorting, NOT PRESENT
Oh boydshow........ and you were so close too.
There are no duplicate usernames so sub-sorting doesn't apply
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The 1:1 club is getting harder to reach with Porked not around boosting my numbers anymore
Tipping Benwah wins Survivor though
Benwah83
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FFS. Next campaigner to jinx me will, after my early exit, be disguised as me and sent in my place to this year's version of Not Convicted Island.The 1:1 club is getting harder to reach with Porked not around boosting my numbers anymore
Tipping Benwah wins Survivor though
I hear Bombers03 has a Kev McCloud 'Grand Designs' renovated lair, set up as a 'BDSM B&B', and that this year's stickers are scratch and sniff. So if you're in to 'that sort of thing'...
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Nice melt flog
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What size clothes do you take, pups?Nice melt flog
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As I'm a big unit at 197cm, anywhere between 2XL to 4XLWhat size clothes do you take, pups?
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High and mighty!
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I said he threw faeces in my one, happy to wear it.
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Challenge #1 entry
----------
You are a fan.
From an early age, you have been thoroughly enraptured and irredeemably ensconced in the call of the play and the heraldry of your noble club; emboldened in your private life with the satisfaction of being a part of a collective, and a collective that is better than any other attempting to claim myriad successes, but you know they are all false, and true glory exists only when your own tribe is victorious. In schooling and business, you have sought out your fellow travellers, the true believers. You have used coded language and shared memory to foster rapport with those who know the truth. Your truth, the only real truth.
But it has all been a lie.
You awaken, confused. The surety of your position in life is lost to you; as suddenly you are not in Melbourne, and there is nobody around to give a shit about footy. What is this horrific, unnerving, desolate place? You notice a beach, festooned with rubbish from week-old celebrations; used prophylaxis, empty vessels of firewater engraved with the silhouette of a bear... and a single, deflated ball with obnoxiously pointed ends.
You begin to explore further - great towers rise from the sand to the sky, piercing the cloudless sky, as if nature is too intimidated by their monochromatic terror to visit this place. As you stumble upon the beach, without a single person to discuss the new swordsmen your tribe has acquired; no tramcars with masses bedecked in shawls proclaiming their fealty to the tribe; not one uncle who supports the Demons to rile, let alone a support of the injectors to rag on...no Dome of the Eti colony beckoning the faithful to weekly sermons, no crazed woman careening around VFL grounds in search of blond teenagers, you spy another lost soul.
"campaigner! Oi campaigner!" you cry, "Carn th-"
You stop suddenly, as the figure turns towards you, his gleaming pate blinding you as it reflects the fierce overhead sun.
"Welcome, traveller. Pray, sit beside me, I have Good News for you."
Terror begins to rise as you remember the lost tribes of the north. Could it be? Is this... could it be... Does it actually exist? No. Surely, it is the footballing equivalent of Dropbears, designed only to fool newcomers and tourists. But the man smiles at you, and you accept that his mouthguard can only mean one thing. You see the red, and know that the blood of many Victorian schooleavers has dyed the sands from which it was forged. You see the white and the blue, and recall the devestation of Geelong in the war of the bids not so very many years ago. And then, just as you begin to turn to the gold, the sun intensifies. The man swimles broader still, and turns his head slightly, focusing the rays of the solar beast upon you, making you unable to resist.
"Welcome", he says.
"Welcome to The Golden Coast."
----------
You are a fan.
From an early age, you have been thoroughly enraptured and irredeemably ensconced in the call of the play and the heraldry of your noble club; emboldened in your private life with the satisfaction of being a part of a collective, and a collective that is better than any other attempting to claim myriad successes, but you know they are all false, and true glory exists only when your own tribe is victorious. In schooling and business, you have sought out your fellow travellers, the true believers. You have used coded language and shared memory to foster rapport with those who know the truth. Your truth, the only real truth.
But it has all been a lie.
You awaken, confused. The surety of your position in life is lost to you; as suddenly you are not in Melbourne, and there is nobody around to give a shit about footy. What is this horrific, unnerving, desolate place? You notice a beach, festooned with rubbish from week-old celebrations; used prophylaxis, empty vessels of firewater engraved with the silhouette of a bear... and a single, deflated ball with obnoxiously pointed ends.
You begin to explore further - great towers rise from the sand to the sky, piercing the cloudless sky, as if nature is too intimidated by their monochromatic terror to visit this place. As you stumble upon the beach, without a single person to discuss the new swordsmen your tribe has acquired; no tramcars with masses bedecked in shawls proclaiming their fealty to the tribe; not one uncle who supports the Demons to rile, let alone a support of the injectors to rag on...no Dome of the Eti colony beckoning the faithful to weekly sermons, no crazed woman careening around VFL grounds in search of blond teenagers, you spy another lost soul.
"campaigner! Oi campaigner!" you cry, "Carn th-"
You stop suddenly, as the figure turns towards you, his gleaming pate blinding you as it reflects the fierce overhead sun.
"Welcome, traveller. Pray, sit beside me, I have Good News for you."
Terror begins to rise as you remember the lost tribes of the north. Could it be? Is this... could it be... Does it actually exist? No. Surely, it is the footballing equivalent of Dropbears, designed only to fool newcomers and tourists. But the man smiles at you, and you accept that his mouthguard can only mean one thing. You see the red, and know that the blood of many Victorian schooleavers has dyed the sands from which it was forged. You see the white and the blue, and recall the devestation of Geelong in the war of the bids not so very many years ago. And then, just as you begin to turn to the gold, the sun intensifies. The man swimles broader still, and turns his head slightly, focusing the rays of the solar beast upon you, making you unable to resist.
"Welcome", he says.
"Welcome to The Golden Coast."
Not actually playing but wanted to turn my hand to it anyway
Not actually playing but wanted to turn my hand to it anyway
It was really good
I was hooked by "obnoxiously pointed ends"
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