Taqiyya
* * *
Fact of the Day
Taqiyya.
* * *
And now, for your feature presentation...
* * *
Faintly, the gentle hymns of Ace Ventura's Alrighty Then song can be heard echoing through the audio of our feed. The cascading glyphs shining down over the soulless arena shone down in a spotlight as the dangling limbs of the petite young man rocked from side to side, suspended high in the rafters by... several hundred condoms tied together at the ends.
...I don't want to know if they're used or not.
Monotonously lowering, the figure is draped in an incandescent avalanche, the faint blue spotlights bouncing from the velvet-smooth jawline of the lad. Draped in what seems to be toga made of raw meat, ala Lady Gaga at the VMAs -- was the Patriarch of Pretty, himself. The young man's Pantene Pro-V spokesman quaff was offset by the dangling strips of red meat slabs coasting around his Adonis-craft torso, down his mountainous abdominals and to his knees, which were embroidered in what seemed to be paintings of the word 'Surah' with numbers next to it.
Our camera zooms in to behold the true face of the young man; eye blackened on one side and painted with a crown of thorns around his piercing blue-green eyes on the other. Up and down his Playgirl cover-boy facial structure were gashes and welts from the recent exchange with the Octane Champion, Dan Hayter. A scintillating grin weaved across his face as his body gallantly strode down to the ground, where his feet touched down on the canvas.
The very canvas in which the Match of the Year for 2010 had occurred just a few short days ago. The strips of condoms snapped as soon as he touched down and crumbled to the floor without protest. A lash of discolored skin could be seen at his throat, where he was launched through the top rope.
Ripplemagne:
"O'er the ramparts we watched were so gallantly streaming?
And the rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting in air.
Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there.
Oh, say does that star-spangled banner yet wave.
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave?"
Snickering to himself, the zany young man licks his lips and hobbles over toward the camera like the awoken dead. Such a grin on his face that it was like an abyss right down to his glimmering soul.
Ripplemagne:
"De Magne has a theory, my adoring Ripplemagniacs. My theory is thusly and is to every devout Muslim in the States and over yonder pond thar..."
Taking a deep breath, the infidel -- who must have a death wish or some shit these days -- scratched his ass before raising his index finger in an Uncle Sam "I Want You" manner. Raising it high up, he grimaced and shouted in a high pitched, squealing tone...
Ripplemagne:
"YOU IS TROOOOOLLIN'!"
After regaining his composure, the lad facepalmed and cackled to himself before stumbling back and leaning against the top ring ropes like the Scarecrow from the Wizard of Oz.
Ripplemagne:
"Ooookay, but seriously, brah. Wasn't too long ago that Ripplemagne the Highly Inappropriate was speaking to a Muslim scholar about the two-faced -- ahem, faceless... Muhammad and the King of Hearts pointed out the fact that Muhammad was a pedophile. Citing one of his many wives, Aisha, who was married to the 'prophet' at age five and consummated at age nine -- the Muslim scholar was temporarily taken aback. Before long, he was trying to convince me that Aisha was fourteen or fifteen, but this collapsed in on itself.
After that, mah nigga went on to say that because Muhammad was a prophet, it was okay. So, basically, he's anointed not because he's pure -- but he's pure because he's anointed. Makes sense. Don't bother asking the criteria in which we use to determine his prophethood, if you will."
Shrugging his shoulders, Ripplemagne thinks for a moment and snickers to himself. Gently caressing the meat on his belly in a circular pattern, Ripplemagne winks to the camera.
Ripplemagne:
"Y'all niggas trollin'. Mah nigga, Mahmoud al-durkadurk who's the co-founder of Hamas said that the area near Ground Zero is the only place to build the mosque? You trippin'. Downtown, Manhattan ain't residential and anyone who would attend the Ground Zero Mosque would have to sit in New York City traffic -- which, take it from me, is a douche pony -- and pass several mosques to get there. So, ayo, I'm cool with the mosque.
Really, I am. First amendment, yadda yada yadda. But here's the dillio wit' it; the Patriarch of Pretty fully endorses Greg Gutfield's idea to build a Muslim-friendly gay bar named Suspicious Packages right next to it, serving 72 virgin drinks and a dance floor we'll aptly refer to as 'You Mecca Me Hot'. Geddit."
Tittering, the young man bounces around the ring as though he's on a pogo stick before clasping his meat toga as it begins to slide from his body.
Ripplemagne:
"Almost lost mah toga thurr. Then the vegetarian pansy-faggots really would have gotten their wigglies in a stink about how much meat they were seeing. Hoooooo!
Anyway, I was thinking about it not too long ago and terrorism. Terrorism, yo. We all know the protocol and such; mamaluke straps a bomb to his face, runs into a crowd of people, goes to Heaven with 72 virgins for doing a good deed in dar al-Harb. Ye, ye.
Thing that makes the voluptuous one raise an eyebrow is the 72 virgins bit. Not because I'm some feminist moose queef who demands that female terrorists get 72 virgin -- nerd -- dicks in and around her mug. Nor do I give a shit about the fact that he probably wouldn't have the kegel strength to please even one of the wimmenz, let alone 72. I don't even give a shit about what happens to his wives.
What makes me chortle so heavenly is how desperate these premature ejaculating cafones must be to strap a bomb to themselves to get some ass. A nigga like that is so pussy sober that if it weren't for pissing, their tootsie roll lookin' nub would shrivel up and die from lack of use. Like the 40 Year Old Virgin says, if you don't use it, you lose it."
Pulling the end of the meat below his right pectora lforward, he peeks down his toga to eye his junk. Glancing back at the camera, he raises a thumbs up and a wink to signify that it's still usable. Dumb ass.
Ripplemagne:
"Ayo, wouldn't it be kinda funny if none of those 72 broads wanted his Taxi-driver chafed testiculars either? I can just see it; 'Um, Allah? Yes, hello. May I please be assigned to someone else?'
That dude would be maaaaaad. I can just see him gettin' bent and stomping on his Qu'ran, yelling at Allah that he was promised pussy and Allah bein' all, 'Nigga, ain't no one told you to be that fugly and uninteresting.'"
Getting thrown a mirror from behind the camera, Ripplemagne catches it in mid-flight and begins to raise it from side to side, gazing at himself in it. Utterly befuddled by his own good looks, he lowers it, sighs with great pride and continues...
Ripplemagne:
"So, speaking of eensy teensy tootsie rolls in people's pants, de Magne goin' up against this Michael Miracle du--"
The White Mage:
"Monsieur Ripplemagne, you are facing Michael King."
Ripplemagne:
"Who in the President's Cabinet of Communists is Michael King?! Do de Magne gotta choke a bitch?!"
The White Mage:
"...Le African-American one who you saw ze picture of on le website and went into le string of racial jests."
Ripplemagne:
"African-American? Bitch, we ain't politically correct on Your Feature Presentation. That nigga black. Anyway, I know dick about the dude, but he is most certainly not worthy of being the Patriarch of Pretty's opponent."
Leaping into the air, Ripplemagne performs a 180 degree spin and bends over very slightly, pointing to his butt, which are covered only by a thin cut of meat.
Ripplemagne:
"Dost thou see these glutes?! These glutes are the glutes of magnificence! Only champions have a magnificent gluteus maximus like this! Oggle the glory and splendor that is the King of Hearts' pretty, plump and porcelain fanny! You cannot compete with glutes like these! Believe it, nyukka!"
* * *
Fin.
* * *
Fact of the Day
Taqiyya.
* * *
And now, for your feature presentation...
* * *
Faintly, the gentle hymns of Ace Ventura's Alrighty Then song can be heard echoing through the audio of our feed. The cascading glyphs shining down over the soulless arena shone down in a spotlight as the dangling limbs of the petite young man rocked from side to side, suspended high in the rafters by... several hundred condoms tied together at the ends.
...I don't want to know if they're used or not.
Monotonously lowering, the figure is draped in an incandescent avalanche, the faint blue spotlights bouncing from the velvet-smooth jawline of the lad. Draped in what seems to be toga made of raw meat, ala Lady Gaga at the VMAs -- was the Patriarch of Pretty, himself. The young man's Pantene Pro-V spokesman quaff was offset by the dangling strips of red meat slabs coasting around his Adonis-craft torso, down his mountainous abdominals and to his knees, which were embroidered in what seemed to be paintings of the word 'Surah' with numbers next to it.
Our camera zooms in to behold the true face of the young man; eye blackened on one side and painted with a crown of thorns around his piercing blue-green eyes on the other. Up and down his Playgirl cover-boy facial structure were gashes and welts from the recent exchange with the Octane Champion, Dan Hayter. A scintillating grin weaved across his face as his body gallantly strode down to the ground, where his feet touched down on the canvas.
The very canvas in which the Match of the Year for 2010 had occurred just a few short days ago. The strips of condoms snapped as soon as he touched down and crumbled to the floor without protest. A lash of discolored skin could be seen at his throat, where he was launched through the top rope.
Ripplemagne:
"O'er the ramparts we watched were so gallantly streaming?
And the rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting in air.
Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there.
Oh, say does that star-spangled banner yet wave.
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave?"
Snickering to himself, the zany young man licks his lips and hobbles over toward the camera like the awoken dead. Such a grin on his face that it was like an abyss right down to his glimmering soul.
Ripplemagne:
"De Magne has a theory, my adoring Ripplemagniacs. My theory is thusly and is to every devout Muslim in the States and over yonder pond thar..."
Taking a deep breath, the infidel -- who must have a death wish or some shit these days -- scratched his ass before raising his index finger in an Uncle Sam "I Want You" manner. Raising it high up, he grimaced and shouted in a high pitched, squealing tone...
Ripplemagne:
"YOU IS TROOOOOLLIN'!"
After regaining his composure, the lad facepalmed and cackled to himself before stumbling back and leaning against the top ring ropes like the Scarecrow from the Wizard of Oz.
Ripplemagne:
"Ooookay, but seriously, brah. Wasn't too long ago that Ripplemagne the Highly Inappropriate was speaking to a Muslim scholar about the two-faced -- ahem, faceless... Muhammad and the King of Hearts pointed out the fact that Muhammad was a pedophile. Citing one of his many wives, Aisha, who was married to the 'prophet' at age five and consummated at age nine -- the Muslim scholar was temporarily taken aback. Before long, he was trying to convince me that Aisha was fourteen or fifteen, but this collapsed in on itself.
After that, mah nigga went on to say that because Muhammad was a prophet, it was okay. So, basically, he's anointed not because he's pure -- but he's pure because he's anointed. Makes sense. Don't bother asking the criteria in which we use to determine his prophethood, if you will."
Shrugging his shoulders, Ripplemagne thinks for a moment and snickers to himself. Gently caressing the meat on his belly in a circular pattern, Ripplemagne winks to the camera.
Ripplemagne:
"Y'all niggas trollin'. Mah nigga, Mahmoud al-durkadurk who's the co-founder of Hamas said that the area near Ground Zero is the only place to build the mosque? You trippin'. Downtown, Manhattan ain't residential and anyone who would attend the Ground Zero Mosque would have to sit in New York City traffic -- which, take it from me, is a douche pony -- and pass several mosques to get there. So, ayo, I'm cool with the mosque.
Really, I am. First amendment, yadda yada yadda. But here's the dillio wit' it; the Patriarch of Pretty fully endorses Greg Gutfield's idea to build a Muslim-friendly gay bar named Suspicious Packages right next to it, serving 72 virgin drinks and a dance floor we'll aptly refer to as 'You Mecca Me Hot'. Geddit."
Tittering, the young man bounces around the ring as though he's on a pogo stick before clasping his meat toga as it begins to slide from his body.
Ripplemagne:
"Almost lost mah toga thurr. Then the vegetarian pansy-faggots really would have gotten their wigglies in a stink about how much meat they were seeing. Hoooooo!
Anyway, I was thinking about it not too long ago and terrorism. Terrorism, yo. We all know the protocol and such; mamaluke straps a bomb to his face, runs into a crowd of people, goes to Heaven with 72 virgins for doing a good deed in dar al-Harb. Ye, ye.
Thing that makes the voluptuous one raise an eyebrow is the 72 virgins bit. Not because I'm some feminist moose queef who demands that female terrorists get 72 virgin -- nerd -- dicks in and around her mug. Nor do I give a shit about the fact that he probably wouldn't have the kegel strength to please even one of the wimmenz, let alone 72. I don't even give a shit about what happens to his wives.
What makes me chortle so heavenly is how desperate these premature ejaculating cafones must be to strap a bomb to themselves to get some ass. A nigga like that is so pussy sober that if it weren't for pissing, their tootsie roll lookin' nub would shrivel up and die from lack of use. Like the 40 Year Old Virgin says, if you don't use it, you lose it."
Pulling the end of the meat below his right pectora lforward, he peeks down his toga to eye his junk. Glancing back at the camera, he raises a thumbs up and a wink to signify that it's still usable. Dumb ass.
Ripplemagne:
"Ayo, wouldn't it be kinda funny if none of those 72 broads wanted his Taxi-driver chafed testiculars either? I can just see it; 'Um, Allah? Yes, hello. May I please be assigned to someone else?'
That dude would be maaaaaad. I can just see him gettin' bent and stomping on his Qu'ran, yelling at Allah that he was promised pussy and Allah bein' all, 'Nigga, ain't no one told you to be that fugly and uninteresting.'"
Getting thrown a mirror from behind the camera, Ripplemagne catches it in mid-flight and begins to raise it from side to side, gazing at himself in it. Utterly befuddled by his own good looks, he lowers it, sighs with great pride and continues...
Ripplemagne:
"So, speaking of eensy teensy tootsie rolls in people's pants, de Magne goin' up against this Michael Miracle du--"
The White Mage:
"Monsieur Ripplemagne, you are facing Michael King."
Ripplemagne:
"Who in the President's Cabinet of Communists is Michael King?! Do de Magne gotta choke a bitch?!"
The White Mage:
"...Le African-American one who you saw ze picture of on le website and went into le string of racial jests."
Ripplemagne:
"African-American? Bitch, we ain't politically correct on Your Feature Presentation. That nigga black. Anyway, I know dick about the dude, but he is most certainly not worthy of being the Patriarch of Pretty's opponent."
Leaping into the air, Ripplemagne performs a 180 degree spin and bends over very slightly, pointing to his butt, which are covered only by a thin cut of meat.
Ripplemagne:
"Dost thou see these glutes?! These glutes are the glutes of magnificence! Only champions have a magnificent gluteus maximus like this! Oggle the glory and splendor that is the King of Hearts' pretty, plump and porcelain fanny! You cannot compete with glutes like these! Believe it, nyukka!"
* * *
Fin.
* * *
