Topic: Jews
Anonymous A started this discussion 15 years ago #13,741
What are your actual feelings about Jews?
Fake anon !ZkUt8arUCU joined in and replied with this 15 years ago, 37 seconds later[^] [v] #245,555
@OP
Sup becky.
Sup becky.
Killer Lettuce !!iNo3FkiZx joined in and replied with this 15 years ago, 29 seconds later, 1 minute after the original post[^] [v] #245,556
Anonymous D joined in and replied with this 15 years ago, 27 seconds later, 1 minute after the original post[^] [v] #245,557
my asian friends IRL call me Jew
they're like "Hey Jew can we come over?"
because there's an asian kid named mark too, so it's easy
they're like "Hey Jew can we come over?"
because there's an asian kid named mark too, so it's easy
Anonymous A (OP) replied with this 15 years ago, 20 seconds later, 1 minute after the original post[^] [v] #245,558
@245,555 (Fake anon !ZkUt8arUCU)
@245,556 (Killer Lettuce !!iNo3FkiZx)
Stop shitting up my topic.
What do you think about Jews?
@245,556 (Killer Lettuce !!iNo3FkiZx)
Stop shitting up my topic.
What do you think about Jews?
Fake anon !ZkUt8arUCU replied with this 15 years ago, 49 seconds later, 2 minutes after the original post[^] [v] #245,559
Anonymous A (OP) replied with this 15 years ago, 17 seconds later, 2 minutes after the original post[^] [v] #245,560
Anonymous D replied with this 15 years ago, 1 minute later, 4 minutes after the original post[^] [v] #245,561
Fake anon !ZkUt8arUCU replied with this 15 years ago, 1 minute later, 5 minutes after the original post[^] [v] #245,562
@245,560 (A)
Closeted anti-semite detected.
@previous (D)
Stop shitting up my topic.
What do you think about Jews?
Closeted anti-semite detected.
@previous (D)
Stop shitting up my topic.
What do you think about Jews?
(Edited 38 seconds later.)
Ishikawa !Et8Dragonk joined in and replied with this 15 years ago, 8 minutes later, 13 minutes after the original post[^] [v] #245,572
Leo Vegas !gNoGoD5HzQ joined in and replied with this 15 years ago, 8 minutes later, 22 minutes after the original post[^] [v] #245,576
@previous (Ishikawa !Et8Dragonk)
I remember like it was yesterday: his crushed velvet drapes, the slate hearth, a black and white Ansel Adams lithograph, the sleek, tall black plastic CD tower filled with weighty $30 CDs, standing like a skyscraper next to the TV stand, on which sat his Phillips compact disc player, on top of a stereo balancer, on top of a VHS player, on top of a radio tuner. Over a romantic dinner of veal filo parcels and haricots vert with bechamel, I was seduced by a bottle of 1987 vintage zinfandel, one year cellared, which I sipped through a small-mouthed goblet as I listened to his lusty tales of life on the trading floor. I blushed as he leaned over to tuck a frayed strand of permed hair out of my eyes, so I didn’t get chocolate fondue in it. “Girl, you’re making me crazy,†he said to me, gazing directly into my soul through his horn-rimmed reading glasses.
We slow-danced to “Electric Blue,†he with one steady hand in the small of my back, where the satin bow was pinned to my dress, and the other gripping the nape of my neck, buoyed softly by my shoulder pads. As Iva Davies howled along with his lonely electric guitar and keyboard synthesizer, we pressed together, his box pleat slacks against my sequined, tiered skirt. It was microwave hot in the nooks between our legs. The air had the snap of suspenders. He reached up and undid my alligator clip; my Bottecellian hair tumbled down around my shoulders, full of bounce from Pert 2-in-1 shampoo/conditioner.
When Genesis hit the high, clear notes of “I will be theeeeeeeere†in “Hold on my heart†I realized I was in trouble. He picked me up, as if I weighed no more than a single rose, told me I took his breath away, and threw me on his waterbed. Wooed by Mick Hucknall crooning “Holding Back the Years†he tied my hands to the headboard with silk scarves, and ruthlessly littered pillowy kisses on the soft skin of my wrists, inner elbows and clavicle. Writhing, I bit my dark plum lipstick and rubbed my pantyhosed feet together in ecstasy. Glistening with sweat, he fed me sections of a chocolate orange. The music segued to Richard Clayderman running his hands up and down a piano relentlessly, setting off cascades of tremoring arpeggios and scales. Glancing sideways as I arched my back, I noticed the neat space-saving design of his wardrobe—shirts hung on coathangers with multiple tiers, special racks just for business ties—and cried out, “No! No! It’s too much, I’ll die from the pleasure!â€
I remember like it was yesterday: his crushed velvet drapes, the slate hearth, a black and white Ansel Adams lithograph, the sleek, tall black plastic CD tower filled with weighty $30 CDs, standing like a skyscraper next to the TV stand, on which sat his Phillips compact disc player, on top of a stereo balancer, on top of a VHS player, on top of a radio tuner. Over a romantic dinner of veal filo parcels and haricots vert with bechamel, I was seduced by a bottle of 1987 vintage zinfandel, one year cellared, which I sipped through a small-mouthed goblet as I listened to his lusty tales of life on the trading floor. I blushed as he leaned over to tuck a frayed strand of permed hair out of my eyes, so I didn’t get chocolate fondue in it. “Girl, you’re making me crazy,†he said to me, gazing directly into my soul through his horn-rimmed reading glasses.
We slow-danced to “Electric Blue,†he with one steady hand in the small of my back, where the satin bow was pinned to my dress, and the other gripping the nape of my neck, buoyed softly by my shoulder pads. As Iva Davies howled along with his lonely electric guitar and keyboard synthesizer, we pressed together, his box pleat slacks against my sequined, tiered skirt. It was microwave hot in the nooks between our legs. The air had the snap of suspenders. He reached up and undid my alligator clip; my Bottecellian hair tumbled down around my shoulders, full of bounce from Pert 2-in-1 shampoo/conditioner.
When Genesis hit the high, clear notes of “I will be theeeeeeeere†in “Hold on my heart†I realized I was in trouble. He picked me up, as if I weighed no more than a single rose, told me I took his breath away, and threw me on his waterbed. Wooed by Mick Hucknall crooning “Holding Back the Years†he tied my hands to the headboard with silk scarves, and ruthlessly littered pillowy kisses on the soft skin of my wrists, inner elbows and clavicle. Writhing, I bit my dark plum lipstick and rubbed my pantyhosed feet together in ecstasy. Glistening with sweat, he fed me sections of a chocolate orange. The music segued to Richard Clayderman running his hands up and down a piano relentlessly, setting off cascades of tremoring arpeggios and scales. Glancing sideways as I arched my back, I noticed the neat space-saving design of his wardrobe—shirts hung on coathangers with multiple tiers, special racks just for business ties—and cried out, “No! No! It’s too much, I’ll die from the pleasure!â€
Anonymous G joined in and replied with this 15 years ago, 12 minutes later, 34 minutes after the original post[^] [v] #245,584
Let's get some Jews.Anonymous H joined in and replied with this 15 years ago, 34 minutes later, 1 hour after the original post[^] [v] #245,615
@245,561 (D)
Anonymous D replied with this 15 years ago, 20 minutes later, 1 hour after the original post[^] [v] #245,618
Anonymous H replied with this 15 years ago, 45 seconds later, 1 hour after the original post[^] [v] #245,619
Anonymous D replied with this 15 years ago, 3 minutes later, 1 hour after the original post[^] [v] #245,623
Anonymous H replied with this 15 years ago, 5 minutes later, 1 hour after the original post[^] [v] #245,626
Anonymous D replied with this 15 years ago, 6 minutes later, 1 hour after the original post[^] [v] #245,628
Anonymous A (OP) replied with this 15 years ago, 1 minute later, 1 hour after the original post[^] [v] #245,629
Anonymous H replied with this 15 years ago, 2 minutes later, 1 hour after the original post[^] [v] #245,632
dw !AUIkTW/L46 joined in and replied with this 15 years ago, 3 minutes later, 1 hour after the original post[^] [v] #245,638
i dont know any jews
Fats !lbanned8o6 joined in and replied with this 15 years ago, 19 minutes later, 2 hours after the original post[^] [v] #245,653
Some of my best friends are Jews. I even do a podcast with one of them.
Anonymous K joined in and replied with this 15 years ago, 1 hour later, 3 hours after the original post[^] [v] #245,706
@previous (Fats !lbanned8o6)
lol'd. I went to a bar mitzvah. I looked at that kids facebook pics the other day; his mom is so hot lol. i would go there
lol'd. I went to a bar mitzvah. I looked at that kids facebook pics the other day; his mom is so hot lol. i would go there
Leo Vegas !gNoGoD5HzQ replied with this 15 years ago, 2 hours later, 5 hours after the original post[^] [v] #245,823
@245,653 (Fats !lbanned8o6)
I remember like it was yesterday: his crushed velvet drapes, the slate hearth, a black and white Ansel Adams lithograph, the sleek, tall black plastic CD tower filled with weighty $30 CDs, standing like a skyscraper next to the TV stand, on which sat his Phillips compact disc player, on top of a stereo balancer, on top of a VHS player, on top of a radio tuner. Over a romantic dinner of veal filo parcels and haricots vert with bechamel, I was seduced by a bottle of 1987 vintage zinfandel, one year cellared, which I sipped through a small-mouthed goblet as I listened to his lusty tales of life on the trading floor. I blushed as he leaned over to tuck a frayed strand of permed hair out of my eyes, so I didn’t get chocolate fondue in it. “Girl, you’re making me crazy,†he said to me, gazing directly into my soul through his horn-rimmed reading glasses.
We slow-danced to “Electric Blue,†he with one steady hand in the small of my back, where the satin bow was pinned to my dress, and the other gripping the nape of my neck, buoyed softly by my shoulder pads. As Iva Davies howled along with his lonely electric guitar and keyboard synthesizer, we pressed together, his box pleat slacks against my sequined, tiered skirt. It was microwave hot in the nooks between our legs. The air had the snap of suspenders. He reached up and undid my alligator clip; my Bottecellian hair tumbled down around my shoulders, full of bounce from Pert 2-in-1 shampoo/conditioner.
When Genesis hit the high, clear notes of “I will be theeeeeeeere†in “Hold on my heart†I realized I was in trouble. He picked me up, as if I weighed no more than a single rose, told me I took his breath away, and threw me on his waterbed. Wooed by Mick Hucknall crooning “Holding Back the Years†he tied my hands to the headboard with silk scarves, and ruthlessly littered pillowy kisses on the soft skin of my wrists, inner elbows and clavicle. Writhing, I bit my dark plum lipstick and rubbed my pantyhosed feet together in ecstasy. Glistening with sweat, he fed me sections of a chocolate orange. The music segued to Richard Clayderman running his hands up and down a piano relentlessly, setting off cascades of tremoring arpeggios and scales. Glancing sideways as I arched my back, I noticed the neat space-saving design of his wardrobe—shirts hung on coathangers with multiple tiers, special racks just for business ties—and cried out, “No! No! It’s too much, I’ll die from the pleasure!â€
I remember like it was yesterday: his crushed velvet drapes, the slate hearth, a black and white Ansel Adams lithograph, the sleek, tall black plastic CD tower filled with weighty $30 CDs, standing like a skyscraper next to the TV stand, on which sat his Phillips compact disc player, on top of a stereo balancer, on top of a VHS player, on top of a radio tuner. Over a romantic dinner of veal filo parcels and haricots vert with bechamel, I was seduced by a bottle of 1987 vintage zinfandel, one year cellared, which I sipped through a small-mouthed goblet as I listened to his lusty tales of life on the trading floor. I blushed as he leaned over to tuck a frayed strand of permed hair out of my eyes, so I didn’t get chocolate fondue in it. “Girl, you’re making me crazy,†he said to me, gazing directly into my soul through his horn-rimmed reading glasses.
We slow-danced to “Electric Blue,†he with one steady hand in the small of my back, where the satin bow was pinned to my dress, and the other gripping the nape of my neck, buoyed softly by my shoulder pads. As Iva Davies howled along with his lonely electric guitar and keyboard synthesizer, we pressed together, his box pleat slacks against my sequined, tiered skirt. It was microwave hot in the nooks between our legs. The air had the snap of suspenders. He reached up and undid my alligator clip; my Bottecellian hair tumbled down around my shoulders, full of bounce from Pert 2-in-1 shampoo/conditioner.
When Genesis hit the high, clear notes of “I will be theeeeeeeere†in “Hold on my heart†I realized I was in trouble. He picked me up, as if I weighed no more than a single rose, told me I took his breath away, and threw me on his waterbed. Wooed by Mick Hucknall crooning “Holding Back the Years†he tied my hands to the headboard with silk scarves, and ruthlessly littered pillowy kisses on the soft skin of my wrists, inner elbows and clavicle. Writhing, I bit my dark plum lipstick and rubbed my pantyhosed feet together in ecstasy. Glistening with sweat, he fed me sections of a chocolate orange. The music segued to Richard Clayderman running his hands up and down a piano relentlessly, setting off cascades of tremoring arpeggios and scales. Glancing sideways as I arched my back, I noticed the neat space-saving design of his wardrobe—shirts hung on coathangers with multiple tiers, special racks just for business ties—and cried out, “No! No! It’s too much, I’ll die from the pleasure!â€