All of my conversations are awkward. I don't know how to talk to people like a normal human being.
Account Details | |
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SteamID64 | 76561197992848125 |
SteamID3 | [U:1:32582397] |
SteamID32 | STEAM_0:1:16291198 |
Country | United States |
Signed Up | August 8, 2012 |
Last Posted | October 6, 2019 at 5:32 PM |
Posts | 1627 (0.4 per day) |
Game Settings | |
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In-game Sensitivity | 1.859504 |
Windows Sensitivity | 6/11 |
Raw Input | 1 |
DPI |
800 |
Resolution |
1920x1080 |
Refresh Rate |
120Hz + lightboost |
Hardware Peripherals | |
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Mouse | Razer Deathadder 2013 |
Keyboard | Razer Lycosa + Razer Orbweaver Keypad |
Mousepad | Razer Goliathus Speed Extended |
Headphones | Razer Megalodon |
Monitor | Asus VG248 / Samsung SyncMaster T240 |
I honestly don't get all the drama here.
He tried out some hacks on an alt account once. Big deal.
The anus of internet browsers uses the anus of animation styles to promote itself.
Seems fitting to me.
None of these are mine. All taken from the comments section of this article:
http://jalopnik.com/man-blames-dukes-of-hazzard-style-chase-on-having-to-po-1443066819
About two years ago I went out to lunch at this place in Brooklyn on a nice spring day. Took my Lotus out, met some friends, had some chili... really nice day. On my way back into the city (about halfway across the Brooklyn Bridge), the chili started to, well, act up. I didn't think much of it because my apartment is barely a ten minute drive from the bridge, and figured I'd make it home with time to spare.
Boy was I wrong. Within a minute of the first rumble, my stomach was telling me that I needed to be on a toilet NOW NOW NOW NOW. Unfortunately that was just not going to happen, as I was barely off the bridge and still had to get to my block, into my garage on Rector street, into my building, and then up an elevator 38 floors. I began to drive as aggressively as possible, and for a moment felt a brief glimmer hope as I prepared to pull into my parking space.
Well, that glimmer was brief indeed, because as I was just getting into my parking space, I pooped. Yep. I pooped my pants in my Lotus.
I just kind of sat there for a second in total disbelief of what just happened, and pondered my options. How in the hell was I going to get to my building and up the elevator without anyone noticing? Then my worry turned to the fine Connolly leather I was sitting on, in my now poop-filled jeans. Oh god have I ruined my interior? How am I going to explain this to the detailer? Yep, lots of thoughts right then.
Anyway, I suppose the universe was done having fun with me for the day, because as I got out of the car I was relieved to see that nothing had, um, leaked onto the seats and I miraculously managed to get into my building, past the doorman, and into an empty elevator without anyone noticing me.
Let me tell you though, had I been on a highway when this occurred, you can bet your ass that I'd be going as fast as I could to get to a toilet also.
I was on the road headed to a meeting with a client and had to shit so bad that I had to leg press my floorboard of my car with everything I had to the point where I had felt like I broke my leg later than evening. There was NOTHING and I mean NOTHING that would stop me from getting to the restroom.
What's funny is that I held that clench position because IF I had decided to actually stop the car and move in the slightest of ways I would have shit in not only my pants and all over my seat but possibly my co-worker that was sitting next to me who was - as I found out later that day - wondering what the hell I was doing and why I couldn't even tell him why was doing this. I simply couldn't speak, flinch, sign, or turn my head to acknowledge his questioning. The simple change in my facial expression alone would have resulted in projectile diarrhea.
Once I managed to "push the pudding" back into my ass somehow I was able to find the 4 seconds I had to enter the truck stop, pull my pants off and proceed to splatter the back of the bowl like it was behind someone that had their brains blown out by a Benelli 12 gauge.
I'm sure the gas station attendant that walked in on that "crime scene" I left behind ended up calling "The Wolf" from Pulp Fiction.
True story. Guy I went to college with was driving back from Big Bend and stopped for some roadside tamales. He's about 10 miles from the next rest stop when he feels a cataclysmic case of the 'sploadies brewing up. So he buries the pedal. Cop nabs him doing 95 in a 70. My buddy, with few viable options, tells the cop he has to go REALLY bad. The cop says yeah, right. That's original, kid. I'll be right back.
Now in full fight or flight panic, my buddy leaps from the car, pulls down his shorts, and blasts the highway so hard he said he could literally feel his body rising up from the thrust. The cop, hand on gun, can only stand by his cruiser door, mouth open, moments from calling it in.
After my buddy sploiks out the last drop of gut magma from his colon, sweat pouring from his brow, panting and moaning, the cop asks if he's OK, goes to his trunk and takes out a roll of paper towels which he tosses to my friend from a mindful distance, and drives away without uttering another word.
A few months back, I left the house around 8 AM to head to the office, just a regular morning with no signs of anything out of the ordinary. About a mile down the road, my O-Ring was suddenly subjected what can only be described as a critical pressure event. I realized the situation was an emergency and adjusted my plans accordingly, having to make a quick assessment of the options availible to me, which were to turn around and travel a mile back to the house, or make it about 1/2 that distance to the nearest gas station. The latter was my only real hope, so I pressed on while performing the now familiar "crush the dead pedal and sweat while shaking like a Mexican Space Shuttle" in a vain attempt to prevent the angry turtle from escaping. About 200 yards shy of my destination, all systems failed, the call of "Eject! Eject! Eject!" was made by whatever primal component of the brain does that kind of thing, and my little co-pilot was promptly dispatched into my pants in a manner that only Goose from Top Gun could hope to emulate. I can attest that the Jiffy Pop in 1 second analogy above is spot on. I pulled a u-turn, drove back to the house while hovering over the seat in a way that would make Luke Skywalker himself believe I was a Jedi (except I bet he never crapped his dockers) and pulled into the garage.
I made my way into the house, surprising my wife, who asked why I was home. I simply replied: "Shit my pants." as I duck walked on to the bathroom for a shower and change of clothes. This thing was never spoken of again.
thinkI only buy BF series games for the single player storyline. I just can't get into the multiplayer on games like BF or COD at all.
That's like going to a brothel for the conversation.
I find that ones with a wide back, although very comfy, can get in the way of arm movements when gaming. Especially I try to aim down. I pull my arm back to look down, and my elbow bumps into the chair's backrest and stops.
I want dat comfy, but I needs dat arm movement.
Khakiget MLG to pick up tf2
We tried. They went with Halo 4 instead.
There's a difference between genuinely innovating, and relying on broken weapons.
I remember when the Loose Cannon first came out there was a discussion about whether or not it was viable in 6's. At the time it had the potential to do more damage than pipes, but it was too difficult to use to be of any benefit. Nice to see that the GL has some real competition now.