Outze 0 Posted August 29, 2010 Report Share Posted August 29, 2010 Hvorfor er det slik at jeg blir elitist og ekstremkommunist når jeg er full? Er ikke det et paradoks? Og en annen ting; hvorfor er folk idioter? Pga FrP el er de født sånn? Har noen her øl? Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Kiddo 0 Posted August 29, 2010 Report Share Posted August 29, 2010 Din jævla.... Nå må jeg spy. Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Outze 0 Posted August 29, 2010 Report Share Posted August 29, 2010 Din jævla.... Nå må jeg spy. Off, var ikke vi enige om at det ikke er lov å gå inn på forum med overflod av alkohol i systemet? Gørre ting. Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Uruloki 15 Posted September 14, 2010 Report Share Posted September 14, 2010 I I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked, dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix, angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machin- ery of night, who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat up smoking in the supernatural darkness of cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities contemplating jazz, who bared their brains to Heaven under the El and saw Mohammedan angels staggering on tene- ment roofs illuminated, who passed through universities with radiant cool eyes hallucinating Arkansas and Blake-light tragedy among the scholars of war, who were expelled from the academies for crazy & publishing obscene odes on the windows of the skull, who cowered in unshaven rooms in underwear, burn- ing their money in wastebaskets and listening to the Terror through the wall, who got busted in their pubic beards returning through Laredo with a belt of marijuana for New York, who ate fire in paint hotels or drank turpentine in Paradise Alley, death, or purgatoried their torsos night after night with dreams, with drugs, with waking nightmares, al- cohol and cock and endless balls, incomparable blind; streets of shuddering cloud and lightning in the mind leaping toward poles of Canada & Paterson, illuminating all the mo- tionless world of Time between, Peyote solidities of halls, backyard green tree cemetery dawns, wine drunkenness over the rooftops, storefront boroughs of teahead joyride neon blinking traffic light, sun and moon and tree vibrations in the roaring winter dusks of Brook- lyn, ashcan rantings and kind king light of mind, who chained themselves to subways for the endless ride from Battery to holy Bronx on benzedrine until the noise of wheels and children brought them down shuddering mouth-wracked and battered bleak of brain all drained of brilliance in the drear light of Zoo, who sank all night in submarine light of Bickford's floated out and sat through the stale beer after noon in desolate Fugazzi's, listening to the crack of doom on the hydrogen jukebox, who talked continuously seventy hours from park to pad to bar to Bellevue to museum to the Brook- lyn Bridge, lost battalion of platonic conversationalists jumping down the stoops off fire escapes off windowsills off Empire State out of the moon, yacketayakking screaming vomiting whispering facts and memories and anecdotes and eyeball kicks and shocks of hospitals and jails and wars, whole intellects disgorged in total recall for seven days and nights with brilliant eyes, meat for the Synagogue cast on the pavement, who vanished into nowhere Zen New Jersey leaving a trail of ambiguous picture postcards of Atlantic City Hall, suffering Eastern sweats and Tangerian bone-grind- ings and migraines of China under junk-with- drawal in Newark's bleak furnished room, who wandered around and around at midnight in the railroad yard wondering where to go, and went, leaving no broken hearts, who lit cigarettes in boxcars boxcars boxcars racketing through snow toward lonesome farms in grand- father night, who studied Plotinus Poe St. John of the Cross telep- athy and bop kabbalah because the cosmos in- stinctively vibrated at their feet in Kansas, who loned it through the streets of Idaho seeking vis- ionary indian angels who were visionary indian angels, who thought they were only mad when Baltimore gleamed in supernatural ecstasy, who jumped in limousines with the Chinaman of Okla- homa on the impulse of winter midnight street light smalltown rain, who lounged hungry and lonesome through Houston seeking jazz or sex or soup, and followed the brilliant Spaniard to converse about America and Eternity, a hopeless task, and so took ship to Africa, who disappeared into the volcanoes of Mexico leaving behind nothing but the shadow of dungarees and the lava and ash of poetry scattered in fire place Chicago, who reappeared on the West Coast investigating the F.B.I. in beards and shorts with big pacifist eyes sexy in their dark skin passing out incom- prehensible leaflets, who burned cigarette holes in their arms protesting the narcotic tobacco haze of Capitalism, who distributed Supercommunist pamphlets in Union Square weeping and undressing while the sirens of Los Alamos wailed them down, and wailed down Wall, and the Staten Island ferry also wailed, who broke down crying in white gymnasiums naked and trembling before the machinery of other skeletons, who bit detectives in the neck and shrieked with delight in policecars for committing no crime but their own wild cooking pederasty and intoxication, who howled on their knees in the subway and were dragged off the roof waving genitals and manu- scripts, who let themselves be fucked in the ass by saintly motorcyclists, and screamed with joy, who blew and were blown by those human seraphim, the sailors, caresses of Atlantic and Caribbean love, who balled in the morning in the evenings in rose gardens and the grass of public parks and cemeteries scattering their semen freely to whomever come who may, who hiccuped endlessly trying to giggle but wound up with a sob behind a partition in a Turkish Bath when the blond & naked angel came to pierce them with a sword, who lost their loveboys to the three old shrews of fate the one eyed shrew of the heterosexual dollar the one eyed shrew that winks out of the womb and the one eyed shrew that does nothing but sit on her ass and snip the intellectual golden threads of the craftsman's loom, who copulated ecstatic and insatiate with a bottle of beer a sweetheart a package of cigarettes a can- dle and fell off the bed, and continued along the floor and down the hall and ended fainting on the wall with a vision of ultimate cunt and come eluding the last gyzym of consciousness, who sweetened the snatches of a million girls trembling in the sunset, and were red eyed in the morning but prepared to sweeten the snatch of the sun rise, flashing buttocks under barns and naked in the lake, who went out whoring through Colorado in myriad stolen night-cars, N.C., secret hero of these poems, cocksman and Adonis of Denver-joy to the memory of his innumerable lays of girls in empty lots & diner backyards, moviehouses' rickety rows, on mountaintops in caves or with gaunt waitresses in familiar roadside lonely pet- ticoat upliftings & especially secret gas-station solipsisms of johns, & hometown alleys too, who faded out in vast sordid movies, were shifted in dreams, woke on a sudden Manhattan, and picked themselves up out of basements hung over with heartless Tokay and horrors of Third Avenue iron dreams & stumbled to unemploy- ment offices, who walked all night with their shoes full of blood on the snowbank docks waiting for a door in the East River to open to a room full of steamheat and opium, who created great suicidal dramas on the apartment cliff-banks of the Hudson under the wartime blue floodlight of the moon & their heads shall be crowned with laurel in oblivion, who ate the lamb stew of the imagination or digested the crab at the muddy bottom of the rivers of Bowery, who wept at the romance of the streets with their pushcarts full of onions and bad music, who sat in boxes breathing in the darkness under the bridge, and rose up to build harpsichords in their lofts, who coughed on the sixth floor of Harlem crowned with flame under the tubercular sky surrounded by orange crates of theology, who scribbled all night rocking and rolling over lofty incantations which in the yellow morning were stanzas of gibberish, who cooked rotten animals lung heart feet tail borsht & tortillas dreaming of the pure vegetable kingdom, who plunged themselves under meat trucks looking for an egg, who threw their watches off the roof to cast their ballot for Eternity outside of Time, & alarm clocks fell on their heads every day for the next decade, who cut their wrists three times successively unsuccess- fully, gave up and were forced to open antique stores where they thought they were growing old and cried, who were burned alive in their innocent flannel suits on Madison Avenue amid blasts of leaden verse & the tanked-up clatter of the iron regiments of fashion & the nitroglycerine shrieks of the fairies of advertising & the mustard gas of sinis- ter intelligent editors, or were run down by the drunken taxicabs of Absolute Reality, who jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge this actually hap- pened and walked away unknown and forgotten into the ghostly daze of Chinatown soup alley ways & firetrucks, not even one free beer, who sang out of their windows in despair, fell out of the subway window, jumped in the filthy Pas- saic, leaped on negroes, cried all over the street, danced on broken wineglasses barefoot smashed phonograph records of nostalgic European 1930s German jazz finished the whiskey and threw up groaning into the bloody toilet, moans in their ears and the blast of colossal steam whistles, who barreled down the highways of the past journeying to each other's hotrod-Golgotha jail-solitude watch or Birmingham jazz incarnation, who drove crosscountry seventytwo hours to find out if I had a vision or you had a vision or he had a vision to find out Eternity, who journeyed to Denver, who died in Denver, who came back to Denver & waited in vain, who watched over Denver & brooded & loned in Denver and finally went away to find out the Time, & now Denver is lonesome for her heroes, who fell on their knees in hopeless cathedrals praying for each other's salvation and light and breasts, until the soul illuminated its hair for a second, who crashed through their minds in jail waiting for impossible criminals with golden heads and the charm of reality in their hearts who sang sweet blues to Alcatraz, who retired to Mexico to cultivate a habit, or Rocky Mount to tender Buddha or Tangiers to boys or Southern Pacific to the black locomotive or Harvard to Narcissus to Woodlawn to the daisychain or grave, who demanded sanity trials accusing the radio of hyp notism & were left with their insanity & their hands & a hung jury, who threw potato salad at CCNY lecturers on Dadaism and subsequently presented themselves on the granite steps of the madhouse with shaven heads and harlequin speech of suicide, demanding in- stantaneous lobotomy, and who were given instead the concrete void of insulin Metrazol electricity hydrotherapy psycho- therapy occupational therapy pingpong & amnesia, who in humorless protest overturned only one symbolic pingpong table, resting briefly in catatonia, returning years later truly bald except for a wig of blood, and tears and fingers, to the visible mad man doom of the wards of the madtowns of the East, Pilgrim State's Rockland's and Greystone's foetid halls, bickering with the echoes of the soul, rock- ing and rolling in the midnight solitude-bench dolmen-realms of love, dream of life a night- mare, bodies turned to stone as heavy as the moon, with mother finally ******, and the last fantastic book flung out of the tenement window, and the last door closed at 4. A.M. and the last telephone slammed at the wall in reply and the last fur- nished room emptied down to the last piece of mental furniture, a yellow paper rose twisted on a wire hanger in the closet, and even that imaginary, nothing but a hopeful little bit of hallucination ah, Carl, while you are not safe I am not safe, and now you're really in the total animal soup of time and who therefore ran through the icy streets obsessed with a sudden flash of the alchemy of the use of the ellipse the catalog the meter & the vibrat- ing plane, who dreamt and made incarnate gaps in Time & Space through images juxtaposed, and trapped the archangel of the soul between 2 visual images and joined the elemental verbs and set the noun and dash of consciousness together jumping with sensation of Pater Omnipotens Aeterna Deus to recreate the syntax and measure of poor human prose and stand before you speechless and intel- ligent and shaking with shame, rejected yet con- fessing out the soul to conform to the rhythm of thought in his naked and endless head, the madman bum and angel beat in Time, unknown, yet putting down here what might be left to say in time come after death, and rose reincarnate in the ghostly clothes of jazz in the goldhorn shadow of the band and blew the suffering of America's naked mind for love into an eli eli lamma lamma sabacthani saxophone cry that shivered the cities down to the last radio with the absolute heart of the poem of life butchered out of their own bodies good to eat a thousand years. II What sphinx of cement and aluminum bashed open their skulls and ate up their brains and imagi- nation? Moloch! Solitude! Filth! Ugliness! Ashcans and unob tainable dollars! Children screaming under the stairways! Boys sobbing in armies! Old men weeping in the parks! Moloch! Moloch! Nightmare of Moloch! Moloch the loveless! Mental Moloch! Moloch the heavy judger of men! Moloch the incomprehensible prison! Moloch the crossbone soulless jailhouse and Congress of sorrows! Moloch whose buildings are judgment! Moloch the vast stone of war! Moloch the stun- ned governments! Moloch whose mind is pure machinery! Moloch whose blood is running money! Moloch whose fingers are ten armies! Moloch whose breast is a canni- bal dynamo! Moloch whose ear is a smoking tomb! Moloch whose eyes are a thousand blind windows! Moloch whose skyscrapers stand in the long streets like endless Jehovahs! Moloch whose fac- tories dream and croak in the fog! Moloch whose smokestacks and antennae crown the cities! Moloch whose love is endless oil and stone! Moloch whose soul is electricity and banks! Moloch whose poverty is the specter of genius! Moloch whose fate is a cloud of sexless hydrogen! Moloch whose name is the Mind! Moloch in whom I sit lonely! Moloch in whom I dream Angels! Crazy in Moloch! Cocksucker in Moloch! Lacklove and manless in Moloch! Moloch who entered my soul early! Moloch in whom I am a consciousness without a body! Moloch who frightened me out of my natural ecstasy! Moloch whom I abandon! Wake up in Moloch! Light streaming out of the sky! Moloch! Moloch! Robot apartments! invisible suburbs! skeleton treasuries! blind capitals! demonic industries! spectral nations! invincible mad houses! granite cocks! monstrous bombs! They broke their backs lifting Moloch to Heaven! Pave- ments, trees, radios, tons! lifting the city to Heaven which exists and is everywhere about us! Visions! omens! hallucinations! miracles! ecstasies! gone down the American river! Dreams! adorations! illuminations! religions! the whole boatload of sensitive bullshit! Breakthroughs! over the river! flips and crucifixions! gone down the flood! Highs! Epiphanies! De- spairs! Ten years' animal screams and suicides! Minds! New loves! Mad generation! down on the rocks of Time! Real holy laughter in the river! They saw it all! the wild eyes! the holy yells! They bade farewell! They jumped off the roof! to solitude! waving! carrying flowers! Down to the river! into the street! III Carl Solomon! I'm with you in Rockland where you're madder than I am I'm with you in Rockland where you must feel very strange I'm with you in Rockland where you imitate the shade of my mother I'm with you in Rockland where you've murdered your twelve secretaries I'm with you in Rockland where you laugh at this invisible humor I'm with you in Rockland where we are great writers on the same dreadful typewriter I'm with you in Rockland where your condition has become serious and is reported on the radio I'm with you in Rockland where the faculties of the skull no longer admit the worms of the senses I'm with you in Rockland where you drink the tea of the breasts of the spinsters of Utica I'm with you in Rockland where you pun on the bodies of your nurses the harpies of the Bronx I'm with you in Rockland where you scream in a straightjacket that you're losing the game of the actual pingpong of the abyss I'm with you in Rockland where you bang on the catatonic piano the soul is innocent and immortal it should never die ungodly in an armed madhouse I'm with you in Rockland where fifty more shocks will never return your soul to its body again from its pilgrimage to a cross in the void I'm with you in Rockland where you accuse your doctors of insanity and plot the Hebrew socialist revolution against the fascist national Golgotha I'm with you in Rockland where you will split the heavens of Long Island and resurrect your living human Jesus from the superhuman tomb I'm with you in Rockland where there are twenty-five-thousand mad com- rades all together singing the final stanzas of the Internationale I'm with you in Rockland where we hug and kiss the United States under our bedsheets the United States that coughs all night and won't let us sleep I'm with you in Rockland where we wake up electrified out of the coma by our own souls' airplanes roaring over the roof they've come to drop angelic bombs the hospital illuminates itself imaginary walls col- lapse O skinny legions run outside O starry spangled shock of mercy the eternal war is here O victory forget your underwear we're free I'm with you in Rockland in my dreams you walk dripping from a sea- journey on the highway across America in tears to the door of my cottage in the Western night They danced down the streets like dingledodies, and I shambled after as I've been doing all my life after people who interest me, because the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes "Awww!" So in America when the sun goes down and I sit on the old broken-down river pier watching the long, long skies over New Jersey and sense all that raw land that rolls in one unbelievable huge bulge over to the West Coast, and all that road going, all the people dreaming in the immensity of it, and in Iowa I know by now the children must be crying in the land where they let the children cry, and tonight the stars'll be out, and don't you know that God is Pooh Bear? the evening star must be drooping and shedding her sparkler dims on the prairie, which is just before the coming of complete night that blesses the earth, darkens all rivers, cups the peaks and folds the final shore in, and nobody, nobody knows what's going to happen to anybody besides the forlorn rags of growing old, I think of Dean Moriarty, I even think of Old Dean Moriarty the father we never found, I think of Dean Moriarty, I think of Dean Moriarty. Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Badering 2 Posted September 14, 2010 Report Share Posted September 14, 2010 YES! YES! YES! Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Uruloki 15 Posted September 14, 2010 Report Share Posted September 14, 2010 Jepp. Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Fubarino 4 Posted September 14, 2010 Report Share Posted September 14, 2010 I love me some beat Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Z.Marcas 4 Posted September 17, 2010 Report Share Posted September 17, 2010 må innrømme at jeg ikke leste gjennom alt med åpen gylf Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Z.Marcas 4 Posted September 17, 2010 Report Share Posted September 17, 2010 noen ganger ser man idiotiske tanker kommer travende som hester på banen der borte i øst, skjærende lyder spenner seg i ulystog tenner et fjes her og der, de ser etter fjes som aldi dukker oppjeg har tapt mange penger som aldri kommer tilbake men det betyr ikke så mye i det lange løpdet betyr mer at jeg tenker at disse bokstavene burde bety noe mer enn bokstavrmene jeg begynner bli leiså jeg strammer meg opp, ganger av gårde mot gangen til halmet og høyet, i en slags tro på et 'kanskje'! 1 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Z.Marcas 4 Posted September 17, 2010 Report Share Posted September 17, 2010 mitt publikum! 1 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Z.Marcas 4 Posted September 17, 2010 Report Share Posted September 17, 2010 jeg har ei øm tå bilder jeg vil drukne i, som min håpløse seng jeg finner fra tid til annenhyperaktive analyser av twitter stillerinni seg selv, med sin håpløse inhabilitet! vår tids hengekøyeuten trekk for annet enn regn og naturkatastrofer, et ord somi sannhet gjør vondt 1 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Uruloki 15 Posted September 24, 2010 Report Share Posted September 24, 2010 Stillhet, stillhet... hvorfor plager det folk så jævlig? Enten er det vel jeg som har en menneskelig feil, eller så er det mennesket som har en feil. Hvorfor blir ikke stillhet verdsatt som noe vakkert eller komfortabelt eller tilfredstillende oftere? Jeg har fått nok av Verdens Klovner. Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Uruloki 15 Posted September 24, 2010 Report Share Posted September 24, 2010 Og hvorfor gjemmer Z.Marcas alle sine gode tanker bak tvetydig poesi? Jeg vet ikke, har vel alltid vært en overtydelig mann selv, en som liker at ting ropes ut. Kan han ikke si hva han egentlig mener for en gangs skyld, for forståelsens skyld, for min skyld? Jeg trodde kanskje at utlandet ville gjøre meg godt, på samme måte som å være en fremmed i en annens territorium gjorde meg godt da jeg forsvant rundt verden en-og-en-halv gang, men så langt har jeg ikke blitt imponert av noe som helst. "Yeah, American Pie, great movie," "I love Blink 182, man", og klubbing og atter klubbing. Og her trodde jeg at jeg kom til pubtilværelsenes hjemland og en kunstskole hvor Tarkovskij ble namedroppet på lav sko og at om folk sa de likte Boris og Kevin Drumm ville det bli sett på som "entry level", men den gang ei. Jeg vet ikke helt hva jeg skal tro lenger, kanskje er menneskerasen fortapt slik sett, for selv om man oppsøker de rette miljøene finner man sjelden det man leter etter, heller er det vel slik at det er i de mest usannsynlige miljøene man finner sjelefrender. Men jeg får vel ha et såkalt åpent sinn, og tillate all idiotien, for de er jo tross alt ungsauer, og selv om jeg er en ungsau selv prøver eg jo å strebe etter noe litt annet enn å sitere Happy Tree Friends og Band of Brothers når jeg snart er tjueto år. For jeg trodde jo tross alt at vi hadde kommet lengre på den tia. Vi får se, vi får se. For nå, gjør The Golden Core og rom og cola seg ganske godt fortsatt. Vi får se. pretender; du har vært oppi det samme? Hjelp? Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Uruloki 15 Posted September 24, 2010 Report Share Posted September 24, 2010 Faen faen faen. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c6IarKpFWBM Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Z.Marcas 4 Posted September 24, 2010 Report Share Posted September 24, 2010 Liv og visdom: Veien er ikke lang, men stubbete Og punktumet er ikke overflødig, sammenlign gjerne med punkteringen. Deliriumet å stå i veikanten med slangen i hånden med et forspent blikk mot horisonten, lenge lenge sto vi slik og tenkte på alt vi fortjente la meg sitere Z på dette: "Til syvende og sist er det bunnløse spørsmål som stilles oss,av den identitetsløse forfatter, av pseudonymet,stemmen som klør i halsen" Et modernitetens skrik i parantes! Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
blausen 12 Posted September 25, 2010 Report Share Posted September 25, 2010 Skjcønner ikke hvorfr folk må pakke ting inn i kvasifilsosofisk vrøvl, jeg sier det på godt norsk; æ e drita ! Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Uruloki 15 Posted September 26, 2010 Report Share Posted September 26, 2010 Blæblæblæ. Bare jeg som syter når det jukses med reglene i klesblackjack? Selv om det tross alt handler om å få jenter nakne, er det da utolerabelt å jukse i gamlbing. Eller? Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Uruloki 15 Posted September 30, 2010 Report Share Posted September 30, 2010 Fy faen i satans helvete............................. Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Montag 4 Posted September 30, 2010 Report Share Posted September 30, 2010 Fy faen i satans helvete.............................Velartikulert - som vanlig. Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
ragoo 2 Posted September 30, 2010 Report Share Posted September 30, 2010 SKAL VI SE. Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
ragoo 2 Posted September 30, 2010 Report Share Posted September 30, 2010 headsetet flaug til faen. så det. Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Uruloki 15 Posted October 1, 2010 Report Share Posted October 1, 2010 SOM VANLIG, FØKK DET DA. Faktisk, FØRSTE, første, hvem skulle trodd det, første gang jeg har gått for to-fingre-nedi-halsen-teknikken for å bli kvitt litt av fylla, for jeg har jo tross alt skole klokka 11 i mårra. Herregud, herremingud. Montag ass. DFilm ass, hvorfor henger jeg her fortsatt? I can't let you ouuuut! XX ass, XX ass. But excuse me: BLÆÆÆÆÆÆÆÆÆH! BLÆÆÆÆÆÆRGH! SPLASH! SPLOOOOOSH! BLÆÆÆÆÆÆÆÆOOOOORRRRGH! That's the risk I take. Badabadabadabambadabadam. So now I never, explode. Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Uruloki 15 Posted October 1, 2010 Report Share Posted October 1, 2010 Ragoo, jeg elsker deg, ok? Kan du ikke bidra med litt flere one-liners fremover? Jeg er i samme fanklubben som morty. Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Montag 4 Posted October 1, 2010 Report Share Posted October 1, 2010 SOM VANLIG, FØKK DET DA. Herregud, herremingud. Montag ass. DFilm ass, hvorfor henger jeg her fortsatt?Såså da. Vi må da -selv i en tråd som dette - kunne stille visse krav til innleggenes kvalitetsgehalt? Dessuten heter tråden promille-tanker, ikke promillevrøvl/-ranting. Jeg forventer et mer kåseripreget og utfyllende innlegg fra deg neste gang du føler behov for å dokumentere dine fylleopplevelser. Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Uruloki 15 Posted October 1, 2010 Report Share Posted October 1, 2010 Hvis det er én tråd som ikke trenger moralpoliti, er det vel denne. Formen er ikke så veldig god i dag, akkurat. Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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