Who the fuck are you? You screw'd on a nos powered peg-leg and walked the rainbow plank into here only to setup an ezmacro refresh option on your f12 key, and reveal to the public your bleeding overstretched Wonka chocolate factory in 100x100 fashion below your name. As flies gather on a steaming pile of South African baboon dung, the most worthless of gimps put on a pair of tubesocks and powerslid into the Brawl-Hall once attracted by the likes of Freud and ladr posing outside the doors in nothing but tied off White Snake wifebeaters, Ishtar sashes, and some open toe gucci sandals sucking on sour apple ring pops. You're about as hip as Rick Moranis in a velor Sean John jumpsuit munching on a stick of fruity mentos.
You're not hardcore. You wouldn't know hardcore if a Polar Bear unloaded frozen prune sized pellets of shit onto your outstretched phallic indented palm while Hank the Angry Dwarf, and Beetlejuice rode Paris Hilton like a anorexic bronco bull. The next time you open that cock cave you call mouth should be to have Ballpark footlongs foot-fed to you through your gap tooth by Air Jordan himself in fishnets while you spit shine his 96' championship toe ring.
be gone.