FREAKINGBAER used WTFPWN!


Hey, I'm David Moore, commonly referred to as The Flub.
And this is my blog. Enjoy.
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Music of the Moment:
Mon Oct 20

(Source: spookykongsixtyfour, via yd12k)

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Sun Oct 19
murderousscreams replied to your post: “Well, I’ll be heading to Fort Wayne tomorrow morning for Pokemon…”
Bad luck

image

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qoftd replied to your post: “Well, I’ll be heading to Fort Wayne tomorrow morning for Pokemon…”
Good luck! Don’t let creepy trolls take pictures with your butt!

image

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Sat Oct 18

kyleehenke:

fuckyeasonic:

The SonicMerchandise US store has announced some new festive items, to be released November 7!

holy fucking shit

(via jacquereleton)

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Well, I’ll be heading to Fort Wayne tomorrow morning for Pokemon Regional Championships, wish me luck. Just getting over a head cold, and going by myself, so it’s looking a bit iffy, but I’m sure I’ll have a good time regardless.

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ayydam:

boxing

ayydam:

boxing

(via jacquereleton)

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Fri Oct 17

evolutional:

why sleep when you can stay up late every night being sad then feel like shit the next day

(Source: evolutional, via bredace)

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Thu Oct 16

(Source: witapepsi, via otterlyfabulous)

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Mon Oct 13
abalidoth:

captaintwerkirk:

Well then it’s a good thing I hate sports *slams button*

The year is 2027. It is Super Bowl season. The football players that have been selected for this year’s culling huddle in a sad, discontented mass in the middle of an overgrown stadium. The stink of fear mingles with the smell of fresh earth, an unholy bouquet for a terrible day.
Then they begin arriving, singly and in groups. Their claws glint in the harsh stadium lights, and there is blood matted into their fur. The football players put on their game face, but the hollowness of their eyes betrays their true hopelessness. There is no use fighting, other than to make a brave showing.
After all, everyone knows the bears always win.

abalidoth:

captaintwerkirk:

Well then it’s a good thing I hate sports *slams button*

The year is 2027. It is Super Bowl season. The football players that have been selected for this year’s culling huddle in a sad, discontented mass in the middle of an overgrown stadium. The stink of fear mingles with the smell of fresh earth, an unholy bouquet for a terrible day.

Then they begin arriving, singly and in groups. Their claws glint in the harsh stadium lights, and there is blood matted into their fur. The football players put on their game face, but the hollowness of their eyes betrays their true hopelessness. There is no use fighting, other than to make a brave showing.

After all, everyone knows the bears always win.

(Source: spaceeship, via yd12k)

Comments