Kev45
Voted UKChat most handsome 'man' 2023-2024.
- Joined
- Nov 2, 2022
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Once upon a time, in a small village called Tumbleweed, that no one could find on a map, there lived a sleazy character named Quaker63. Weighing in at a colossal 35 stone, this 63-year-old had mastered the art of foul odours that followed him like a shadow. He resided in the dimly lit cellar of his mother’s bungalow, a space cluttered with empty pizza boxes, stacks of old Beano comics, and a vast collection of outdated technology that would even make a hoarder blush.
Quaker63 was unashamedly unemployed, not due to a lack of ambition, but rather because he had sworn off traditional work ever since discovering that he could earn a far more rewarding experience by trolling his female nemesis online. With a keyboard in one hand and a half empty can of cheap Aldi cider in the other, he became Tumbleweed's unofficial keyboard warrior, fighting numerous battles against the imaginary evil feminazi of the internet.
Quaker63 was quite infamous in the online world, primarily for his lacklustre trolling skills. He dedicated countless hours to harassing women on social media, with one word insults and hiding behind the guise of his keyboard warrior status. In his mind, he was a digital warrior of sorts, valiantly fighting a fictitious battle against a feminist world that he felt was out to get him. Little did he know, the only real battle was the one he fought every morning with the bedsheets, wracked with the consequences of his late-night drinking.
His communication skills, often criticized for a lack of substance, were more reminiscent of a drunken parrot than a skilled debater. "Women shouldn't be allowed to drive!" he'd type furiously, drunkenly forgetting that he had already logged off. As he paced angrily amidst the empty takeaway cartons strewn around his mums cellar, he believed himself to be the champion of the oppressed men of the world. Completely overlooking the fact that he had never quite managed to figure out how to make a cup of tea without spilling it down his stained, rancid string vest.
Alas, for all his online bravado, Quaker63 faced a daily struggle. His drinking habit, often resulting in bed-wetting, were legendary in the village. It was said he could fill a toddler's paddling pool in a single night. His old mum, bless her heart, would often bring him clean sheets and a fresh quilt in the morning while pinching her nose and muttering something about how in her day, "a young man had some pride!"
As if that weren’t enough, Quaker63 was also known to engage in particularly peculiar habits during dark winter evenings. When the sun went down and the village was a much quieter place, he could frequently be spotted lurking in an abandoned old red phone box at the end of the lane, and which had recently become his home from home. Other villagers thought it was rather odd that Quaker63 had reclaimed this iconic British antiquity for what he called “personal reflection time.” His idea of reflecting often led to very public displays of self gratification, as he’d mishandle his private moments, leaving a trail of bewildered passer-byes in his wake, while he made loud grunting noises and breathlessly called out "Debbie, Debbie I love you".
Despite his questionable hygiene, which was somewhere between a dog licking its own bollocks and a wheely bin that hasn't been emptied for a month, Quaker63 still had big dreams. He’d often proclaim that he was going to become the local councillor, chiefly because he had a vision for his village where the solitary takeaway would serve him free kebabs every Friday. This, of course, was heavily influenced by his own dietary habits, which consisted primarily of fat laden junk food and cheap Aldi cider, with a healthy sprinkle of buyer's remorse and regret thrown in for good measure.
One night, after a particularly long binge, Quaker63 stumbled out of his red phone box sanctuary, triumphant after another erotic nighttime adventure. He was convinced that he had discovered a portal to another dimension where trolls ruled the land and women were just characters in video games. “I will be their king!” he thought, proudly strutting home down the dark lane, albeit with a wobbly gait that resembled an Ostrich walking on sodden ice.
Unfortunately, though, the reality was that his short reign was destined for failure. The people of the village had grown weary of his antics. They decided to band together, a coalition of proud mothers and daughters, to launch the "Operation Clean-Up Quaker63" initiative. They set out one fine Saturday morning, armed with soap, water, and a whole lot of patience, to reclaim the semen stained red phone box.
When Quaker63 stumbled upon the scene later that day, still hungover from the previous night, he was flabbergasted. “What treachery is this?!” he bellowed, but it was no use. The coalition, fuelled by grim determination and a sprinkle of kindness, had managed to clean up the phone box, transforming it from a den of iniquity into a community shelter where villagers could shelter from the rain and real conversations could take place.
Realizing that he was outnumbered and no match for their collective spirit, Quaker63 retreated back to the sanctuary of his mums cellar, where he plotted revenge against the group who had named themselves "The Empowered Roses". Their motto, “No More Wanking In Our Phone Box", enraged Quaker63. The 'feminazi' will never defeat me, victory will be mine, Quaker63 muttered to himself over and over again, while he energetically shovelled an entire tube of cheese and chive Pringles down his cavernous gullet.
Quaker63 was unashamedly unemployed, not due to a lack of ambition, but rather because he had sworn off traditional work ever since discovering that he could earn a far more rewarding experience by trolling his female nemesis online. With a keyboard in one hand and a half empty can of cheap Aldi cider in the other, he became Tumbleweed's unofficial keyboard warrior, fighting numerous battles against the imaginary evil feminazi of the internet.
Quaker63 was quite infamous in the online world, primarily for his lacklustre trolling skills. He dedicated countless hours to harassing women on social media, with one word insults and hiding behind the guise of his keyboard warrior status. In his mind, he was a digital warrior of sorts, valiantly fighting a fictitious battle against a feminist world that he felt was out to get him. Little did he know, the only real battle was the one he fought every morning with the bedsheets, wracked with the consequences of his late-night drinking.
His communication skills, often criticized for a lack of substance, were more reminiscent of a drunken parrot than a skilled debater. "Women shouldn't be allowed to drive!" he'd type furiously, drunkenly forgetting that he had already logged off. As he paced angrily amidst the empty takeaway cartons strewn around his mums cellar, he believed himself to be the champion of the oppressed men of the world. Completely overlooking the fact that he had never quite managed to figure out how to make a cup of tea without spilling it down his stained, rancid string vest.
Alas, for all his online bravado, Quaker63 faced a daily struggle. His drinking habit, often resulting in bed-wetting, were legendary in the village. It was said he could fill a toddler's paddling pool in a single night. His old mum, bless her heart, would often bring him clean sheets and a fresh quilt in the morning while pinching her nose and muttering something about how in her day, "a young man had some pride!"
As if that weren’t enough, Quaker63 was also known to engage in particularly peculiar habits during dark winter evenings. When the sun went down and the village was a much quieter place, he could frequently be spotted lurking in an abandoned old red phone box at the end of the lane, and which had recently become his home from home. Other villagers thought it was rather odd that Quaker63 had reclaimed this iconic British antiquity for what he called “personal reflection time.” His idea of reflecting often led to very public displays of self gratification, as he’d mishandle his private moments, leaving a trail of bewildered passer-byes in his wake, while he made loud grunting noises and breathlessly called out "Debbie, Debbie I love you".
Despite his questionable hygiene, which was somewhere between a dog licking its own bollocks and a wheely bin that hasn't been emptied for a month, Quaker63 still had big dreams. He’d often proclaim that he was going to become the local councillor, chiefly because he had a vision for his village where the solitary takeaway would serve him free kebabs every Friday. This, of course, was heavily influenced by his own dietary habits, which consisted primarily of fat laden junk food and cheap Aldi cider, with a healthy sprinkle of buyer's remorse and regret thrown in for good measure.
One night, after a particularly long binge, Quaker63 stumbled out of his red phone box sanctuary, triumphant after another erotic nighttime adventure. He was convinced that he had discovered a portal to another dimension where trolls ruled the land and women were just characters in video games. “I will be their king!” he thought, proudly strutting home down the dark lane, albeit with a wobbly gait that resembled an Ostrich walking on sodden ice.
Unfortunately, though, the reality was that his short reign was destined for failure. The people of the village had grown weary of his antics. They decided to band together, a coalition of proud mothers and daughters, to launch the "Operation Clean-Up Quaker63" initiative. They set out one fine Saturday morning, armed with soap, water, and a whole lot of patience, to reclaim the semen stained red phone box.
When Quaker63 stumbled upon the scene later that day, still hungover from the previous night, he was flabbergasted. “What treachery is this?!” he bellowed, but it was no use. The coalition, fuelled by grim determination and a sprinkle of kindness, had managed to clean up the phone box, transforming it from a den of iniquity into a community shelter where villagers could shelter from the rain and real conversations could take place.
Realizing that he was outnumbered and no match for their collective spirit, Quaker63 retreated back to the sanctuary of his mums cellar, where he plotted revenge against the group who had named themselves "The Empowered Roses". Their motto, “No More Wanking In Our Phone Box", enraged Quaker63. The 'feminazi' will never defeat me, victory will be mine, Quaker63 muttered to himself over and over again, while he energetically shovelled an entire tube of cheese and chive Pringles down his cavernous gullet.
