Hell, dude it's not like you've said anything so self-deprecating that would skew our opinions one way or another, because that's already set for most of us. So spill the beans and get it off your chest.
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The truth.

*takes drink of Michelob like William Shatner*

I met Shakira Zanzibar III at a small eatery in the back alley of the worst part of town. I was at first concerned about the location, a haven for drug dealers, prostitutes and minorities. But I got over it when I stepped out of my rusted 1865 Cadillac Testarossa and saw Shakira.

She was breathtaking. Her long blonde hair was up in curls. She was wearing purple zubaz pants and a mesh hoodie. She smiled at me through thick layers of black lipstick, and winked one long row of fake eyelashes at me seductively. I was taken.

We entered the eatery and she ordered a gallon of motor oil. That's when I knew the jig was up.

But I waited, like a fool. I waited. I was hungry and wanted my calzone, so I waited.

My 'zone arrived, squealing, and the waiter set down her jug of prestone. As a thick rope of it drooled down the side of the Mickey Mouse vessel, I raised an eyebrow.

"Are you secretly a robot?" I asked, my voice stammering.

Shakira's eyes turned a bright shade of red and flared. Steam belched from her ears as the grinding noise of gears filled the restaurant. Steel pistons flew from her "muscular" thighs and became four, six and then eight legs. Slowly, "she" raised to "her" full height of eighteen-point-six-three meters.

Robo-Kira glared menacingly at me and picked up her motor oil.

After one long drag was passed down her silvery throat, she slammed the container down on the table, shattering it, the table, and my nerve. The shockwave sent me flying across the room and my spine was crushed against the chipped wall with a sickening thud. My vision blurred as blood ran in my eyes and the room danced.

But I heard the metallic menace approaching. Robo-Kira's clubby rubber feet thumped against the black and white tiles. The 'bot drew a long, menacing laser cannon from it's innards and aimed.

Then Clark Hunt, Scott Pioli, Mike Shanahan and Larry Johnson, The KC Kapers Krew, burst through the door dressed in their unmistakable bright red spandex jumpsuits. They formed a diamond. Using Larry's Roca-symbol as the focuser, a bright yellow beam of crackling energy shot forth and disintigrated Robo-Kira in one fiery blast.

I shielded my eyes as the room danced with shadows from the explosion. Larry walked over to my crumpled form and extended one hand. I stared up into his black form, silhoutteted against the sun shining through Taco Bell's windows.

"Buy season tickets," he said.
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Looks like he was dealing with a tranny
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TRANSFORMERS!

Crazy bitches in disguise!
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I hope someone didn't point her to come to this thread and read what you said.

If so that is fucked up.
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That would be the only thing I could think of that could be reason enough not to post about it on a forum where she knows no one and no one knows her. Hell, if anything, she would know that she really gets to teach him something. Whoever pointed it out to her is just cruel and spiteful.
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My money's on Kirstie Tynes.
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Yeah that would be messed up. I hope thats not what happened.
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Prestone makes antifreeze, not motor oil.
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me, me, me me
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This has to be fake.


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Probably.

However, I've said it before and I'll say it again: Bendy girls are fun.

I tell anyone who ever has the opportunity, if you have a chance to date a gymnast, do it. And do it often.
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Oooooh, yeah. She just asked me for my facebook. I'm hard.


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Claythan, please review the lyrics of "I Saw Her Standing There."
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LOL

I don't even want to show you her picture...she frightens me...
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