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verhalen van victorian guy

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Lauw

Huge Freak
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27 jan 2004
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deze verhalen heb ik van steroidology. geschreven door victorian Guy.
alle vooroordelen over bodybuilders zijn waar! lees en huiver.... :D

Story 1
The following is a true story.

I had inside information that Ernie Taylor was looking to shoot a bodybuilding video. I acted quickly, having always wanted to direct a pro's video and make them world-famous! I contacted Ernie, and told him that I was a well-established amateur film-maker, and was also currently working with Lou Ferrigno on a documentary on his life. I lied, but so what?

Ernie agreed to meet with me at a grungy gym in London where he trains from time to time. We shook hands, I pointed to the rented video equipment, and went over my ideas for his video, which I wanted to title 'Ernie Taylor: TAKING CHARGE!'. He liked the ideas I presented, about making a truly HARD-CORE video.
Nobby, my chauffeur and training partner, was on hand.

We went through some exercises, but the intensity just wasnt there. "Look, Ernie, see that man by the water cooler? He is a paid actor, hired by me for the video. Go over and shove him out the way, and show everyone how Ernie TAKES CHARGE!!" I yelled. "Are you sure? I mean, I don't go shoving blokes about..." Ernie protested. I grabbed him by the shoulders, and, in a low but steadily rising voice won him over- "Listen, Ernie, people don't want to see Ernie Taylor the gentlemen...now stop being a little girl and show em how being huge means being IN BLOODY ****ING CHARGE!!!"
Ernie walked over with his water bottle and shoved the man out the way. The middle-aged fellow he pushed went sprawling to the floor, and, scrambling to his feet, began begging Ernie not to hurt him, then turned and fled from the gym. "He didn't look like he was acting to me!" Ernie protested. "Listen, Ernie, that fellow is currently doing 'Hamlet' at the Globe Theatre...playing..er..the role of, ahm, Yorick...he is just staying in character, even off stage, as REAL actors do" I lied. Ernie bought it!

Next it was time for some heavy-duty work.
This time, brothers, Nobby would be Ernie's partner.
With Nobby working out with and spotting him, Ernie went through some bar-bending, screaming, 7 plates a side sets of squats. Then it was on to barbell curls. Nobby loaded up an E-Z bar with 3 45s on each side, handed it to Ernie, and began screaming, five times louder than Dorian's partner in the 'Blood and Guts' video-"ROOOIIIGHT THEN! LOADED MAGAZINES....TAKE FOOKIN CHAAAHHGE...SQUUUEEEZZZEE!" With that, he smacked Ernie in the head to get him psyched up. Ernie completed 8 reps, screaming in agony, and when he tried to give up, Nobby punched him in the face, giving him that extra boost of intensity to complete 4 more reps before dropping the bar and collapsing to the gym floor, groaning. Nobby seized the bar, and curled it 30 times before tossing it aside in disgust, snarling "That was fookin nuffin!" in his heavy, cockney accent.

Just then, a teenager came over and interrupted us to get Ernie's autograph. I spun round, picked up the little twerp, and threw him across the gym. He hit the mirror on the wall, smashing it, and fell to into a bloody, broken heap on the floor. "Next time someone interrupts I'll ****ing KILL THEM!!" I roared. Just then Ernie's cellphone rang and he answered it "Hi, Mom...yes I'm finishing up...see you soon..." he managed to say, before I kicked the cellphone out of his hand. "LET'S TRAIN!" I screamed. "Hey, look mate, that was my bloody mother...and what the hell did you throw that kid for?" Ernie was getting angry. "Fine, Ernie, my apologies" I offered, fearing he was about to walk out on the video shoot.

Nobby was spotting Ernie on a set of wrist curls with 315 pounds, when I felt a tap on my shoulder and heard a woman's voice. "Excuse me, could you tell Ernie.." was all the woman got out before I EXPLODED in rage, spun around, and clotheslined her so hard she went flying out of her shoes and landed on the floor with a bone-crushing smack. Then I ran over, screaming, and kicked her in the ribs, lifting her off the floor with the force of my boot. I noticed then she was an elderly black woman. Oh well...she shouldnt be sticking her nose into other people's video shoots!
I turned to see Ernie, standing in front of me, his eyes open wide, his voice shaking. "Th--th--that was my MOTHER!" he screamed, then he started trembling, and finally his mind snapped. He seized an E-Z curl bar, and came at me like a maniac! I turned and ran, ducking his swings, any one of which would have been fatal had they connected with my skull...I would have handled him, brothers, but I don't like to harm the mentally deranged, nor did I want my Marlboro-man good looks compromised by a blow from a curlbar.

Ernie chased me around the gym, swinging the bar. I used a personal trainer and various gym members as human shields, but he smashed them aside in his crazed mission to destroy your humble narrator! Finally, his rampage was ended when Nobby managed to hit him over the head with his motorbike chain, knocking him out! Nobby and I quickly packed up the video equipment, loaded it into the trunk of the Rolls Royce parked out front, and drove off from the scene of disaster, laughing, as a police tactical unit and several police cars arrived at the gym!

As for Ernie Taylor- the man needs help. He needs meds, I think, to curb his sociopathic tendencies!

Story 2
Brothers,

I am thinking of getting into coaching for the disabled, both those with physical and mental disabilities- maybe something along the lines of the Special Olympics. A recent experience at the gym has, indeed, made me realize that NO MATTER what disability a person has, it should not deter them from pursuing the Iron Warrior lifestyle!

I was training back with my chauffeur and personal assistant, Nobby. We were doing weighted chins- the extra weight being a pencil neck we collared, frog-marched over to the chinning bar, and had him hang onto my legs as I repped out 10 chins, screaming with effort the whole time.
After my set, I noticed a number of handicapped folk training- some sort of group-home outing, no doubt. Nobby and I watched as one of the group-home workers tried to show a lad in a wheelchair how to do lat pulldowns, and had him using only 3 plates of the stack!
"This won't do", I sneered, and Nobby and I headed over to the woman and the handicapped fellow. "You think just because this man is wheelchair bound that he is a weakling?" I asked her. As she began to answer, Nobby smacked her across the face as I screamed "SILENCE!!" so loud the equipment rattled.
"Alright, brother- time for some REAL work!" I cried, put wrist straps on the man, put the pin to the bottom of the stack, added a 45 to it, pulled the pulldown-bar to his chest and while I held it there Nobby wrapped the straps around the bar. "BUSINESS- AS USUAL- NOW SQUEEZE....FEEL THE NEGATIVES!!" I roared, then let go of the bar. It snapped up, taking the man with it, his wrist straps unwound, and he flew over the pulldown machine and landed on the floor behind it, then began going into convulsions and foaming at the mouth- he was having a seizure!
I looked at Nobby. He looked at me. I put my hands deep into my pockets and, looking as innocent as possible, sauntered off, whistling a piece by Handel. Nobby lumbered off in the other direction, stopping only to smack a punk in the face for wearing sunglasses in the gym.

Later on, we headed over to the squat rack to do shrugs- but someone was using it! In this case, we decided not to toss them aside as a truly inspirational scene took place before our eyes.
There was a lad of about 20ish, suffering from Down's Syndrome, doing squats with 315- he was really putting superhuman effort into his sets! Once he was done, I approached him, offering my support.
"Bloody ****ing well done!" I cried. "What is your name?" I asked.
"Mawvin" he replied. Marvin was a happy looking fellow, and behind a pair of glasses with lenses 2 inches thick I could detect a warrior spirit. "Marvin, look about" I said. "You are the strongest of your group...I do hope YOU are taking bloody ****ing charge of this lot!" I cried. "See that man over there- the one in the wheelchair, drinking Gatorade...why not go over and claim that bloody Gatorade for yourself!"
"Roight. Show 'em who's bloody fookin boss- 'URT THE BAHSTAHDS!" Nobby snarled.
Marvin's eyes lit up, and he burst forth, screaming "AAAARRRRRGGGGHHH!!!", in a frenzy not seen since Japanese 'banzai' charges of WWII, and charged straight at the man in the wheelchair, clotheslining him out of his chair. He snatched the gatorade bottle, and, his maniacal banzai attack not quite over, he made a screaming dash at a retarded fellow who was sitting on a bench analyzing a bright shiny object he had picked up off the floor. Marvin clotheslined him off the bench, and he went flying arse-over tit onto the floor. Then Marvin began kicking him in the face! At that moment, several group home workers and gym members tackled Marvin, and as he screamed obscenities and struggled, one of the workers shoved a needle into his thigh and injected him with what was, no doubt, a powerful sedative. In 10 seconds, he stopped moving and the paramedics were called.

"I have seen enough. These poor fellows are being denied their DIGNITY!" I screamed. We headed out of the gym...and while heading out a man followed us into the parking lot. "Hi...look, I'm the manager of the group home...and I know you guys are only trying to help, but-" at that point he put his hand on Nobby's shoulder "...we prefer to handle them ourselves!" he said warmly.

He had touched Nobby. The end was near, so very, very near.

I stepped back. The skies darkened, birds flew away, and Nobby stood there like stone, as the ramifications of what had just happened dawned on him.
Screaming "FOOKIN POOFTAH!!!" Nobby delivered a kick, which would have sent a soccer ball into orbit, right into his testicles, lifting him up a few feet into the air. While he was hanging in mid-air, Nobby lashed him across the face with his chain, and he came to the ground like a pile of dirty laundry, and lay quivering, in the fetal position with his hands between his legs, on the parking lot. Just then, Marvin, the down-syndrome afflicted lad, having somehow fought off the effects of the tranquilizer, came staggering out the door and began beating the man on the ground with a 25 pound plate!

We jumped into the Rolls and roared off, laughing, as concerned members came out of the gym and began beating the living shit out of Marvin as police sirens wailed. No doubt, the authorities had been called.

Nobby and I are checking into coaching opportunities at the Special Olympics.
Any bros have experience in that department?
Story 3
Brothers.

My 85 year old grandmother has packed on over 30 solid pounds in the past 4 weeks. Her max bench has leapt from just the bar to 155 pounds- for reps!

Over the past month, I've been throwing a handful of papervar onto her salad, dissolving anadrol tabs in her tea...and I tell you, she has really turned into a hard-core lifter! Her roid rage is totally out of control, and she is eating like a horse.
She has no clue that she is on steroids!

Just the other day, Nobby and I were with her in the gym. Normally I smack her around when she starts to give up with the weights, but this time the tables were indeed turned!
I was curling 275, and after 15 reps slowed down a tad. She lifted her umbrella (she carries it about in the gym with her) and stabbed me in the crotch, screaming "You ****ing WEAKLING!!!". I dropped the weight and collapsed, and she continued the abuse, beating me over the head mercilessly with her fearsome umbrella!
A passerby, an old gent of around 65, stopped and commented "Good Lord, my dear, easy does it!" and she spun around, grabbed his testicles, and began crushing them in a vice-like grip, hissing "Who asked you, ****FACE?!"
Finally, Nobby intervened and gave her a tremendous smack across the face with his bike chain, and as she lay on the floor, quivering, he dropped a 100 pound dumbbell on her, screaming "AARRRGGHH!!" the whole time.

Well folks, Nobby and I left her comatose on the gym floor. But tommorow is leg day, and granny will be along for some mind-blowing quad work. Then we'll see who the weakling is!
I'll provide another update on the amazing gains my grandmother is making.
Anyone else have a grandmother as fiesty as mine?

Story 4
Brothers,

I am in quite a pickle, and I need your help to resolve this unfortunate situation. A lad at my gym has been the guinea pig in a growth hormone experiment, using GHs meant for animals!

As some of you may know, I have been helping a Down's-Syndrome afflicted lifter at my gym named Marvin to be a world-class powerlifter. Yet something has gone DRASTICALLY wrong!

The following is a true story.

It all started a couple of months ago, when I was discussing the probable effects of using bovine GH. "It won't work...and who knows what it could end up doing to you?" the other lads at the gym said.
I could get loads of vet GHs- the kinds meant for horses, cows, etc, and at bargain prices. No one was brave enough to volunteer for the treatment, to be a guinea pig in the name of bodybuilding science.
"Wait, lads...there is one Iron Warrior amongst us without fear...one man who of courage who is up to the challenge-MARVIN!" I declared. "Yes, Marvin- you will be the guinea pig!!" I roared. From that day on, I've been giving him shots of various animal GHs, 10 I.U.s here, 5 I.U.s there. I haven't been keeping track, really, just making sure I inject lots of the stuff into him. But nothing seemed to be happening.

Until-
A new and extraordinary GH has just been developed, and a scientist I know at Oxford University has sold me several bottles of it- REPTILIAN GH!! I added reptilian GH to Marvin's GH cocktail, and in recent weeks, the last especially, he has begun to mutate!
His jaw and forehead have extended forward, his hands become the size of shovels, his skin thickened, his muscles are growing out of control, his voice become deep and hoarse, like the 'Gorn' from the old 'Star Trek' series, and his strength SUPERHUMAN!!! I mentioned to my scientist chum what I had been doing with the reptilian GH, and he began screaming "What in GOD'S NAME have you done? You've been MEDDLING with things beyond your control!" he thundered. Then I punched him in the face.

Marvin has been de-evolving. He grunts and snarls like an animal, bounds around the gym like a gorilla, and is simply dangerous.
Earlier today, in the gym, Marvin showed up- walking hunched over, knuckles dragging on the ground, and grunting in no known language. He stopped at the squat rack and literally tossed aside the two fellows using it, then seized the bar, 4 plates per side, and military pressed it several times before dropping it to the floor! He then scurried over to the dumbbell rack, grapped the 140s and curled them effortlessly, before tossing them at the mirror, shattering it!
Snarling, he scurried out, but not before sniffing through the gym garbage bins and wolfing down what scraps he found in them. Rather than opening the front door, he simply ran through it, and went off as mysteriously as he had come. He hasnt been seen at the group home where he lives, but Nobby and I spotted him the other day, gobbling down a pizza while standing over the beaten pizza delivery man he had obviously attacked! We waved and gave him a thumbs-up "AWROIGGHT MAHVIN LOOKIN FOOKIN SMASHIN!" Nobby screamed so loud it was heard around the world. Marvin snarled, then ran off on all fours like some sort of werewolf.

Does anyone know how I might reverse the transformation?
Story 5
Brothers,

I cannot believe the incredibly poor quality of service afforded to we Iron Warriors. I, for one, am sick of it. Case in point- yesterday's trip to the supermarket.

I awoke, as usual, eager to get in at least 10 000 calories in my morning meal. My muscles, aching from yesterday's mind-blowing HIT calf, fingers and neck workout, were crying out for nutrients.
The chef, a Korean named Kwak, prepared a dozen eggs, a plate of sausages, 50 strips of bacon, a mountain of toast, and a double-serving of MegaMass 4000. I requested seconds, and he sheepishly whined "Boss, we pinished awl de pood. No moar weft." I sat, like stone, then slowly got up. In a flash, I leapt on Kwak and began strangling his 120 pound skinny Korean arse, screaming "You ****ing MORON! You're FIRED!!". Tossing Kwak down the steps, I searched for my trusted chauffeur and training partner, Nobby. I found him in the maid's room. "Nobby, we need to get to a supermarket. Now". Nobby put down the copy of "Just turned 18" porn mag he was reading, pulled up his pants, stuffed a pair of the maid's panties into his pocket, and grunted in acknowledgment. In no time, we were roaring towards the town grocery store, ignoring red lights and pedestrians the whole way. This was an EMERGENCY, bros.

Pulling into the parking lot, Nobby found a great spot within 20 yards of the front door of the supermarket. As we got out of the Rolls, another car pulled up behind us and an incredibly fat, disgusting slob of a woman managed to squeeze herself out and, huffing and puffing, began berating poor Nobby and I.
"That's a handicapped spot. SORRY, but I don't see a bloody sticker on YOUR car. See mine?" she hissed. We noted, on the window of the piece of shit car she was driving, whose seats were covered in candy bar wrappers, a 'handicapped sticker'.
I turned to Nobby. "Wherever is our sticker, Nobby?" I innocently enquired. Nobby lumbered over to the behemoth of a woman's car, took out his chain, smashed the windshield to bits, took the bit of glass with the handicapped sticker on it and planted it on our window. "Roight fookin there it is!" Nobby pointed out. The whale began screaming obsceneties at us, and Nobby's chain came crashing down over her head. Her fat form did a faceplant on the parking lot, and no doubt her blubber continued jiggling for several minutes afterwards.

The horrible woman neutralized, we proceeded to enter the supermarket. An elderly fellow, wearing a supermarket uniform, addressed us as we walked past.
"Why, Hello gentlemen, welcome to Cobson's Grocery" he croaked. I stopped in my tracks. My eyes narrowed, and I turned to him. "Are you talking to me?" I asked, with a glare that let him know the end was near. He looked very afraid. "I said are YOU talking to ME?" I snapped, "Because I bloody ****ing well don't see anyone else around!". My blood boiling at his unwanted homocoïtusual advances, I began screaming "SO YOU ARE TALKING TO ME! DO YOU HAVE A ****ING PROBLEM, YOU OLD SOD?" With the force of the meterorite that extinguished the dinosaurs, my fist came crashing into his face in an uppercut that sent him flying 10 feet through the air, and he hit the ground with a dull sick thud and lay motionless. "Nobby, I can't tolerate these openly gay men coming on to me!" I cried. Nobby grunted in obvious agreement.
Already in a foul mood, we threw open the front doors of the supermarket, shattering their glass panes to bits. "TAKING BLOODY ****ING CHARGE, PEOPLE!" I roared as I headed down the aisle, fists raised high. We headed down an aisle looking for the meat section, when we saw two men, holding hands, walking ahead of us. Nobby spread out his thick, massive arms and, screaming "FOOKIN POOFTAHHHS!!!" ran and closelined them both from behind, sending them sprawling on the floor. Nobby then executed a devasting elbow drop to each of the sodomites, and we resumed our shopping, the moral cleansing over.
The next aisle we ventured down held a stunning sight- the most beautiful woman I had ever seen, on a ladder, dusting the top shelf. The raven-haired beauty took my breath away. I shyly approached her, and, in a gentle manner, broke the ice. "My lady, you simply do have the most finely cleft arse in England!" I cried, and perhaps it was the 2grams of test in my system, or that wonderful tear-drop-shaped-slightly- plump arse of hers, but I couldn't help myself- seizing her buttocks, I began fondling them! She let out a squeal, and while trying to wiggle away fell off of the ladder and hit the floor, knocking herself out cold. I looked about. No one else around. Putting my hands in my pockets and looking as innocent as possible, I sauntered away, whistling a piece by Beethoven.

On the way to the meat counter, Nobby and I filled up two shopping carts with a total of 30 whole chickens, then headed for the beef counter. A young wimp was working the meat counter. "A side of beef" I snarled. He took out a steak and asked 'This wot you lookin fer, mate?" . "Let me see that, would you please?" I asked. He handed it to me and I threw it hard into his face, thundering "A ****ING SIDE OF BEEF, YOU BASTARD!" Whimpering in fear, he whined "It's in the back but you can't go there, only employees, you must..." his high voice was cut off as Nobby tossed him aside and lumbered into the backroom. Finding the meat cooler, Nobby seized a 300 pound side of beef, threw it over his shoulder, and lumbered out. The sound of police sirens drew my concern- Nobby was, after all, on parole, and false accusations of assault made against him could prove troublesome. "The back door, Nobby!" I suggested and, pushing two shopping carts full of chickens, led the way out the back door. As 3 police cars, lights flashing, sat in front of the store, and the officers entered the supermarket, Nobby and I casually walked to the Rolls, loaded it up with our food, and sped away.
"Those bastards haven't seen the last of us!" I roared.

The side of beef and 30 chickens should last about two weeks.

Any of you brothers get the same attitude at the supermarket?

Story 6
Brothers,

Lately, I have been having problems with my temper. As I outlined in 'Roid Rage', I had an incident at Church which really made me wonder- am I indeed a bit edgy?
Lately, at McDonald's, another distressing incident occurred.

The other evening, after finishing a brutal workout, Nobby and I staggered out of the gym. Bent bars, snapped cables, holes in the floor from where a bar loaded with 800 pounds had been dropped off of my back at the end of a set of squats, all indicated that truly Herculean efforts had been made by Nobby and I. Time for the post workout meal!
The line up at McDonald's was frightening. Nobby and I entered, and he commented on the crowd. "Watch and learn, Nobby old chap" I remarked, and then I shoved my way up to the front of the line, tossing folk aside and glaring down those who grumbled, before triumphantly reaching the counter. Nobby followed, chain in hand, lest any troublemakers try to protest. "We have to eat NOW, Nobby...our muscles are shrinking, for God's sake!" I cried.
Our turn came to order.
"Good evening, Sir, and what can I get you?" the cashier asked.
"Everything".
"Er..excuse me, Sir? What do you mean by 'everything'?" the pimple-faced punk asked.
"EVERYTHING!!!" I roared, gesturing to the entire array of hamburgers, fries, pies, etc., in front of us. "And make it ****ing quick, sunshine" I snapped. Nobby's glare persuaded the terrified boy to quickly begin piling every piece of food in sight onto trays- heaps of various burgers, pies, scoops and scoops of fries...etc, etc.
The waiting was too much- Nobby grabbed a 'Happy Meal' from the hands of a little boy and wolfed down the contents- not even bothering to unwrap the hamburger. As the young lad sniffled, I reprimanded Nobby "You bastard! Get the child something to make him feel better!". Nobby lumbered over to the plastic 'Happy Meal' toy display case, showing all 5 toys available to be collected, punched a hole in it, ripped it off the wall and handed the young lad the 5 toys that had been displayed within. He then punched a lady in the face, snatched her take-out bag, and handed it to the happy lad. "Well done, Nobby- your kindness indeed overrunneth!" I commended him.

Our food took 5 or 6 trips to bring it all to the 3 tables we occupied, and soon we were eating our way through a mountain of food, stopping occasionally to take a swig of whiskey from the bottle I had brought in under my coat.
Some time later, our hands shaking in effort to force feed ourselves, we finally managed to eat the last bit of food. I stood up, and reeled back- well, it wouldn't be the first time I had eaten until I was sick, but brothers, we Warriors suffer the pain!
As Nobby and I staggered out, the manager called us over. "Gentlemen, we just can't have you coming in here next time and..." he wasn't quite finished when, with a "'BLAAAARRRRGGHH!!!" I vomited all over him and, staggering over to the front counter, vomited all over it as well! I needed to replace those lost calories, and seizing a tray of french fries, I threw down a few bills and headed out.
The manager followed us, informing us that he had called the police, and was quickly silenced by a blow from Nobby's fist. As we drove off, several police cars pulled in to the McDonald's parking lot, one of them running over the unconscious manager!

Brothers- is it me- or those McDonald's employees? Aren't they supposed to always smile, for God's sake

Story 7
Monday. AM.

DBaller snaps awake in bed. Immediately, he heads out of his trailer and steals the newspaper from the trailer next to his. He rifles throught the headlines, keeping a sharp eye out for ZIONIST conspiracies. What's this? Bagels on sale at the local discount supermarket? "FUKIN JEWS ARE EVERYWHERE MAN" he screams.
He decides to join a gym, and leaps into his rusted out 1977 piece of shit Ford pick-up and drives to a gym. Entering, he meets the counterboy. "This gym got any Jews workin out in it?" he asks.
"I...wouldn't know....I think the owner might be Jewish..." the counterboy says, looking puzzled. "****! **** THIS JEW GYM!" DBaller screams. He heads out, and while driving notices another gym, with some Chinese characters on the sign. "A Chinese gym! Well, at least there won't be any Jews here" he sighs, "And I'll be the strongest guy there!". He asks the owner if he can have a trial workout, then proceeds to the bench and loads the bar up with 5 pounds on each side. He barely manages to squeeze out 4 reps, screaming, before getting stuck!
After some leg presses (1 plate per side) it's time for a shower! Hasn't had one in a while, as the trailer park's water supply isn't that great.

While showering, a few Cinese men enter. One of them gapes at him, and pointing to DBaller's crotch cries out in Chinese "Looks like a dick- only SMALLER!". The other Chinese guys start laughing, and DBaller turns and suckerpunches one of the slant-eyed devils and then runs out of the place... soaking wet....naked.....and runs right into his mom!
"Fukin jews mom...it's all the jews fault...bet those are Chinese jews in that gym!" he screams, then runs down the street, bawling.
Later, at the local Klan meeting, DBaller learns that things would have gone fine at the Chinese gym if only he had told everyone he WASN'T Jewish. "There's your problem right there" the Grand Wizard says. "Should've been wearing one of these" he says, then hands DBaller a t-shirt with "AINT NO FUKIN JOO" stenciled on it. "Wear mine all the time" the Wizard says.
Then he sodomizes DBaller.

What wacky Jew-hatin adventures await DBaller next?
Brothers,

A truly new and amazing method of cycling and training has been exposed to me recently...and I have to share this with all my Iron Warrior Brothers. George Spellwin is at this moment, no doubt, capitalizing on this- so before you pay him $99.99 for this info, allow me to 'let you in' on these secret oriental cycling methods.

It was all revealed to me a few weeks ago. While training in the gym, with my stalwart training partner and chauffeur, Nobby, we were watching a scrawny little bucktoothed, coke-bottle glasses wearing Jap doing squats with 135 pounds, screaming with every rep. He saw us watching (and laughing at) him, and the little yellow fiend came waddling up to us and began his pidgin-English tirade...Nobby and I were about to tear him limb from limb, but decided he was too amusing to begin beating right away.
"You Eengweesh...beeg men, but too beeg. You do not know how to twain and take stewoid...I am Sabuwo. I am samuwai bodybuiwder..." he babbled, then raised his 10 inch arms in a double-biceps pose to show us what real development meant. "Two tousand miwwigrams of test ebery day..." he sneered, pointing to his 'ripped' 130 pound body.
"You stoopid. You do not twain wight!" he snarled.

"Well then, my samurai friend..Saburo it is? Show us westerners how it is done then, brother!" I roared
He reached into his training bag, and took out a headband with the Rising Sun on it. He carefully tied it around his head. Then he reached back in, and pulled out two fully-loaded 10cc syringes. He held one in each hand, closed his eyes and began muttering, like some insane buddhist monk, and then slammed both syringes into his chicken legs and injected, screaming the whole time.
I was stunned. Now THAT was bloody hard-core, mates!
While he was in this intense state of mind, Nobby crept over to the squat rack, where the Jap fellow had left the bar, loaded with 1 plate per side, ready for his next set. While Saburo was meditating, psyching himself up for his 135 pound set of squats, Nobby quietly added 4 more plates to each side, snickering under his breath as he did so.
Saburo was standing there, eyes closed, saying some bizarre Japanese prayer, then suddenly opened his eyes and, screaming 'BANZAI!!!" ran at full speed over to the squat rack, unracked the bar- without realizing it now weighed 495, and with a loud snapping noise collapsed under the weight, and crumpled to the floor, along with the bar, with an apocalyptic earth-shattering crash!

His body lay, snapped like a twig, legs sprawled in unnatural positions, and his low moaning indicated he was still alive. Nobby and I began roaring with laughter- "That's for Hong Kong back in 41, you Jap bastard!!" I screamed, kicking his limp form. Nobby pulled his bike chain out and began beating Saburo, screaming "FOOKIN BASTAAHHD!" with each mighty wallop. We left him, barely clinging to life, smothered on the floor beneath the bar.
We took his gymbag, which was full of gear- tasty Japanese anabolic treats like primo, test, etc, and headed out the gym, laughing so loud that it echoed across the universe.

Anyway, any of you bros tried such insane injecting procedures? Or two thousand mg's a day? Good Lord!!
Brothers,

I hope you will take up my cause and flood the IFBB with emails protesting thier refusal to grant me my rightfully deserved pro-card. Despite proving my worth, the powers that be at the IFBB have ignored my requests, and I sense some form of discrimination is afoot.

The following is a true story.

I had travelled to Montreal, Canada, (first class of course) with my chauffeur/training partner/ex-convict, Nobby, to get my pro card from the Weider head office.

I had sent them my photos several times, which gave Wayne Demilla good views of my enourmous arms, monstrous legs, and overall Herculean development which would quash every competitor at the Mr. Olympia. My requests to be granted a pro card went unanswered, so I had, in a fit of rage, taken a flight to Montreal to settle the matter in person.

As we got out of the rented Jaguar, we ran into none other than Bob Paris in the parking lot! "Bob- are you going to compete again?" I asked. "Well, we'll see...not for now....I've gotta run boys.." and with that he skipped off into a pink cadillac and roared off, the stereo blasting the 70s hit 'YMCA'.
"There goes one of the GREATS" I uttered, with reverence.
"Seemed loik a fookin POOFTAH to me!" Nobby snarled.

Nobby and I lumbered up to the front doors of Weider Headquarters and threw them open with such force that they shattered. I walked up to the front desk, and addressed the terrified looking 'receptionist' with a roar of "TAKING CHARGE!!! GET ME DEMILLA NOOWWWW!!" that was so loud all the windows in the building rattled. "Just a minute..." the young woman at the desk snivelled, and quickly picked up a phone and said "Get down here...now...pleeeaaasse!!".
I surmised that she must have been speaking to Joe Weider.

Just then, several security guards approached Nobby and I, and in an instant, Nobby had his motorbike chain in hand and began beating the guards off, screaming. I grabbed a couple of them and hurled them through the reception desk, demolishing it.
Wayne Demilla appeared, and was astonished to see the guards had one and all been dealt with. "Well, Wayne....where's my ****ING card?!!" I screamed, then ran charging over and clotheslined him with such force that he did a perfect backflip and hit the floor unconscious.
As the sound of police sirens neared, Nobby and I headed out, laughing.

I'd given them a piece of my mind, and that night I slept the sleep of the Just.

This is unfair. I deserve a pro card, and, by God, they know it!
I am thinking of pressing assault charges against Weider Inc. for the behaviour of those security guards!!
Brothers,

Just wanting to update everyone on a method of injecting being used by the pros. Just remember - you're the first to hear of this on the internet!
It's called 'surprise injecting'.
As we all know, injecting all those CCs needed to get our target, let's say, 2 or 3 grams a week, causes most of us to shudder at the discomfort of having to inject so frequently and into so many sites. Yet- what if someone else did all the injecting, AND did it when you LEAST expected it? The lack of anticipation means by the time you notice that painful prick, it's all over! You simply need someone to inject you out of the blue, sort of like Inspector Clouseau had a crazy Jap houseservant, Kato, launch surprise karate attacks on him to keep him on his toes!

I've been using this method for the last few weeks, and the hard-core types at my gym have been following suit. I might have just finished a set of squats, and my training partner, Nobby, may just ram a 10cc syringe into my thigh and inject, snarling "ere's some fookin test for yah, guv'ner!" . Any cry of pain would land me a smack across the face. Just the other day, I walked up to a fellow lifter at the gym and gave him 5ccs of test prop, right in his right trap! He whined about the pain, and earned a bike-chain belt across the face from Nobby, who screamed 'FOOKIN POOFTAH!' as he dealt out the discipline.

But alas, you have got to be CAREFUL. Case in point- Marvin, the Down Syndrome's afflicted lifter at my gym, overheard me extolling the virtues of 'surprise injections', while holding a syringe loaded with 10cc of cyp, which I was going to use on a friend currently doing squats! I grabbed Marvin, handed him the syringe, and roared "Well, Marvin, let's see YOU do it! I think you know who to inject!" I bellowed. Surely, Marvin had seen me gesturing to the fellow doing squats, I thought. Marvin, syringe in hand, started screaming and ran over to the section of the gym with the treadmills. "Where in blazes is he going?" I muttered. Marvin charged up to a middle aged woman on one of the treadmills, slammed the needle into her arse, and injected! She fell off the bike, screaming, and ran out the gym in hysterics, the needle sticking out of her arse!

The gym manager called the police, and in no time several constables were on hand. Marvin was once again arrested and led out the gym, unable to comprehend the charges he faced.

Anyway, try this amazing technique- and remember, you heard it here first!!
The Art of Motivation
by Victorian Guy
appeared in 'Ironlife on-line magazine issue #4 (Nov)' at www.ironlife.com
edited

Brothers,

Sometimes, our training partners- or, in this case, personal training clients- need a bit of motivation to re-energize their efforts in the gym. Case in point-

A few months back, while Nobby and I were doing bar-bending squats with 700 pounds, and screaming at the top of our lungs, a scrawny little man dared to step over the containers of chalk, extra belts, wraps, and discarded pins covering the floor around the squat rack, to interrupt us!

I racked the weight and Nobby seized the saboteur by the throat, and began throttling him. "WHAT THE **** DO YOU WANT?!!" I screamed in his face, showering him in spittle. Gasping, he managed to get out a few words-"I...wwas..g-g-going to ask..for...advice..." he sputtered. Nobby let him go, and he dropped to the floor. What on earth? Someone in this spineless gym DARED to speak to us? I was curious, indeed. The scrawny fellow got to his feet- he was a spitting image of Hugh Grant, just as feeble a body and the same mannerisms. "Well....I was wondering if, er...you very large fellows would...perhaps..for compensation, of course...help me gain a few muscles?" he asked, sheepishly. "Certainly. Now come sit down and let us discuss the matter" I offered.

His name was Nigel, and after gathering some next-of-kin info about Nigel, i.e. parent's address, and having him sign a waiver and take an oath of allegiance to Nobby and I, we sent him off. "Tommorow- 7pm sharp- be here!" I snarled at him, then turned and walked off.

Well, brothers, the next evening Nigel sauntered in LATE. "Nigel- what time do you have?" I asked him as he walked in the door. "Er...a few minutes past seven...BLAAARRGGH!" he screamed, as Nobby wrapped his bike chain around Nigel's neck and held him up, choking! I ran over to him and screamed in his face "You're LAAAAAAAATE!!!" so loud that an old woman on the treadmill collapsed from fright!

Well, Nigel had to be carried out that night after a blistering HIT workout, and I handed him a bottle of anadrol and told him to take 4 tabs a day- then gave him a surprise injection of test in the shoulder!

Over the next few weeks, under our guidance, Nigel gained 20 pounds. He was eating several meals a day, taking weight gainer, test, anadrol, and doing the basic exercises....and growing!

One evening, Nigel didn't show. I got a call from him at the gym. He was still at home. "Look...I can't take it anymore...I...think I ...quit" he snivelled. "Remember your OATH, Nigel!" I roared, then slammed the phone down, shattering it.

Two hours later, I called Nigel. "Why hello, Nigel- how are things?" I asked dryly, sipping from a cup of tea Nigel's mum had made for me earlier. "Nobby, your mother, and I are enjoying the view from your mother's tenth floor apartment window..seems if you don't honor your word and lift and eat until you're 100 pounds heavier she will simply throw herself out this window!" I exclaimed. Nobby grabbed the phone out of my hand. "Oi'll fookin toss the old bag out the window, get it, BAHSTAHD? " he snarled. "What...on EARTH?...you're mad...let me speak to my mother!!!!" Nigel blubbered. I took the duck tape of the 80 year old's mouth and, as Nobby shoved the phone receiver in her face, she began screaming "Nigel! These horrible men have me in handcuffs, and have been beating me! PLEASE HELP!!!" she screamed, before I shut her mouth with a strip of duck tape and smacked her across the face. "Well, Nigel...coming back to the gym, then?" I asked. "Yes...anything...PLEASE...I'll go to the gym right now..." he whimpered. "Capital!" I cried, and we left Nigel's mum cuffed, duck taped, and quivering on the floor, and headed out- but not before Nobby gave Nigel's mom a good old fashioned kick to the face, for making us a lousy cup of tea! How dare she serve us 'Tetley's' shit??!

Nigel's back in the gym, and the gains are coming! All's well that ends well, I say.

So, brothers, if your partner or client just isn't giving it their all- simple words of encouragement may not be enough. DEEDS may be called for!
Brothers,

We all have people who have inspired us. For most at here at steroidology, that inspirational person may be a pro bodybuilder. Well, brothers, let me tell you about the person who inspires me- he's a lad with cerebral palsy named Rupert, and while physically he isn't much to speak of, he has the heart and determination of a LION!!!

I was at the gym giving Rupert yet another free personal training session. You see, bros, I do this out of the goodness of my heart- I've got a soft spot for the marginalized in society, and, BY GOD, I do whatever I can for them!

I was coaching Rupert through some basic bodybuilding movements, though his spastic condition made it difficult for him to perform them right. An idea suddenly occured to me- why shouldn't Rupert use a running machine? The running machine, or treadmill, I was thinking of, was a German made Thiessen TX 230 Olympic trainer- it has a treadmill that is twice as long as the standard, and can reach speeds approaching that of an Olympic sprinter! It has a reverse mode function, and I decided that Rupert could sit on the belt in his wheelchair, and while the belt went in reverse Rupert could turn the wheels on his chair to counter the momentum- what a workout that would be!

We tried it at very low speeds, and Rupert was just able to keep up! My chauffeur, training partner, and former maximum security prison inmate Nobby was overcome with joy at Rupert's success- and, screaming "Bloody FOOKING well DONE, lad!" brought his massive fist down on the control panel, in a gesture of uncontrolled emotion! Suddenly, something went terribly wrong with the TX 230, and it went into forward mode, at top speed! Rupert and his wheelchair were shot forward like a bullet, flipped over the front of the running machine, and went flying through the air into the weight-lifting area! His wheelchair broadsided an old lady, knocking her feeble form unconscious, and Rupert went flying into the large, triple-shelved dumbbell rack. The dumbbell rack teetered, tottered, and fell over with a thunderous crash, as dumbbells of all weights came crashing down, burying Rupert!

We called an ambulance and dug him out of the dumbbells. Luckily, the tough young man was still alive- but he began having a grand mal seizure!

Well, he was only in a coma for a week. The tough little lad- you've got to admire his fighting spirit. When I don't feel like going to the gym, I think of Rupert....and, brothers, what an inspiration he is! Sorry...I'm getting emotional...*wipes away a tear*...till next time, brothers!!
Brothers,

I am very upset with an accusation levelled at me by a member of this board. I've been accused of making fun of handicapped people. NOTHING could be FURTHER from the truth!!

Why, just the other day, I went out of my way to help a fellow at my gym. Wang is a dyslexic Chinese man, and on hearing of his condition, I decided to see what I could do to help him. I've recently read that episodes of explosive rage are useful tools for overcoming the dyslexic functions in the brain, so I decided to apply this theory to Wang, to HELP him!

There he was, in the middle of the gym, doing tai-chi. I came up to him and asked "Hey, Wang, I've got a cup of ramen over there, would you like some?". Wang is one cranky old chinaman, and he turned to me and snarled "YUCK FOU!!" . "Fine" I said smugly, and went and got the cup of ramen noodles and came back. "Yo- Wang- check it!" I snapped, and as he turned to face me, I hurled a handful of noodles into his face! He went ballistic, and screaming "cucking focksucker!!" came running after me. I ran into the men's changeroom, and hid around a corner. As Wang came charging in, I stepped out and clotheslined him! His 120 pound body went into a backflip, and he hit the floor, and was knocked unconscious! I left the room and went back to my workout, chuckling. Then, Marvin, my retarded pal, came charging into the changeroom screaming, and began stomping on Wang! Hopefully this episode of rage has yielded therapeutic effects for Wang...more 'therapy' is planned.
Now if that isn' t helping out a brother, WHAT ON EARTH IS????!!!

Brothers,

I didn't want to ruin anyone's festive season, so I held back from posting the following tale of some horrible injustices visited on a couple of dear colleagues and fellow Iron Warrior Brothers of mine.

Nobby was sentenced to community service, stemming from a violent altercation at the gym.

His 'community service' was none other than a stint as Santa Claus at a local shopping mall. I went along to lend him moral support, and the following events transpired.

Nobby and I arrived at the mall, both a tad intoxicated, and the shopping mall manager suited Nobby out. Nobby's massive, tree trunk thighs and telephone pole arms barely fit into the spacious outfit, and he refused to wear the false 'protruding stomach'. "Indeed, Santa will no longer be portrayed as a fattie, but as he should look to inspire children- massive!" I declared, and smacked the manager in the face with the phony plastic stomach. Nobby lumbered out to Santa's chair, and I stood within earshot, and in between sips from my flask of whiskey I listened in on Nobby's touchingly warm, and gentle, manner with children. A lad of about 7 climbed up on 'Santa's' lap, and Nobby snarled "Wot the fook yew wontin this year, pal?".
"Well, Santa, me friends beat up on me, and I could use something to defend myself with...maybe a book on karate.." the young boy whimpered. Nobby reached into his pocket, and produced his bike chain. "'Ere, son. Give em a few fookin belts across the face with this. URT THE BAHSTAHDS!" Nobby said in a warm, fatherly tone. The young lad, filled with joy, seized the bike chain, jumped off of Santa's lap, and ran up to another youngster and began beating him down with the chain, screaming "Who's bullyin who now, ****in arsehole!". I grew misty eyed, as the joy of Christmas was so touchingly spread by Nobby's special way with children.

The next youngster was a little girl of perhaps 4. She looked terrified, and Nobby hit a double-biceps pose in her face, the seams of the sleeves bursting open under the pressure from his cannonball biceps. "Mama, Santa's a monster!" the little angel screamed, and ran off crying. Santa's merry 'Ho Ho Ho' echoed through the mall, and I joined him in thunderous laughter. The girl's mother looked most displeased.
The next lad, about 6, hopped up on Santa's lap. "Santa, I want
a toy gun...but my parents are making me want a ballet outfit" he snivelled. "Wot the fook?!" Santa gasped. "A fookin real gun is what you need, laddie" . "NO HE WANTS A BALLET OUTFIT!" a bitchy voice screeched. Two 'wimmin', obviously 'partners', angrily approached Santa. "He is our son...yes, WE adopted him...and we won't have him becoming a violent male pig...he WILL enroll in ballet" the manly-looking lesbian snarled. Nobby calmly put the boy aside, then exploded in rage. With a mighty roar of "FOOKIN POOFTTAAHHS!!!" he sprang from his chair and, both arms outstretched, dealt a devastating double-clothesline to the two abberations of nature, sending their fat, pants-and-sweatshirt forms flying through the air and into the shopping mall fountain.
I turned to Marvin, our down-syndrome afflicted, 2 inch thick glasses wearing, fellow Iron Warrior. Pointing at the calamity ensuing between Nobby, the lesbians, and the little girl's mother, I pointed out "Will you look at the way those horrible people are treating Nobby? MARVIN, ARE YOU JUST GOING TO BLOODY WELL STAND THERE AND LET SANTA BE ABUSED?!" I screamed in his ear. Marvin began trembling in rage, then charged forth in one of his celebrated, Japanese 'banzai' charges and, seizing a plastic Christmas tree, began attacking the growing crowd of angry parents that surrounded Nobby. He charged into them, bashing heads with the tree until it broke apart, then began clotheslining, kicking, and biting his way through the crowd. Nobby and I headed off, as a crowd of security guards arrived on the scene, and after emptying a few cans of mace into Marvin's face, pummelled him into a pulp with their clubs.
Nobby and I ducked into the liquor store, and on leaving Nobby seized one of our whiskey bottles and hurled it towards the crowd of security guards, screaming "FOOKIN BASTAHHHDS!!". The bottle sailed through the air, and as Marvin was hoisted to his feat, hit him smack on the head, shattered into a million pieces and further injuring the embattled Marvin. We made it out of the mall as the crowd fled, screaming, and roared off in the Rolls, like a bat out of Hell!
Nobby has since been fired by the mall management.

What on earth ever happened to the Spirit of Christmas? Where has it gone, for the love of GOD!?
Brothers,

What is the major problem society has with us 24 inch armed, 40 inch waisted, walking 'walk-in' refrigerators?!!
Case in point-
A little over a month ago, I decided to enroll in Judo classes. I've been on a bulking cycle for the past several years, and felt that it was about time I gave a show of strength by tossing some pencil necks around in a controlled environment. Accompanied by my chauffeur/security advisor, Nobby, I signed up for Judo classes at a dojo owned by a 10th dan (or something like that) black belt master, a Mr. Fujimoto, who was a small Japanese man reminiscent of 'Mr. Miyagi' from the 'The Karate Kid' films. ****ing little Jap bastard
probably raped hundreds of Korean girls during WW2!!

The first month was dull. We did break-falls, stretching, and a learned a few basic flips. The warm-ups exhausted me. After 5 or 6 jumping jacks I was sweating profusely and had diffuculty breathing. Who needs endurance when you can bench 700 pounds?!!

Finally, I attended my first 'tournament'. I was matched up against another white belt, the biggest one they could find. As soon as we had finished bowing, I ran, screaming, arm extended, and clotheslined the guy with such force that he did a perfect backwards somersault and when he hit the mat, he lay unconscious! I raised my hands in victory, and Nobby roared "AW-FOOKIN-ROIGHTT!!!"

Just then, Mr. Fujimoto yelled something in Japanese and there was complete silence. "Dat is nawt Judo! Now you twy dat on me!!" he snarled, and stood across from me on the mat. Mr. Fujimoto's mother, who looked around 150 years old, stood on the sidelines, wearing a Judo outfit, and gave him an approving nod. "Fine. Prepare to die!" I screamed, then ran screaming to deliver a clothesline. Fukimoto fell to the ground, stuck his food in my stomach, and, using my own weight and speed against me, sent me airborne, and I landed on the other side of the room on my back! I lay there, winded, and finally struggled to my feet. "Sneaky little bugger...what on earth was that?!" I protested.

I lumbered over to him, and when I went to grab his little neck, found myself being flipped! I was tossed across the room, and lay on the mat, winded. As Fujimoto approached me, I held out my hand- Nobby, ever on the lookout on my behalf, took out his bike chain and quickly gave it to me! I spun around and smacked Fujimoto across the face with it- now THAT he wasn't expecting!

He fell to the ground, and I seized him, lifted him up over my head, walked over to the front window of the dojo, and hurled him through it! Nobby grabbed Fujimoto's mother and tossed her through the window after him, neutralizing the threat the old woman posed!
The two little Jap devils lay moaning and groaning on the sidewalk, sporting broken shards of glass stuck in their bodies! "That's for what you Japs did to what was left of the WINNEPEG RIFLES at Hong Kong!" I screamed, as Nobby beat both of their prostrate forms with his handy bike chain, screaming "foookin baaaahhhhstahhds!" with every death-dealing lash!

Well, bros, I have found out that I am no longer welcome in the dojo. They're jealous, because I proved that brute strength triumphs over 'martial arts'!! Bastards!!
Brothers,
The following is a true story.
Will the injustices ever end? Case in point-

A week ago, my good friend and sometimes training partner Marvin showed up at the gym looking a tad dishearted. Seems he had been fired from his job at the Shell gas station for stripping naked and showering in the car wash. Marvin has Down's Syndrome, and even that fact didn't earn him an ounce of compassion from his boss. Nobby went to have a word with him, and once Marvin's boss comes out of his coma, he will surely hire him back!

Well, brothers, I decided to do the Christian thing- I decided to make Marvin my assistant steroid distributor! I gave him a tub of dbol, and told him to see what he could sell.
Marvin came back hours later, with the tub empty! I gave him another, and off he went. What on earth was the secret of his success?, I wondered. Driving past an elementary school on lunch recess, I soon found out!

There was Marvin, the tub of dbol hung by a string around his neck, the top gone, and sporting a baseball cap with a piece of paper glued across the front reading "DBOL for SALE". He was ringing a bell in one hand, and crying (he has bit of a lisp) "Dbolths....DEE-BAAWWWLTHS....for sthale!....five fur a pound....DEEEE-BOOOOLLTHSSS!" he hollered, so loud it echoed across the entire schoolyard. "Get big...get STWONG...get yer DBOLTHS!!"
A crowd of enthusiastic kids, around 11 or 12, surrounded Marvin and in a matter of seconds he'd sold the entire tub! I rolled down the window of the Rolls and yelled out "Jolly good show, Marvin!"
Nobby rolled down his window and offered his support "WELL FOOKIN DONE!" he roared. I sat back, smiling, and a warm feeling came over me, much like that the Grinch experienced before returning to Whoville to spread Christmas joy. Marvin was no longer the marginalized, retarded man mopping floors- he was a proficient salesman!
The evening news featured a report on schoolchildren using steroids. They had shots of the school Marvin had been at.
Typical hype.

Well, I swung by the school the next day, to see how Marvin would fare- this time, he was wearing a tray, sort of like a hot-dog vendor at a baseball game wears, and it was stocked with dbol, drol, cheque drops, fina pellets....a smorsgasborg of gear! He'd just started ringing his bell when about 20 police officers rushed him, billy clubs drawn, and literally swarmed all over him, flailing away with their clubs!
Once Marvin gets out of intensive care, he faces various charges....this is ridiculous...I mean, for the LOVE OF GOD, what is wrong with people these days?!!
Brothers,

I had the most unpleasant dinner this past Friday evening... a true disaster, brothers!

I was having dinner with my family. My father sat at the head of the table, and as we enjoyed a 7 course meal the subject drifted to that of my 'future.'
"Son, you are 33 years old... graduate of a top university...bred of the finest stock...yet you waste yourself on this horrible bodybuilding nonsense. I demand it cease- at once!!" he roared.
I stopped chewing on my mouthful of pacific smoked salmon.
I looked slowly around the table at my family and guests, glaring at each of them. I stood up, quivering in rage. Through gritted teeth, I addressed my father- "Father, I am going to be Mr. Olympia and bring honour to this family! You'll see....soon, I shall be the biggest, most developed human being in recorded history!" I declared. "It's simply revolting, really horrible...all those muscles...you MUST stop it! tsk tsk!" my 108 year old great-grandmother croaked. My sister and mother chimed in "A sick, narcissistic pastime- it's DISGUSTING!!" they sneered.

I had had enough- "No man respects his elders as I, but this is infringing on my very reason for existence! **** ALL OF YOU ****ING WANKERS! YOU'LL SEE! DIE DIE DIE!!!" I screamed, and struck the table with my fist with such force that it cracked down the middle. I picked up a bottle of red wine, chugged it down, and threw it against the wall, shattering it to bits! Screaming "NOBODY ****ING UNDERSTANDS ME! ARRRGGH! FUUUUCK!!!" I flipped over the table and stormed out! My great-grandmother got in my way, and I picked her up and bodyslammed her on the hardwood floor, putting her right through it! Nobby entered the scene, just in time, as my mother and older sister were advancing with hostile intent- Nobby caught them both in a devastating double clothesline, sending them arse-over-tit onto the floor. "Fookin bitches! Ere you go!" he snarled, as he gave them each a well-deserved boot to the ribs.

Nobby and I marched out. "Nobby, let's head to the gym...I'll show them all!" I roared, so loud that the house trembled.
"Roight. Fookin gym. Let's fookin do it!!" Nobby added, in his thick east-end of London accent. We stopped at Marvin's group home (he is the Down Syndrome's afflicted lad that works out with us) punched out one of the staff who got in our way, and brought Marvin along with us!

We got to the gym...and it was closed!
Seems that on Fridays it shuts at 930pm. Not to be dismayed, Marvin threw himself through the front door, screaming, and we entered and had the place to ourselves. After an incredibly hard-core workout, we ordered a 12-person Chinese meal, and Nobby gathered the various liquor bottles and cigars from the Rolls Royce and we drank and smoked cigars till the wee hours of the morning, then passed out on the gym floor. I awoke to a gymful of smoke- seems Marvin must have dropped a lit cigar on the floor! As the fire spread and the sirens of fire engines neared, I woke Nobby and we staggered out of the gym, and passed out in a back alley. Later that morning, as we headed down the street, passing the burnt-out gym, I mentioned to Nobby "Seems the place burnt down. Oh well, I couldn't stand their 'no-injecting- in the locker room' nonsense!" I sneered.
"Fookin roight" Nobby commiserated.
"Looks like Marvin didn't make it...oh, there he is- alive and well!" I exclaimed, noticing paramedics wheeling a badly burned Marvin into an ambulance.

Has anyone else had to suffer from parental disapproval of his Iron Warrior lifestyle?

Brothers,

Is there anything wrong with injecting in the locker room? Bloody hell, whatever happened to hard-core gyms- are they truly a thing of the past?

The other day, Nobby and I, having finished a brutal training session, were sitting about the locker room getting in our round of injections. 10ccs here, 5ccs there- quads, glutes, shoulders, biceps- indeed we were running out of places to inject.

Well, the floor was simply littered with the refuse of our supplementation. Used syringes, syringe wrappers, bloody bits of cotton, a couple of empty bottles of rubbing alcohol, tissues, and a bucketfull of empty amps lay scattered across the floor.
Just then, someone entered the locker room. A man around 40ish came sauntering in, pony-tailed, lats flared, and showing off his 140 pound physique. He stopped once he stepped on the first amp, breaking it, then proceeded to tread carefully, looking for a bare bit of floorspace amongst the sea of amps and syringes. He gave us a disgusted look, and muttered 'tsk tsk tsk!" as he opened his locker.
"Why brother, is there something wrong?" I asked in a friendly manner.
"You know...I could be as big as you too if I took STEROIDS!" he sneered.
"Oh....really? Well, friend, perhaps you ought to start here and now" I suggested. "I don't THINK so!" he snapped. Nobby, who had slowly been creeping up behind him with a 10cc syringe filled with test prop, suddenly seized him round the neck, snarled "Ere you go, fookin bastahd!", shoved the needle into the man's arse and injected the whole thing! The man ran off into the gym, screaming, an empty 10cc syringe still stuck in his arse!
The gym manager came in promptly, and before he could start his whining, Nobby and I seized him, turned him upside down, held him by one ankle each, and then headed over to the urinals where we shoved his head in and flushed repeatedly, then took him out into the gym and tossed him 30 feet across the gym floor.

We left, disgusted at the sheer rudeness of others- who are they to meddle in our injecting?!!
Brothers,

Sad news. A good friend of mine is, shall we say, 'out of the picture'.
Marvin, a down-syndrome afflicted weight-lifter at my gym, went absolutley bonkers. I think it had something to do with the gear he was on, courtesy of myself.

The following is a true story.

The other day, I was in the gym with Nobby doing 1 rep max effort good-mornings with 315 pounds, when Marvin walked up to us. "Finished dat bodybuilding pills. Need more" he babbled. "Marvin, by GOD, I gave you 100 anadrol tabs only a couple of weeks ago!" I exclaimed. Was it not enough that, every other day, I walked up and jabbed a needle into him and gave him a 400mg injection of test?! Marvin had been eating the anadrol like candy. His swollen, mongoloid features were even more pronounced, and he did indeed look a shade yellow! I get anadrol very cheap, so I merely opened my gymbag and tossed him a bottle of 100 tabs. "Bon appetit!" I cried.

5 minutes later, as I was spotting Nobby while he did a set of good-mornings with an incredible 405 pounds, I heard the nasal, effiminate voice of a lad who worked in the gym as a counterboy and 'trainer'. I believe a degree in kinesiology made him a bodybuilding expert. He was berating Marvin. Marvin had left his bottle of anadrol on the floor while he used a bench, and this trainer had picked up the bottle of anadrol I had given Marvin and examined it.
"ARE these yours? Oxymetholone...that is an anabolic steroid. How did you get these! SHAME on you, Marvin!" he screeched. "PLEASE LEAVE...we don't tolerate steroid-taking cheaters here!" he screamed. Nobby and I sat back and watched.
"Marvin has to solve this dilemma on his own" I said. "It's important for his self-esteem. Just because the man is retarded doesn't mean he can't handle himself."

Well, the personal trainer stood, arms folded, in front of Marvin. "Sorry Marvin..those are the rules. You have to go. I'm calling your group home manager about this!" he declared.
Marvin's jaw dropped. He began shaking. "I can't lift no more?" he asked. "Not here you can't" the counterboy snapped.
"It aint fair...it ain't fair....IT'S NOT FAIR, IT ISN'T!!!" Marvin roared. He began screaming and ran over to the coke machine, and in a feat of strength unmatched since Samson pushed apart the pillars of the Philistines' temple, Marvin lifted the coke can machine, walked over to the front window of the gym, and hurled it through!! It fell 2 stories and hit the sidewalk with a thunder that shook the building. Marvin was like some modern-day Quasimodo, a simple man pushed to the edge and forced to unleash his mongoloid strength on those who would destroy him!
A few people ran over to subdue Marvin, but Nobby and I intercepted them. I double-clotheslined two fellows, and Nobby beat the rest of them back with his bike chain. The cowardly counterboy fled the gym. A couple of big men grabbed Marvin, but he tossed them aside like rag dolls! He ran around the gym, screaming, dragging pieces of equipment over to the front window and hurling them through- the leg press machine, lat pulldown machine, benches, dumbbells, plates and anything else he could find. As police cars pulled up, Nobby and I headed out. "AWROIGHT MAHVIN!" Nobby roared as we left. "FOOKIN BASTAHDS!" he screamed at the police.

We watched as a riot squad pulled up, fired tear gas cannisters into the gym through what was left of the front window, charged in the door and up the stairs. A few riot police were tossed out the window, and finally Marvin was subdued after a viscious clubbing that would have killed an elephant. He was taken out in a straightjacket and put in the back of an armoured police van, screaming obscenities and struggling the whole time.
Just then, Nobby spotted the counterboy who started all this- he was watching everything, a satisfied smile on his face. He saw Nobby lumbering over to him, and ran and jumped into his car. He started it up, turned to give us the finger, but there I was- holding up the back of his car! He floored it, but the rear wheels spun in the air. Then Nobby's fist came crashing throught the driver's side window, and dragged his 140 pound arse out and tossed him on the sidewalk. Nobby and I put the boots to him, and Nobby gave him a nasty chain-beating right out of the film 'A Clockwork Orange'. He was barely alive when we took off down an alleyway, laughing.

Bros...do you think it might have been the large anadrol doses that caused Marvin to go insane? Or could it have simply been that extra chromosone?
Anyone?
Brothers,

For those following this heart-breaking true tale, let me give you an update. The following events happened after Marvin, a down's-syndrome afflicted lifter at my gym, went ballistic after being banned from the gym(see 'Retarded guy on gear goes beserk').

Well, Nobby and I went to see Marvin. He was being held in an asylum for the criminally insane. He was in a padded room, in a straightjacket, and spent his time running into the walls, screaming.

I got my lawyer to get him out, and a MASSIVE lawsuit is planned. The way the police treated him-I mean, he has DOWN'S SYNDROME, for God's sakes- is reprehensible!

We got him out, and went to a court appearance with him. I gave him a handful of methyltest tabs and a 10cc shot of tren a few hours before his appearance, just to make sure he kept the remarkable gains he's been making. We made it to the hearing, and took our seats. Marvin looked dignified in a suit I had bought him, which had to be specially made to fit his no-neck, stumpy, broad-shouldered mongoloid form. His glasses, with lenses 2 inches thick, heavy black frames and heavy elastic headband, gave him a look of complete ignorance which could only help in this case.
The judge began. "Mr. Marvin Mongo, what do you have to say for yourself?" he asked sternly.
Nobby whispered something in Marvin's ear for at least 15 full seconds, advising him on what to say, no doubt.
Marvin got up and screamed "I fink you awl fookin bastard cocksucking awseholes!!" and ran charging over to the judge, pulled him from his seat on high, threw him to the floor- and lo and behold, it appeared the judge had a wooden leg! Marvin pulled it off and began beating him with it, screaming like a madman the whole time!
Guards quickly tackled Marvin, beat him senseless, cuffed him, and led him out. Nobby and I fell out of our chairs, laughing!

Our defence was going to run along the lines that large amounts of AAS were the cause of Marvin's outburst, and he ought not to be held responsible. Oh well. Better luck next time!
Well, I think for now the lawsuit ought to be put on hold.
Brothers,

A well known pro won't be at any upcoming shows. And he is most displeased, and blames, of all people, me!

Last week, a known pro bodybuilder who I won't name, contacted me and let me know he wanted to hold a bodybuilding seminar, charging people the equivalent of 25 American dollars each to hear his training, nutrition, and supplement advice.
Things didn't go very well...and now he is quite angry with me.

He had asked for my help in organizing the promotion of his seminar, and I told him that I would be DELIGHTED to take care of that end of things. I hired graphic artists, and personally oversaw the designing of advertising posters that featured the pro's picture, and "TAKE BLOODY ****ING CHARGE!" in large, red, blood-dripping letters across the top. The smaller script read:
"Get ****ing huge- scare your mates, your teachers, and your parents! Squash bastard enemies like beetles! Learn how to eat, train, inject, how to smuggle and/or import steroids... come to the show, and get a bottle of anadrol for free, to get you started!"

I thought it was smashing, and so did Nobby! I had hundreds of posters made, and Nobby and I posted them in places that we KNEW would draw whomever saw them to the seminar- we went around elementary schools, middle schools, high schools, homes for disturbed youth, the local snooker hall, local playgrounds...a truly heroic effort, I must say. We put the posters up everywhere, and personally encouraged people to attend. Tickets sold quickly.

I also managed to rent a community centre hall for very cheap- mind you, it was in the east end of London, amongst the slums!

The big day came-
The pro showed up to the community centre and, on entering the large auditorium, stood gaping at the crowd. A sea of mostly boys, aged 8-21, met his eyes. Many of them had shaved heads, bomber jackets, wore combat boots, t-shirts emblazoned with swastikas or skulls, and had swastikas tattooed on their foreheads. A jolly group of little rascals!

He then saw for the first time the poster I had made. He said "For ****'s sakes, mate, what the **** is this? Bloody kids! What...free ****ing anadrol...I could get in serious shit...!!!"
A look of true distress, anger, and who knows what else came over his face.
No sooner had he spoken than 10 police officers arrived, and escorted him out in handcuffs- he began sobbing! When they found the 3 crates (1000 bottles) of anadrol I had generously supplied, and asked whose it was, I simply pointed my thumb in the direction of the pro bodybuilder as he was being led away. "It's his!" I quipped. "Well, I'll be off then" I said innocently, and Nobby and I left- but not before Nobby grabbed the mic and yelled "Now, **** off you lot, you aint gettin no anadrol tonight, show's over- no bloody refunds, bahstahds! G'wan...FOOK OFF!!" he screamed, then threw the mic and the podium at the angry crowd of disturbed youth!
Chairs soon became airborne, the sound of windows smashing filled the air, and screaming erupted...a true riot was underway.

Luckily, we made it out of the community centre, and drove out of the parking lot just as the ensuing riot, which saw the burning down of the community center, 3 people killed and scores injured, got underway.
We both laughed heartily as Nobby floored the Rolls Royce and we sped away from the scene of calamity!

So, brothers, looks like a certain pro bbder is out of the game for the next several years....
Brothers,

The following is a completely factual, if unbelievable, account of what transpired a few days before.

I was sitting in my 'Iron Room', a room I have converted into a sort of bodybuilding shrine. Free weights litter the floor (as sometimes I workout at home), empty protein buckets lie around, used needles, amps etc, lie scattered, and the walls are covered with framed bodybuilding photographs and posters. I sat in a chair in the middle of the room, eating protein bar after bar, glaring at a large framed poster of the Barbarian brothers training- one of them doing pushdowns, screaming, while the other literally stands on the stack to give added weight! I was visualizing the day when I would appear on the Mr Olympia stage, and send the other contestants running off in shame. As I flipped through the worn pages of this month's issue of 'Flex', I happened to see an advert for Joe Weider's 'Mega Mass 4000'. One serving (approximately 1 pound of powder) yields and awesome 88grams of protein. This is what would push me over the 320 pound mark! Not since Paul's blinding vision of Christ on the road to Damascus had any man seen the light so clearly- I stood up, and began screaming "NOBBY...FOR GOD'S SAKE, WE HAVE TO GET TO THE ****ING SUPPLEMENT STORE NOW!!!"
I stormed out of the room and up the hall, and lo and behold my great-grandmother was inching up the hallway with the help of her walker. "Get OUT of my way, woman!" I screamed, and dealt her a bodycheck into the wall that would put any NHL player to shame. I ran out the front doors, found Nobby waiting in the Rolls, enjoying a mickey of scotch, and we thundered off to the nearest supplement store.

We parked on the sidewalk outside the front door, and barged in, throwing the glass door open with such force that it shattered!
Nobby seized the little man behind the counter, and snarled "Mega Mass 4000- where the fook is it?". Trembling, he directed us to an empty shelf. "We...just sold the last one...to that fellow there..." he whimpered, pointing to a scrawny lad heading on foot out the parking lot, Mega Mass tub in hand. Just then I turned to see our good Down's- Syndrome afflicted friend, Marvin, stocking some shelves. "Marvin...an impostor- a poseur- a pencil neck- has stolen my Mega Mass!" I roared. Nobby grabbed Marvin by one shoulder and whispered "Mahvin, my son, 'URT the BAHSTAHD!". Marvin began screaming, and charged out the doorway, and as we watched he caught up with and tackled the boy carrying OUR Mega Mass 4000. He seized the tub of Mega Mass and began beating the fellow with it, and the tub exploded and covered both of them with powder. Just then, a Weider delivery truck thundered into the parking lot and ran over Marvin!
I was on the scene in an instant, and found Marvin's glasses, with lenses 2 inches thick, lying undamaged. "You can run him over with your trucks, but you can't take away his DIGNITY" I screamed so loudly that it was heard across the universe.
The counter boy called an ambulance, and in no time paramedics were loading the boy Marvin had severely beaten into an ambulance and trying to free Marvin's twisted body from the wheel and axle assembly of the delivery truck.

Nobby pulled up the Rolls to the rear of the delivery truck, and as the paramedics, truck driver and store clerk dealt with Marvin I casually opened the back doors of the truck and Nobby and I quietly filled up the trunk of the Rolls with tubs of Mega Mass 4000, then leapt in the car and roared off, laughing.

Anyone else have trouble getting their hands on this amazing protein/mass gainer?
Brothers,

Sad news for you all, and before it makes the presses, I'd like everyone to know what really transpired very, very recently!
Lou Ferrigno, the 'Living Legend', and his parents were attacked, and brothers, as far as I am concerned they all DESERVED it!

I was at Heathrow Airport with Nobby and Marvin. Nobby and I were heading to the orient to buy another several months worth of anabolic aids, and Marvin, a Down's-Syndrome afflicted lad who workes out in my gym and idolizes Nobby and I, was given an opportunity to earn a few extra pence by carrying our suitcases around at the airport.

I was about to head into the departure lounge when suddenly, I spotted them! "LOOK...it's Lou Ferrigno...and his parents!" I cried, pointing to the trio who were standing not to far off, looking lost. Yet, I felt a welling anger within me, and began trembling and mumbling to myself "..****ing bastards...you thought you could get away with it...well YOU'll pay.."
I marched over to the three of them, accompanied by Nobby and Marvin.
They turned to us, and as I pointed an accusatory finger in their faces, I addressed them as follows:

"I remember the scene in 'Pumping Iron' where you are all having dinner..and I've paused it many a time, and examined it frame by frame...didn't think anyone would notice the CRAP you(pointing at Lou's mother) were feeding him, eh? It was a few months away from the Olympia..pasta, pasta and more pasta...oh yes, Mrs Ferrigno, YOU did it deliberately, as no doubt you were working for Arnold, weren't you, bitch! And you (pointing at Lou's father) meddling in Lou's training...no doubt on orders from Weider...and finally, you, Lou..for failing to win..you let your FANS down!!" I screamed. My face was beet red, I was quivering, eyes bulging..."It's one thing to let ME down..I am an adult..I can TAKE IT!" I screamed, my voice cracking "But mentally retarded people like Marvin here- well, by God, you just don't DO that to them!!"

The three of them looked stunned. I turned and marched off. I'd been waiting a long time to get that off my chest. I stopped after a few strides, and seized Marvin. "Marvin, is there any justice?" I asked. "Oi, Mahvin, kick the shit out o the bahstahds!" Nobby snarled. Marvin's eyes grew wider, and due to the lenses of his glasses being at least an inch thick appreared the size of dinner plates! He started screaming in rage, turned, and ran charging at the Ferrignos. Lou's parents turned around to see what the approaching bedlam was, and were caught in a double-clothesline by Marvin! After hitting the floor, Marvin picked up Mrs. Ferrigno's walker, and began beating them all with it until it was just a short length of twisted metal. But, bros, Lou was in shape, and in what looked like a reprise of his 'Incredible Hulk' role from TV, he seized Marvin, and threw him face down on the hard floor and then began stomping on his head. Just then, a crowd of airport security personnel showed up and promptly pepper sprayed Lou and handcuffed Lou and Marvin.

Well, folks, who do these pro's think they are? Do they think they can actually let down fans and get away with it?
Brothers,

I am wondering whether or not I should be feeling a tad guilty. Here is why:

My 85 year old grandmother, as described in an earlier post, has been taking large quantities of oral anabolics- I dissolve them in her tea, or toss them in her salad, or shove a few tabs into one of the cream buns she eats after dinner. She has gained, to date, 45 pounds and benches 225! Mind you, 200-300mg of drol, 100mg of anavar, and 100mg of dbol a day have helped!

The other day, at the gym, I was training quads with Grandmother and Nobby. We were doing front squats, yelling and groaning with intensity. Just then, I noticed a lad in a wheelchair attempting to train under the guidance of a pencil-necked geek 'personal trainer'.
I marched over, and commented "WRONG! ALL WRONG!" in his face.
"Sir..er..Rupert here (indicating the lad in the wheelchair) has cerebral palsy..really, I don't think your style of ...er..training would be right for him" he whined. "Rupert can decide for himself- can't you, Rupert?" I asked. Rupert's answer was a garbled "hynnfttttthhhhh..uuuuggghhh..."
"Sounds bloody well like a resounding YES to me!" I roared. I took a 45 pound dumbbell and wrapped the fingers of his right hand around the grip. "Now, lad, curl!!" I screamed. Rupert's features contorted, his glasses- held on by a thick rubber band going round his head- slipped off to one side as he struggled with every ounce of his will to curl the 45 pound dumbbell. As his face turned red, and he began sputtering "nnnggggg....fffffssssthhhhh..uuuuggg..", spewing a shower of spittle onto the floor, a crowd of lifters, including Grandmother and Nobby, crowded around him and began cheering him on. "Oi, curl the fookin thing, y'bastahd!" Nobby cheered, while others offered less inspiring support such as "C'mon Rupert...you CAN do it..".
Grandmother, however, was pure old-school. She took off her lifting belt, and gave Rupert a viscous smack across the shins, screaming "DO as the men say, BOY!!" in his face. With a final, all out effort, and making a noise not heard from a human since 19th century freak show attraction 'The Elephant Man' walked the earth, Rupert's arm snapped up with an explosive force and swung the dumbbell up! Alas, he swung it with too much force and it came smacking into his face, sending him and his wheelchair flipping over backwards onto the gym floor, and as he hit the floor he began having an epilleptic seizure!
Grandmother was overjoyed at his success, and as she marched over to Rupert's convulsing form to congratulate him, she stopped, seized her right bosom and went "Uuuuuggghh...arrrrghh..nnnnuuu.." and collapsed, doing a face-plant onto the floor. I hadn't seen a face-plant like that since I last watched pro wrestling.
We called a couple of ambulances for Grandmother and Rupert, and as the medics took them away, I couldn't help but wonder if Grandmother's collapse had anything to do with the steroids she was on!

Help me out here, bros. Say it isn't so!
Brothers,

Today I mourn the loss of a dear training partner. It was this day, 5 years ago, that he went to that great gym in the sky.

His name was Babu, and he hailed from the slums of Calcutta. My father 'purchased' him at a travelling freak show somewhere in the Orient. Standing 8 feet tall, and weighing in at 600 pounds, he was a monster- no doubt, the strongest man on earth. My father had Babu working in the garden on the family estate (Tweedsmuir estate in Buckinghamshire, England), where he lumbered about watering plants and babbling to himself. One day, after witnessing Babu flip over a garbage truck in a rage over racial slurs hurled at him by the driver, I invited him along to the gym with me.

From the start, Babu was curling 315, squatting 700, and crushing benches with his enormous weight. Under my direction, he ate a side of beef daily, washed down with gallons of milk, and swallowed a handfull of anadrol pills at bedtime. Whole chickens, bones and all, were consumed in a few bites by this beast of a human. The gains came, and I had plans to unveil the 8th wonder of the world at the next 'World's Strongest Man' contest.
I oversaw his training in the gym. Babu performed 800 pound front squats, front barbell raises with 225, 700 pound benches- all the while screaming out in no known language.

One awful day, however, things went amiss.
Babu and I were at the squat rack, when I decided to have a little bit of innocent fun- at Babu's expense.
"Babu, those lads over there say you're a big ****ing golliwog!" I jibed. "Yes, Babu, those fellows say you're a big paki poofter!" I added, grinning. I was pointing to a crowd of 4 fellows who trained together, and acted like they owned the gym. Babu began turning red, and, shaking with fury, sputtered "I keel dem, the farging bahstards, I farging keel dem all!!" he roared. Rising to his feet, he lumbered over and bearhugged one of the men, crushing him like an egg. Another ran over and was literally broken over Babu's knee. The remaining fellows attacked Babu with olympic bars, but to no avail. Finally, when only one of them was left standing, I decided to join the fray, charging forward, screaming, seeking to smash the one fellow left. Babu got in the way, and I ran into him, throwing him forward. Babu stumbled into the one fellow left, and together they went through the front window of the gym, and plummeted two stories to the pavement below. I peered out- there lay Babu, on the sidewalk- stone cold DEAD!
I looked about the gym. Everyone had fled. Whistling a tune by Mozart and looking as innocent as can be, I sauntered out of the door, my hands deep in my pockets, as if I were on a leisurely Sunday stroll.

Later on I claimed the body. I decided to cremate Babu, and send his ashes to his family in India. I couldn't be bothered spending the funds to get him a decent urn- by jove, I needed that money for some high-class tarts I planned on having over for the weekend!

I decided to use an empty Nitrotech container for his ashes, and they were mailed (surface mail, it's cheaper) to the Calcutta slum from which Babu hailed.

So brothers, take a minute, bow your heads, and say a wee prayer for Babu. He went out like a true Iron Warrior.
It's really an honour to have trained with him, the big Sikh imbecile!
 
OP
Lauw

Lauw

Huge Freak
+15 jaar member
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Ja euh…..
BUMP!!!!!
Ben ik dan echt de enige die dit hilarisch vind?

Ik ben een freak boeheoehoeeeheoeoe….. :bawling:
 

wazzup

Gargantuan Beast
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Ik had het al gelezen, maar ik vond er niks aan. Helemaal niet in sT met het imago van een cultureel verantwoorde hoog intelligente denksport dat BB heeft :D
 

benchMarc

AKA The Jesus
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Sorry, teveel leeswerk :D
 

Centaur

Colossal Veteran
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ehh...beetje erg veel om te lezen :rolleyes: sorry
 
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