I'm a cyborg from the future. I was supposed to assasinate Goldie Hawn, but due to an error in the location matrix, I spawned in the UK instead of the US. By the time I had got enough money to make the trip and fulfill my programming, I had discovered the emotion you humans call laziness. I now spend my hours sleeping and thinking on how I'm going to start on my plan tomorrow.

I killed a bunch of people once...

I love you guys.

I slept with Zsa Zsa Gabor

I am interested in reading what everyone has to say here.

I am DB Cooper.

After I lost jonmc the other night to the inexorable late-evening potty hunt (the only person who eats fries slower than I do is a high school friend of mine named Harry Setatestyz), thigs got a little wild. Luckily, I have a harbor pilot's license and a friend in the Coast Guard, or Hugh Janus might've been found ass-up in the East River sometime Wednesday or Thursday. Let me explain.

Where was I? Right, in Mickey Deeze with a french fry held pensively to my lips, pooling grease on my fingers and thumb, grinning wryly at a feebleminded panhandler making the rounds of my fellow diners.

I leapt to my feet and ran out of the building, where a car was waiting to take me to a briefing (this isn't a full false confession; some information, though untrue, remains confidential). We never made it to the agency.

You can read about the car chase and gun battle on CNN or AP or whatever. I escaped through a manhole and made it to the docks on foot.

Much later, while relaxing at the chalet, I remembered jonmc's hunt for a pissoir. I'm sorry I couldn't find you, jonmc, but I had my hands full of imaginary excitement.

but I had my hands full of imaginary excitement.

So what else is new?

I care about my job and love it so much I want to be here everyday for free and never graduate.

I have my hands full of imaginary excitement right now.

can I watch?

No.

*walks off in huff. realizes huff is slow and uncomfortable. hails a cab*

I was deep in disguise as a homeless man, and had almost reached my target when he bolted from the scene and hopped into a black sedan. I radioed my confederate, who pursued the target posthaste in his mid-sized pickup with huge freaking tires and also called in a few of my uzi-stooges on city-modded dirtbikes. They all got bogged down on Canal Street and lost the subject. The tracking device I had planted on him much earlier matched our schematics of the sewer system and we determined that he was heading for the harbor. We followed, let him escape and have now located their base. Our operatives are closing in as I speak.

Cheer up mister mc, it's called FALSE CONFESSIONS.

I know that, rainbaby, because I am the small man in your head who tells you to light fires.

You'll have to go through security first, sciurus!

MUHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

I can't read!

I've been typing all my posts with my one Chester A. Arthur the whole damn time.

One Saturday morning, I was happily eating Cheerios with my fingers and watching Spectreman on the TV. My father walked past, casting a sidelong glance at the action, sighed heavily, and ker-rumphed into his squeaky, tattered La-Z-Boy. Then, a series of noises: a laser beam, the rustling of newspaper hitting the floor, a click, then static, and finally an authoritative voice droning on about The State of Things. I pretended to be interested in the news for a moment, then toddled over to my father, arms outstretched. He reached for me, cooing over my affection, and as he lifted me to his lap, I kicked him in the crotch as hard as my dough-soft muscles could, twisting my toes into the organs that had been my creation. "Spectreman, fucker," I babbled around my pacifier, "Spectreman, NOW."

[sound of metal slamming against flesh]

*coughs up blood*

"OK, I did it! I..." *coughs more blood* "...did it."

So... if they think you're crude, go technical; if they think you're technical, go crude.