22-03-2025, 02:03 PM
(Seda postitust muudeti viimati: 22-03-2025, 02:04 PM ja muutjaks oli madis.)
Mölarobot on arenenud ja saavutanud vogonite kapteni taseme. Oskab korralikku karistusluuret genereerida !
THE ABYSS OF THE REVERSE TOILET
A Vogon Lament of Unfathomable Horror
I. The Cursed Throne
Oh wretched seat of porcelain blight,
Thou art no throne, but doom’s delight.
A gaping maw, a waiting snare,
A trap designed for the unaware.
Thy bowl, a vortex, swirling wide,
A bottomless pit where hope has died.
But lo, not all who enter fall—
For some are dragged back, filth and all.
For when thou choosest, dark and grim,
To vomit forth what once was dim,
The tides of fate do twist and churn,
And from thy depths, the past returns.
II. The Horror Below
The flush, once thought a cleansing grace,
Now howls with laughter, filled with hate.
A sound of doom, a cruel decree,
A gurgling call to misery.
Lo, what horrors rise anew,
From depths where things should not pass through?
A flood of sins, a cursed tide,
A thousand meals, half-digested, inside.
Corn that lingers from ages past,
A spectral sausage, slimy and vast,
A half-chewed bean, a nameless dread,
Returning now, though long thought dead.
And with them, oh, the tendrils vile,
Of things unseen in pipe and tile.
For in the dark where waste doth dwell,
Other creatures thrive too well.
They slither up, they grasp, they cling,
An ancient, writhing, putrid thing.
And from the seat where once was peace,
A tentacle begins to crease.
III. The Flood of Despair
The tides now turn, the flow reversed,
A fate far worse than once rehearsed.
No longer can the filth depart—
It rises up, a work of art.
Behold! A geyser, foul and vast,
A burst of horrors from the past.
Like some forgotten, cursed well,
It spews forth pockets fresh from hell.
Oh gods! It reaches to the floor!
It climbs the walls, it seeks the door!
It knows no bounds, it shows no grace,
It hungers for the human race.
And lo, upon its surface rides,
The ancient sins of those who dined.
A spectral mass of doom untold,
A toilet’s wrath, both dark and bold.
IV. The Last Cry of the Doomed
And here I stand, my legs betray,
For there is no escape today.
The stall is locked, the flood is high,
The toilet claims its sacrifice.
No hero comes, no savior calls,
Only the sound of splashing walls.
A fate unclean, a tale unsung,
A drowning deep in Satan’s lung.
Would that my soul might flee this scene,
But no, I sink into the stream.
And in the dark, I hear it laugh—
The Reverse Toilet’s final wrath.
EPILOGUE:
They found me there, but not the same,
A husk, a wretch, devoid of name.
Forever marked, forever cursed,
A man who met the toilet’s thirst.
THE ABYSS OF THE REVERSE TOILET
A Vogon Lament of Unfathomable Horror
I. The Cursed Throne
Oh wretched seat of porcelain blight,
Thou art no throne, but doom’s delight.
A gaping maw, a waiting snare,
A trap designed for the unaware.
Thy bowl, a vortex, swirling wide,
A bottomless pit where hope has died.
But lo, not all who enter fall—
For some are dragged back, filth and all.
For when thou choosest, dark and grim,
To vomit forth what once was dim,
The tides of fate do twist and churn,
And from thy depths, the past returns.
II. The Horror Below
The flush, once thought a cleansing grace,
Now howls with laughter, filled with hate.
A sound of doom, a cruel decree,
A gurgling call to misery.
Lo, what horrors rise anew,
From depths where things should not pass through?
A flood of sins, a cursed tide,
A thousand meals, half-digested, inside.
Corn that lingers from ages past,
A spectral sausage, slimy and vast,
A half-chewed bean, a nameless dread,
Returning now, though long thought dead.
And with them, oh, the tendrils vile,
Of things unseen in pipe and tile.
For in the dark where waste doth dwell,
Other creatures thrive too well.
They slither up, they grasp, they cling,
An ancient, writhing, putrid thing.
And from the seat where once was peace,
A tentacle begins to crease.
III. The Flood of Despair
The tides now turn, the flow reversed,
A fate far worse than once rehearsed.
No longer can the filth depart—
It rises up, a work of art.
Behold! A geyser, foul and vast,
A burst of horrors from the past.
Like some forgotten, cursed well,
It spews forth pockets fresh from hell.
Oh gods! It reaches to the floor!
It climbs the walls, it seeks the door!
It knows no bounds, it shows no grace,
It hungers for the human race.
And lo, upon its surface rides,
The ancient sins of those who dined.
A spectral mass of doom untold,
A toilet’s wrath, both dark and bold.
IV. The Last Cry of the Doomed
And here I stand, my legs betray,
For there is no escape today.
The stall is locked, the flood is high,
The toilet claims its sacrifice.
No hero comes, no savior calls,
Only the sound of splashing walls.
A fate unclean, a tale unsung,
A drowning deep in Satan’s lung.
Would that my soul might flee this scene,
But no, I sink into the stream.
And in the dark, I hear it laugh—
The Reverse Toilet’s final wrath.
EPILOGUE:
They found me there, but not the same,
A husk, a wretch, devoid of name.
Forever marked, forever cursed,
A man who met the toilet’s thirst.