Blood Sweat and Cream.
A LIFE OF GREG POONIS (PATRICK BERGIN)
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Figure 1: Female Chinese Child (Left) Chinese Patrick Bergin (Right)
how LUST almost ruined my life
how LUST almost ruined my life
When Gooning is only the beginning.
Let me start by saying: I never thought my life would spiral out of control because of lust. But here I am, staring at the wreckage, wondering where it all went wrong. If I could pinpoint the exact moment it started, I’d say it was sometime between my first Rocket League tournament, a cow I saw on a road trip, and that fateful evening with Greg Poonis.
The Cows That Started It All
The Cows That Started It All
It began innocently enough. I was driving through the countryside when I saw them—majestic, grazing, and oddly hypnotic. I don’t know what came over me, but something about their presence awakened a deep, primal energy within me. It wasn’t anything weird (or at least that’s what I told myself). It was just… an appreciation. A deep, almost spiritual admiration.
But that admiration grew. Soon, I was researching cow breeds late at night, neglecting my responsibilities, and even missing Rocket League matches because I was too busy watching mooing ASMR videos. It was becoming a problem.
Rocket League: My Escape, My Addiction
Rocket League: My Escape, My Addiction
To escape my growing cattle obsession, I threw myself into Rocket League. At first, it was just a game—a fun little distraction. But soon, it consumed my every waking thought. I was grinding ranks, pulling all-nighters, and getting irrationally angry at my teammates.
That’s when Walter the Dog came into my life. You know Walter—the meme dog with the hauntingly human-like face? His picture was everywhere. I started seeing him in my dreams, whispering cryptic messages like, “You cannot escape your fate, Patrick.” I didn’t know what it meant, but it shook me to my core.
Greg Poonis: The Betrayal
Greg Poonis: The Betrayal
If there was one person I could always count on, it was my best friend, Greg Poonis. He was there through everything—the cows, the Rocket League obsession, the Walter hallucinations. He even tried to stage an intervention, sitting me down and saying, “Mate, you need to touch grass.”
But then Greg did something unthinkable. He queued into a Rocket League match without me. Worse, he teamed up with a group of Chinese players who absolutely demolished me in a ranked match later that night. The betrayal cut deep. I was spiraling, fueled by rage, lust (for cows), and the crushing weight of my own poor life choices.
Rock Bottom
Rock Bottom
I hit rock bottom when I found myself in a dark alley at 3 AM, clutching a carton of expired milk and whispering apologies to Walter the Dog on my phone screen. I had lost everything—my dignity, my rank in Rocket League, and worst of all, Greg Poonis’ trust.
But in that moment of despair, I realized something. I had let lust, obsession, and ego drive me to madness. It was time to change.
The Redemption Arc
The Redemption Arc
Now, I’m on a journey of healing. I’ve uninstalled Rocket League (mostly). I’ve stopped staring at cows for too long. Greg and I are repairing our friendship, and I’ve made peace with Walter’s omnipresent gaze.
If there’s a lesson in all this, it’s simple: Lust is a dangerous thing. Whether it’s for cows, video games, or validation from your meme-lord subconscious, you have to keep yourself in check.
Stay strong, my friends. And never, ever let your desires control you.
Never Trust a Fart
Never Trust a Fart
Never
This is similar to how the jews trusted hitler about the "Fun Camps"
I should’ve known better. I should’ve recognized the warning signs—the slight unease in my gut, the gurgling that sounded like an old pipe struggling against a flood. But no. I trusted it. I let it out, expecting a harmless puff of air.
It was not.
The moment it happened, I knew. A horrifying warmth spread across my rear like molten lava oozing from an angry volcano. My face froze in shock, my body tensed, and for a few terrible seconds, I sat there, unwilling to move, terrified of what lay beneath.
I gulped. The smell hit first. A thick, nauseating wave of sulfur, rotten eggs, and despair. It wasn’t just bad—it was the kind of smell that could make a grown man cry. My nostrils burned. My eyes watered. It was as if the very essence of failure had taken physical form in my underpants.
I dared to shift in my seat, and that’s when I felt it—the squelch. My soul left my body. This was no minor accident, no simple stain. This was a full-scale catastrophe. My once-pristine underpants, a humble pair of gray cotton briefs, had become a crime scene.
Slowly, hesitantly, I stood up. The damage was catastrophic. The fabric, once proud and pure, was now a battlefield of filth. Dark streaks ran from the center outward, spreading like an oil spill in a doomed ocean. The worst part? The texture. This wasn’t a mere stain—it had depth, dimension. Some areas had soaked in, creating a damp, horrifying mush, while others had crusted over almost immediately, forming a grotesque, crackling outer layer.
I took a step. The squish. Dear God, the squish. It was as if my underwear had been stuffed with warm mashed potatoes left out in the sun. Each movement churned the contents like a churning vat of raw sewage.
Panicked, I rushed to the bathroom, each step unleashing fresh horrors. The waistband sagged under the sheer weight of my shame. I reached the toilet, hands trembling, and peeled them down. The sight was unspeakable. The color—an unnatural shade of deep brown with hints of yellow—looked like something scraped off the walls of a haunted gas station. The smell was so thick I could taste it.
I dry-heaved.
I knew there was no saving them. No detergent on Earth could cleanse this abomination. They had to be destroyed. I grabbed them gingerly, like biohazard waste, and placed them in the trash. No. That wasn’t enough. I needed to erase them from existence. I wrapped them in toilet paper, then a plastic bag, then another plastic bag, then buried them deep in the bin as if trying to conceal a dark secret.
I stood there, pants around my ankles, staring at my reflection in the mirror. A broken man. A fool who had trusted a fart that did not deserve trust.
Never again.
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