Ear's random shitposts

[fightinfrenchman]

D I N O D N A

[fightinfrenchman]

Context

[evilcheadar]

shiiiiiiiiiieet

[Horsemen]

this thread blows my mind

[Goodspeed]

I renamed the thread "Ear's random shitposts"
Future random shitposts like this can go in here. I don't think we need a new thread for each.
@fightinfrenchman

[evilcheadar]

Hahahahaha sand just lay in bed


@Goodspeed why didn’t she just continue to lay in bed

[fightinfrenchman]

I renamed the thread "Ear's random shitposts"
Future random shitposts like this can go in here. I don't think we need a new thread for each.
@fightinfrenchman

I don't make a new thread for each, this one was special

[Horsemen]

hold this monkey shit

[Amsel_]

Good thread

[Jam]

I saw this in a cartoon once.

[fightinfrenchman]

I saw this in a cartoon once.

When?

[deleted_user]

CUT THE EAR OFF

[fightinfrenchman]

CUT THE EAR OFF

What you think of an "ear" is actually a pinna.

[Jam]

I saw this in a cartoon once.

When?

A few hours ago.

[Horsemen]

You go oh is a modern masterpiece rivalled only by ears ship OST’s

[fightinfrenchman]

It's honestly kind of amazing how much the Overton window of shitposting has shifted since I first found ESOC

[Djigit]

#wokeaf

[tedere12]

well hi

[Jam]

The men of those divisions were lined up during the night in the communication trenches, which had been dug by the sappers and laid with miles of telephone wire. They were silent, except for the chink of shovels and side arms, the shuffle of men's feet, their hard breathing, and occasional words of command. At five-thirty, when the guns in all our batteries were firing at full blast, with a constant scream of shells over the heads of the waiting men, and when the first faint light of day stole into the sky, there was a slight rain falling, and the wind blew lightly from the southwest.

In the front-line trenches a number of men were busy with some long, narrow cylinders, which had been carried up a day before. They were arranging them in the mud of the parapets with their nozles facing the enemy lines.

“That's the stuff to give them!”

“What is it?”

“Poison-gas. Worse than they used at Ypres.”

“Christ!... supposing we have to walk through it?”

“We shall walk behind it. The wind will carry it down the throat of the Fritzes. We shall find 'em dead.”

So men I met had talked of that new weapon which most of them hated.

It was at five-thirty when the men busy with the cylinders turned on little taps. There was a faint hissing noise, the escape of gas from many pipes. A heavy, whitish cloud came out of the cylinders and traveled above ground as it was lifted and carried forward by the breeze.

“How's the gas working?” asked a Scottish officer.

“Going fine!” said an English officer. But he looked anxious, and wetted a finger and held it up, to get the direction of the wind.

Some of the communication trenches were crowded with the Black Watch of the 1st Division, hard, bronzed fellows, with the red heckle in their bonnets. (It was before the time of steel hats.) They were leaning up against the walls of the trenches, waiting. They were strung round with spades, bombs, and sacks.

“A queer kind o' stink!” said one of them, sniffing.

Some of the men began coughing. Others were rubbing their eyes, as though they smarted.

The poison-gas... The wind had carried it half way across No Man's Land, then a swirl changed its course, and flicked it down a gully, and swept it right round to the Black Watch in the narrow trenches. Some German shell-fire was coming, too. In one small bunch eight men fell in a mush of blood and raw flesh. But the gas was worse. There was a movement in the trenches, the huddling together of frightened men who had been very brave. They were coughing, spitting, gasping. Some of them fell limp against their fellows, with pallid cheeks which blackened. Others tied handkerchiefs about their mouths and noses, but choked inside those bandages, and dropped to earth with a clatter of shovels. Officers and men were cursing and groaning. An hour later, when the whistles blew, there were gaps in the line of the 1st Division which went over the top. In the trenches lay gassed men. In No Man's Land others fell, swept by machine-gun bullets, shrapnel, and high explosives. The 1st Division was “checked.”...

“We caught it badly,” said some of them I met later in the day, bandaged and bloody, and plastered in wet chalk, while gassed men lay on stretchers about them, unconscious, with laboring lungs.

[fightinfrenchman]

The men of those divisions were lined up during the night in the communication trenches, which had been dug by the sappers and laid with miles of telephone wire. They were silent, except for the chink of shovels and side arms, the shuffle of men's feet, their hard breathing, and occasional words of command. At five-thirty, when the guns in all our batteries were firing at full blast, with a constant scream of shells over the heads of the waiting men, and when the first faint light of day stole into the sky, there was a slight rain falling, and the wind blew lightly from the southwest.

In the front-line trenches a number of men were busy with some long, narrow cylinders, which had been carried up a day before. They were arranging them in the mud of the parapets with their nozles facing the enemy lines.

“That's the stuff to give them!”

“What is it?”

“Poison-gas. Worse than they used at Ypres.”

“Christ!... supposing we have to walk through it?”

“We shall walk behind it. The wind will carry it down the throat of the Fritzes. We shall find 'em dead.”

So men I met had talked of that new weapon which most of them hated.

It was at five-thirty when the men busy with the cylinders turned on little taps. There was a faint hissing noise, the escape of gas from many pipes. A heavy, whitish cloud came out of the cylinders and traveled above ground as it was lifted and carried forward by the breeze.

“How's the gas working?” asked a Scottish officer.

“Going fine!” said an English officer. But he looked anxious, and wetted a finger and held it up, to get the direction of the wind.

Some of the communication trenches were crowded with the Black Watch of the 1st Division, hard, bronzed fellows, with the red heckle in their bonnets. (It was before the time of steel hats.) They were leaning up against the walls of the trenches, waiting. They were strung round with spades, bombs, and sacks.

“A queer kind o' stink!” said one of them, sniffing.

Some of the men began coughing. Others were rubbing their eyes, as though they smarted.

The poison-gas... The wind had carried it half way across No Man's Land, then a swirl changed its course, and flicked it down a gully, and swept it right round to the Black Watch in the narrow trenches. Some German shell-fire was coming, too. In one small bunch eight men fell in a mush of blood and raw flesh. But the gas was worse. There was a movement in the trenches, the huddling together of frightened men who had been very brave. They were coughing, spitting, gasping. Some of them fell limp against their fellows, with pallid cheeks which blackened. Others tied handkerchiefs about their mouths and noses, but choked inside those bandages, and dropped to earth with a clatter of shovels. Officers and men were cursing and groaning. An hour later, when the whistles blew, there were gaps in the line of the 1st Division which went over the top. In the trenches lay gassed men. In No Man's Land others fell, swept by machine-gun bullets, shrapnel, and high explosives. The 1st Division was “checked.”...

“We caught it badly,” said some of them I met later in the day, bandaged and bloody, and plastered in wet chalk, while gassed men lay on stretchers about them, unconscious, with laboring lungs.

Just hold your breath lol

[Jam]

The men of those divisions were lined up during the night in the communication trenches, which had been dug by the sappers and laid with miles of telephone wire. They were silent, except for the chink of shovels and side arms, the shuffle of men's feet, their hard breathing, and occasional words of command. At five-thirty, when the guns in all our batteries were firing at full blast, with a constant scream of shells over the heads of the waiting men, and when the first faint light of day stole into the sky, there was a slight rain falling, and the wind blew lightly from the southwest.

In the front-line trenches a number of men were busy with some long, narrow cylinders, which had been carried up a day before. They were arranging them in the mud of the parapets with their nozles facing the enemy lines.

“That's the stuff to give them!”

“What is it?”

“Poison-gas. Worse than they used at Ypres.”

“Christ!... supposing we have to walk through it?”

“We shall walk behind it. The wind will carry it down the throat of the Fritzes. We shall find 'em dead.”

So men I met had talked of that new weapon which most of them hated.

It was at five-thirty when the men busy with the cylinders turned on little taps. There was a faint hissing noise, the escape of gas from many pipes. A heavy, whitish cloud came out of the cylinders and traveled above ground as it was lifted and carried forward by the breeze.

“How's the gas working?” asked a Scottish officer.

“Going fine!” said an English officer. But he looked anxious, and wetted a finger and held it up, to get the direction of the wind.

Some of the communication trenches were crowded with the Black Watch of the 1st Division, hard, bronzed fellows, with the red heckle in their bonnets. (It was before the time of steel hats.) They were leaning up against the walls of the trenches, waiting. They were strung round with spades, bombs, and sacks.

“A queer kind o' stink!” said one of them, sniffing.

Some of the men began coughing. Others were rubbing their eyes, as though they smarted.

The poison-gas... The wind had carried it half way across No Man's Land, then a swirl changed its course, and flicked it down a gully, and swept it right round to the Black Watch in the narrow trenches. Some German shell-fire was coming, too. In one small bunch eight men fell in a mush of blood and raw flesh. But the gas was worse. There was a movement in the trenches, the huddling together of frightened men who had been very brave. They were coughing, spitting, gasping. Some of them fell limp against their fellows, with pallid cheeks which blackened. Others tied handkerchiefs about their mouths and noses, but choked inside those bandages, and dropped to earth with a clatter of shovels. Officers and men were cursing and groaning. An hour later, when the whistles blew, there were gaps in the line of the 1st Division which went over the top. In the trenches lay gassed men. In No Man's Land others fell, swept by machine-gun bullets, shrapnel, and high explosives. The 1st Division was “checked.”...

“We caught it badly,” said some of them I met later in the day, bandaged and bloody, and plastered in wet chalk, while gassed men lay on stretchers about them, unconscious, with laboring lungs.

Just hold your breath lol

Isolated Germans still kept sniping from secret places, and some of them fired at a dressing-station in the market-place, until a French girl, afterward decorated for valor—she was called the Lady of Loos by Londoners and Scots—borrowed a revolver and shot two of them dead in a neighboring house. Then she came back to the soup she was making for wounded men.

[Horsemen]

good shit men

[fightinfrenchman]

Imagine a dog named "Ricotta," like the cheese

[Jam]

Imagine a dog named "Ricotta," like the cheese

XD

[fightinfrenchman]

Imagine a dog named "Ricotta," like the cheese

XD

I had the same reaction