Poll Question:    Name the year and quarter in which you believe Drunkman Shawn will slash up along the Hell-O-Holocoaster traintracks.

2015 (Q1)
2015 (Q2)
2015 (Q3)
2015 (Q4)
2016 (Q1)
2016 (Q2)
2016 (Q3)
2016 (Q4)
2017 (Q1)
2017 (Q2)
2017 (Q3)
2017 (Q4)
2018 (Q1)
2018 (Q2)
2018 (Q3)
2018 (Q4)
2019 (Q1)
2019 (Q2)
2019 (Q3)
2019 (Q4)
2020 (Q1)
2020 (Q2)
2020 (Q3)
2020 (Q4)
2021? No way that fuckwit would live to 2021. Shannon would have killed him herself by that point.

Let's not beat around the maple leaf any further while he takes his daily beatings year after year with no end in sight. It is inevitable that Drunkman will take his own life one day. You know it, I know it, and above all, Drunkman knows it. The pain of Mother Pump's indiscretions, the premature loss of his 32 pearly whites and the varied medical illnesses due to the onset of early boozeheimer's, are a ticking time bomb when coupled with the abuse he cops by all and sundry across multiple forums active and now defunct.

Make no fox bones soup about it, he will off himself one day.

Your punt (or bet), should you choose to wager it, is to pick the year and yearly quarter of his demise (Quarter 1 - Quarter 4).

But you ask, "What's a betting pool without a prize, yo?".

This is where it may get interesting to or for you.

Upon a successful wager for the year and quarter, you get a real life photo of each and every poll participant's gravestone eulogy handwritten out to Foxman's rotting carcass and placed in a cemetery of your choosing and locale with your online moniker displayed proudly in the upper right hand corner of each and every one.

How will this be judged?

Obviously, an obituary of Mr. Roffey in a Central Canada (Ontario) based newspaper would be the prime example all would cite as truth.

Barring that (and it's very possible when one considers the financial difficulties the aging hockey puck has these days), a period of not less than 5 years from this date where Drunkman is not found to be broadcasting either at YawnLive, Mark Yawn's soon to be defunct cunt cave, or anywhere else on the internet.

In addition, I will be offering a 300.00 US V-Coin gift certificate to the winner (anonymously purchased and shipped to whatever anonymous address or anonymous email the winner chooses).

Huge shout out to the legendary LurkersAnonymous for always making chops that wreck these trains in the most entertaining ways.

This is roughly the 703,000th time I've heard this piss-weak excuse for a son/brother verbally abuse his family.

See you ungrateful slobbering drunk, I'm certain that if I were ever in the same room as your family when you start your diseased filthy scumbag mouth you'd suddenly become very, very silent and tripping over your own feet just to kiss your mother's ass. I would be there, grabbing your dust-mite infested, KFC bucket-shaped gourd by it's thin greasy hair and bashing it mercilessly into your fucking wall, while you waddle around drooling and squirting out endless turds all over your puke stained floor - oblivious to the fact that everyone, and I do mean everyone, wishes they could pop by your hovel and cut off both of your paws so that you could never log in and submit another abusive tirade toward your family ever again.

See, nobody in prison gives a fuck about the guy who sucides an asshole who abuses people for his own amusement. And for a VERY good reason. Because they are a true weakling in every sense of the word. Especially when they do it to women. Law of the jungle, canuck cabin boi...lions don't hunt other lions, BITCH. They hunt crippled Zebras. Like you.

I don't call myself a Legend because I like the sound of it or give a fuck about impressing anyone. I do it because I can back it up with DEEDS. You feel ashamed right now. Good. Now you're making sense.  I made you take a look at what you really are and it's that you are seriously a fuckin' loser.

Stick with the abuse of your family, and I will have you punching yourself in the face within weeks.

It is all part of The Process.

Oh what a New Year!

Shots of Patrón XO Cafe Incendio, various cocktails, ciders, and the like, but I paced myself and awoke late morning feeling quite refreshed, despite the capricious fun had and puissant barbecue feast grazed on through the festivities.

I actually do not do earnest resolutions, but it did occur to me that I've been a bit bored with the many bitch-slappings I've administered to deranged nutsacks like VonSmellton, DrunkmanShawn, and the whole slew of partisan politics worshiping cross-eyed beanie babies in the other sub sections of YawnLive.

Guess I'll ease off for awhile and redirect my extra free time to more fulfilling exploits, like bread making and fishing. Meh. What a fucking snorefest.

Exactly like this weak and worthless so-called "troll tracking" blog.

Back in the day at TrollTrackers, posting a blog was basically an invitation to a week-long dogpile. Within hours (at times even minutes) there would have been several textual threats, fists, photochopped cocks and turds tossed into the comments from the heavy hitters and creative writers right on down to the ankle-biting tards. It usually took a day or two just to kick them off and before I could seriously begin to deal with the proper "entertainers" of the game for a few evenings before Scrawnio would come skipping in and pinch off a cum-drenched 26 page "Look at meeeeee!" essay into the fray and divert all the attention onto/into himself (Hands up if you remember when that fucker first showed up in Blogdom and started out as a ONE-word-per-post-blogger for his first few months).

Yes, those were the days. And here we are now - in a 2015 "troll" blog where the worst thing I have to face after roughly 5 years in an international "blogger" forum is a Sesame Street puppet asking me if I was the gimp-in-the-box in Pulp Fiction.

This dump needs to be re-named - as it has absolutely fuck all to do with trolling and everything to do with puppies, kittens and 45+ year old Canadian skanks looking for love in all the wrong places.

I vote that this fluffy shithole be re-named The Wrinkly Hoser Divorcee's Soft Pillows and Tea House in order that it may no longer serve to falsely lure genuine mercenaries like myself with a penchant for making other people meltdown and cry...

What a truly lack luster and disappointing dump this blog has become.

We throw sticks at dogs, that's the level on which we place dogs. You'd never dream of throwing one for a cat. We throw sticks for dogs, and dogs go, "Oh, he's dropped his stick! I better go and get that. [dog chases after the stick] "Saw you dropped your stick there, thought I'd bring it back." [dog gives the stick back and follows it with eyes as you throw it again] "Did you see me just bring that back? And then you … you dipshit, dropped it again? This is fucked. I don't know what's going on here." [dog brings the stick back again] "Now, hang on to it this time, I don't want to fuck around with you all the time. You think I enjoy this? There you … don't fucking throw .....!" [dog chases after the stick] That's why the third time, when they come back, they won't give it to you. They go, [through clenched teeth] "No … I won't let you try that again!"

Cats, on the other hand, have a scam going – you buy the food, they eat the food, they fuck off; that's the deal.

You have no control over your cat! You can't say to your cat, "Cat, heel! Stay! Wait! Lie down! Roll over!" Beause the cat's just going to sit there going, "That's bullshit." While you're shouting all this to your cat, your dog's next to you, going … "What the hell are you doing talking to the cat!"