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Whenever I get a package of plain M&Ms, I make it my duty to continue the strength and robustness of the candy as a species. To this end, I hold M&M duels. Taking two candies between my thumb and forefinger, I apply pressure, squeezing them together until one of them cracks and splinters. That is the “loser,” and I eat the inferior one immediately. The winner gets to go another round. I have found that, in general, the brown and red M&Ms are tougher, and the newer blue ones are genetically inferior. I have hypothesized that the blue M&Ms as a race cannot survive long in the intense theater of competition that is the modern candy and snack-food world. Occasionally I will get a mutation, a candy that is misshapen, or pointier, or flatter than the rest. Almost invariably this proves to be a weakness, but on very rare occasions it gives the candy extra strength. In this way, the species continues to adapt to its environment. When I reach the end of the pack, I am left with one M&M, the strongest of the herd. Since it would make no sense to eat this one as well, I pack it neatly in an envelope and send it to M&M Mars, A Division of Mars, Inc., Hackettstown, NJ 17840-1503 U.S.A., along with a 3x5 card reading, "Please use this M&M for breeding purposes." This week they wrote back to thank me, and sent me a coupon for a free 1/2 pound bag of plain M&Ms. I consider this "grant money." I have set aside the weekend for a grand tournament. From a field of hundreds, we will discover the True Champion. There can be only one.

I hole-hardedly agree, but allow me to play doubles advocate here for a moment. For all intensive purposes I think you are wrong. In an age where false morals are a diamond dozen, true virtues are a blessing in the skies. We often put our false morality on a petal stool like a bunch of pre-Madonnas, but you all seem to be taking something very valuable for granite. So I ask of you to mustard up all the strength you can because it is a doggy dog world out there. Although there is some merit to what you are saying it seems like you have a huge ship on your shoulder. In your argument you seem to throw everything in but the kids Nsync, and even though you are having a feel day with this I am here to bring you back into reality. I have a sick sense when it comes to these types of things. It is almost spooky, because I cannot turn a blonde eye to these glaring flaws in your rhetoric. I have zero taller ants when it comes to people spouting out hate in the name of moral righteousness. You just need to remember what comes around is all around, and when supply and command fails you will be the first to go. Make my words, when you get down to brass stacks it doesn't take rocket appliances to get two birds stoned at once. It's clear who makes the pants in this relationship, and sometimes you just have to swallow your prize and accept the facts. You might have to come to this conclusion through denial and error but I swear on my mother's mating name that when you put the petal to the medal you will pass with flying carpets like it's a peach of cake.

What the fuck did you just fucking say about me, you little bitch? I'll have you know I graduated top of my class in the Navy Seals, and I've been involved in numerous secret raids on Al-Quaeda, and I have over 300 confirmed kills. I am trained in gorilla warfare and I'm the top sniper in the entire US armed forces. You are nothing to me but just another target. I will wipe you the fuck out with precision the likes of which has never been seen before on this Earth, mark my fucking words. You think you can get away with saying that shit to me over the Internet? Think again, fucker. As we speak I am contacting my secret network of spies across the USA and your IP is being traced right now so you better prepare for the storm, maggot. The storm that wipes out the pathetic little thing you call your life. You're fucking dead, kid. I can be anywhere, anytime, and I can kill you in over seven hundred ways, and that's just with my bare hands. Not only am I extensively trained in unarmed combat, but I have access to the entire arsenal of the United States Marine Corps and I will use it to its full extent to wipe your miserable ass off the face of the continent, you little shit. If only you could have known what unholy retribution your little "clever" comment was about to bring down upon you, maybe you would have held your fucking tongue. But you couldn't, you didn't, and now you're paying the price, you goddamn idiot. I will shit fury all over you and you will drown in it. You're fucking dead, kiddo.

"Hey Faggots, My name is John, and I hate every single one of you. All of you are fat, retarded, no-lifes who spend every second of their day looking at stupid ass pictures. You are everything bad in the world. Honestly, have any of you ever gotten any pussy? I mean, I guess it's fun making fun of people because of your own insecurities, but you all take to a whole new level. This is even worse than jerking off to pictures on facebook. Don't be a stranger. Just hit me with your best shot. I'm pretty much perfect. I was captain of the football team, and starter on my basketball team. What sports do you play, other than "jack off to naked drawn Japanese people"? I also get straight A's, and have a banging hot girlfriend (She just blew me; Shit was SO cash). You are all faggots who should just kill yourselves. Thanks for listening.

Pic Related: It's me and my bitch"

To be fair, you have to have a very high IQ to understand Rick and Morty. The humour is extremely subtle, and without a solid grasp of theoretical physics most of the jokes will go over a typical viewer's head. There's also Rick's nihilistic outlook, which is deftly woven into his characterisation- his personal philosophy draws heavily from Narodnaya Volya literature, for instance. The fans understand this stuff; they have the intellectual capacity to truly appreciate the depths of these jokes, to realise that they're not just funny- they say something deep about LIFE. As a consequence people who dislike Rick & Morty truly ARE idiots- of course they wouldn't appreciate, for instance, the humour in Rick's existential catchphrase "Wubba Lubba Dub Dub," which itself is a cryptic reference to Turgenev's Russian epic Fathers and Sons. I'm smirking right now just imagining one of those addlepated simpletons scratching their heads in confusion as Dan Harmon's genius wit unfolds itself on their television screens. What fools.. how I pity them.

And yes, by the way, i DO have a Rick & Morty tattoo. And no, you cannot see it. It's for the ladies' eyes only- and even then they have to demonstrate that they're within 5 IQ points of my own (preferably lower) beforehand. Nothin personnel kid.

i moved to japan because i hate individualism
people exist to serve their society
life is about obligations
not pleasure not suffering

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Posting WEBMs should be a bannable offense. Why post something that isn't viewable on all devices??? Especially, when the device is Apple. Your primitive webm bullshit is so annoying. How outdated are they? It doesn't even give me the option to view this crap. Androids and PCs are pathetic and it's a mystery to me why you "people" even buy them. Must be a low IQ rural and suburban thing.

Warwick Davis

Imagine being a tiny little bit of a man. You wake up in the morning and throw back the napkin blanket from your matchbox bed. You almost role off and fall to your death. Feel around for the ladder with your rice sized toe. There it is. You climb down. Now you see an ant. The giant brute lumbering toward you. The smell of tiny man meat intoxicating the insect. You run, or more like you hop, towards the safety of a small crack in the wall not even the ant can fit in. Take a moment to rejoice and let your eyes adjust to the darkness. You're so small you can see every individual ray of light. Hungry from your morning adventure you decide to eat. Luckily a feast of atoms and other subatomic particles lay before you. You eat barely a third of a neutron and you're stuffed. That's when you notice you've accidentally begun to fall through the very fabric of existence. You grasp out but everything is too big to hold onto. You fall into the abyss.

What I would give to kidnap Warwick Davis and make his life a living hell. I would force him to dress up in elf and leprechaun outfits and subject him to pure awfulness and humiliation. Just terrible degradation and shameful acts. It would be so easy to break his spirit and drive him to suicide, but I wouldn't let him do it. If I could train a dog to rape on command then I would totally do that as well. A really big dog like a mastiff. He would be so completely and utterly powerless to stop it, not to mention terrified. A big ass dog is even scary and life-threatening to a normal human but to a midget? Might as well be a dragon. I'd keep him in a cell and what's more is that I would actually place the key inside with him but put it in a high place. Not extremely high but just ever so slightly out of reach. It would drive him mad. I would dress him like a baby and force feed him 99 cent store baby food. I'd also pick him up like a child and toss him from one corner to the next. I'd grab him by one leg and swing him as hard and as fast as I could then hurl him to see how far he goes. I'd rent one of those giant inflatable bounce houses and body slam him all day until my arms got tired. I'd hold him down with 1 hand and slowly stick things up his butt just to see him squirm. I would stick him in dryers and turn them on and leave him in there for long periods of time. I'd force him to fight other midgets to the death. Just so many things i would do.

Personally I'd starve Warwick Davis. It should not take too long given his size. Make him stick thin and so feeble. Then I would feign pity and serve him a plate of delicious char siu meat, with rich, sticky sauce, perfect pancakes, refreshing drinks... go all out. Give that little bastard a banquet. Watch him greedily devour the meat. His lips, teeth, and fingers sticky with the sauce as he throws manners and decorum out of the window in a mad rush to satiate himself. Then, when he's satisfied and feels thing are looking up, I shall reveal he has not been feasting on char siu pork but... char siu Harrison Davis. Yes, I will have ensured Warwick Davis greedily gobbled up the flesh of his mutant son that I butchered after growing bored with torturing him. As the tears well up in his eyes and he refuses to belief me, I shall let out a truly evil, bone chilling laugh and upend the contents of a box I'll have near me; it will be the mangled remains of his son. His legs gone, his skin flayed, castrated, eyes missing, his fingers and arms broken, and head twisted around. That is what I would do to that little bastard. The louder he screams and cries in anguish, the louder and more evil my cackle becomes. Hell, it may just kill me because I'll be struggling to breath as I'll be laughing so hard. I will then loop the footage of his son being raped by a dog, tortured, and then butchered by me 24/7 at maximum volume. This is the fate that awaits you, you vile little goblin.

I'd love to kick Warwick Davis in the head. Just take a few steps run up then catch him with the full force of my steel capped toe under his chin, send that little faggot flying through the air.

As he lies on the floor, coughing and wheezing and chocking on his own blood, his jaw a mangled mess of bones detached from the rest of his skull, I stand over him and laugh wickedly. He looks up at me in fear and pain, his eyes searching, begging me for mercy. He finds none. I raise my boot then stomp down, splitting his skull like a melon and finally ending his pathetic life.

Imagine seeing Warwick Davis shopping at the mall before Christmas. You run into him on the third floor, carrying dozens of bags that are far too heavy for his stubby little arms and puny fingers. He's struggling, sweat is pouring off his deformed little forehead as he tries to get his gifts home for his family. You feel the rage build up in you, looking at this decrepit little gnome pulling all these bags, making little grunts in his stupid little high pitched voice. Unconsciously, you find yourself striding towards him, with venomous intent in your eyes. He catches sight of you approaching, his tiny freak head lifts slightly, you can see the fear in his eyes like a zebra looking at a lion on the hunt. In an instant, you grab him by his tiny legs and begin walking over to the balcony that overlooks the mall floor, Warwick too weak to fight back, only whimpering. Three floors up is a good height to a human being, but to this imp? It might as well be the Grand Canyon. You lift him over your head like a sack of potatoes and you toss the little midge over the edge, and you hear his goofy high pitched yelps as he falls. He smacks his head off a cupcake kiosk, his tiny brains splattered all over a group of Chinese tourists like a Jackson Pollock painting, the elves from the nearby Santa Claus chair rush over, thinking one of their own has committed suicide again. In this moment, you feel triumph.

I'd love to play a game of Fridge The Midge with Warwick Davis. What's Fridge The Midge, one might ask? It's simple: you put a midget in a refrigerator. You and the boys put him in the crisper drawer, shut the door, gather 'round, drink some cold ones, and laugh yourself lightheaded over hearing the pathetic little midget's futile attempts to escape. He's not strong enough to push the door open, he doesn't have the leverage or space to even get the crisper drawer open, the cold is slowing him down, he's running out of air, he knows it's almost over for him and starts screaming for help. Maybe you liven things up a little by shaking the refrigerator to spook him, or say "oh my God is somebody in there" and open the door to give him a glimmer of hope before slamming it shut and mocking him, it's up to you. I wouldn't recommend letting the midget die, that's when things get complicated. Though, I suppose it'll be easy to hide the body, considering... you know.

I'd bludgeon Warwick with the son, mainly cause it would kill the son before him and Warwick would cry and scream in anguish. He'd probably rush me. Trying to take down the monster that beat him bloody and slaughtered his vile son. I would laugh. Laugh so evilly that the logic triumphs over the rage and he realises how hopeless it is take down a great lumbering brute like me. When I finally see this realisation dawn on him and hopelessness touch his eyes, I shall treat him to a very wicked smirk and saunter over to his daughter, who is grieving over the remains of her halfing (or quarterling) mutant of a brother. I shall grab her by the angles. She lets out a shriek of terror. Warwick rushes me again but I just kick him in the jaw and send him flying, and, of course, reduce his jaw to a mangled ruin of blood and broken bone. I stand of him with his daughter squirming, laugh maliciously once more for posterity's sake, raise his daughter high, and slam her down onto her vile sire again and again and again and finally end that goblin's worthless life.

I would kidnap Warwick and his family and bring them to some island off the coast of Greenland. A cold rock with barely any vegetation. They'd depend totally on my supplies to survive, and I'd obviously force them to pay me with her wife and daughter's bodies. I'd create with them deformed creatures, and force Warwick and his son to procreate with those creatures. Eventually they'd form a little midget populated island, with their pretend houses and pretend institutions. And when Warwick is old and had a plentiful life as a pretend king, I would come with an army of violent rapists and murderers that no country wants and leave them to destroy the wretched's creature world. Lastly I'd pass on a plane and bomb his shitty rock to smitherens.

I'd tie a starving pitbull to a rusted, grounded pipe in a small, barred enclosure, maybe 2x2x2 meters, then I'd throw Warwick Davis in there. The key to the exit will be just out of arm's reach. He'll dislocate his shoulder trying to grab it, his nails will fuse to the concrete floor inches away from the key, but it won't be enough. The pipe will give, hour by hour, minute by minute, the pitbull's unceasing snarling and barking a ticking clock for Warwick. He will beg. He'll plead. I'll leave the room and come back with a bucket of old chicken and make like I'm gonna throw it at him only to stop short. He'll scream "NO, PLEASE!" I'll do it again and he'll shriek his little midget shriek as he flinches. More like a rat's cry. Bored, I finally unleash the chicken pieces upon him. The rusted pipe bends, dirt kicking up. Warwick hurls himself at the exit, reaching with his non-injured arm for the key, screaming unintelligible midgetese at me. A clink rings out, galloping paws. Warwick barely has a second to scream as his eyes meet mine. The back of his neck is torn out by the pitbull.

I say this, and I never would hurt anybody in real life. I want to running kick his daughter, not the wife, not the son, not even him. I want to take a head start run back, and literally PROPEL my self, off the floor, and flying double kick his daughter in the face. but heres the thing, he has to see it. I don't want to kill her, not at all. I just want him to view me taking a large run back, and actually lifting my entire body off the floor, flying across the sky, legs together, feet out, directly into her face. I literally, can't even explain to you why. she looks like she was LITTERALLY made for it. I can't stress enough just how important that it only works if the father sees. the son and wife are whatever, they can see but it isn't necessary, I just want to running kick the daughter in the face at full speed. she literally looks like she was DESIGNED to be punted, like a fucking ball. like I sort of want to see if I could spinning flying kick her in the air, but I know because of her height, I couldn't pul lit off unless I had a couple, at least a couple of tries, however, I only have one shot, and I KNOW I can double kick her in the face, but not a flying kick, I'm not fucking bruce lee, I wish I was because then I would, or, if he was alive, I would pay him for that. I would unironically stack all my resouirces just to see that one thing take place. look at her face. look at her body and tell me she doesn't deserve everything i'm saying in detail. Christ I've never wanted something so much in my life. can somebody do some kind of cgi animation or anything? cheers

How I would love to lock Warwick Davis into a lead-lined chamber with a lump of uranium-238 inside for an hour or so. I would get someone to drag him out and watch as he starts puking and stumbling over his pathetic midget leg-stumps dizzily, finally losing consciousness. I would then take him to a comfortable bed and impersonate a doctor - putting him to rest, pretending to look after him and ensuring him that he would get better. As the days pass, the disgusting little goblin will get worse and worse, vomiting, shitting piping-hot bloody diarrhoea and generally screaming in pain from his now burned and necrotic flesh, his internal organs failing and his chromosomes melting. But I would still lie to this festering imp and tell him it gets worse before it gets better. As he gets to his final stages of acute radiation poisoning, I will reveal that i lied to him the whole time and that he is going to die. The demonic pipsqueak starts bawling his beady eyes out as I let out a hearty laugh. He begs to be put out of his mercy, but I ignore his pathetic whines and start peeling his bubbling mottled skin from his tiny arms. The screams get louder and louder as I peel and peel, and I finally get some peace when I stuff the sticky, squelching flesh into his disproportionate midge-mouth. I get a bucket of his own bloody diarrhoea and rub it into his raw, exposed flesh, and finally close the curtain, turn off the lights and exit the medical room forever - leaving this satanic little munchkin to expire.