Posts from Sacred Haven of Debauchery Auto-translated

Lisa posted a quote. I saw what she claimed was my post, but I don't remember it.

Oh, someone's about to get a beating.

Arandor, give it to him.

First, let my testicles go.

Lisa posted a quote. Saw what was supposedly my post, which I don't remember.

Wow, someone responded to my bump.
But I found a mistake in Vegtam's post – a post that Arandor can't remember because it's my post.

First, I’ll make an omelet out of them.

And then will you let it go?

Yeah. With a frying pan.

Lisa posted a quote. She saw what she thought was my post, but I don't remember it.

And what was it?
Oh dear, I still have some unposted quotes. Will you criticize me if I post them? Nowadays, only old-timers remember about notes.

I'll be posting. You just bump your thread.

about deep thoughts and a bathtub. It's written in all caps there.

Vegtam has it, and that’s the post I was talking about.

Added 52 seconds later
Well, maybe Lizard has it too; I just didn’t notice.

Added 1 minute later
Actually, no. I’m an idiot. I initially confused Veggi’s and Lizki’s quote collections.
Lizki does have an error there, though.

Well, here it is. I knew I would never write such nonsense.

about deep thoughts and a bathtub. It's written in all caps there.

Hmm, no, I'd venture to guess that you forgot what you said yourself – as far as I remember, this happened in the Haven. Besides, who else could have written something like that?

let me take your place in the Mafia game.

I am a master of writing "khunta." I am the chief writer of "khunta." The scribe of "khunta." Cool, I'll name my musical group that. Scribe of Khunta. Khunta's Scribe. Khunta Pi__ets. Name any theme for me, and I will write a "khunta." And a scribe. And a "khunta." I love to write "khuntas," the best rhyming wordsmith has emerged from within me. Khunta, khunta, khunta. Nyanyanya, a beige door usurped a cup of floral tea in order to ride on a pillow of uncertainty into the bloodthirsty expanses of metallic pages of written chairs, a dancing parquet floor, and morph into a jelly-like, insanely vibrant box of flat volumes of a stream of matrixity.
Here, a poplar is eating straw.
Khunta.

Added 2 minutes ago
Copyright >:3
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Hunta the Scribe

This is my band. I play the harmonica and shake maracas, while the kids dance and howl. And my husband, a locksmith, claps his hands in time with the music and smiles at the audience with his gold teeth. That's what kind of family of idiots we are.