shekelshoah666
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- Mar 17, 2017
KC pushed to friday SUFFA!
🍔 Quarterpounder Jeremy Hambly / The Quartering / MTGHeadquarters / Unsleeved Media / Midwestly - Buttblasted alcoholic manchild upset he was banned from a childrens' card game, Grifter, supporter of the cancel culture, cucked by a Jewish bull (Adam Sellers), pisses in basement, shits himself, FLAGGOT, stalks little girls in public, scammer, sex pest
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🏰 The Fediverse is up. If you know, you know.
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KC pushed to friday SUFFA!
- Joined
- Feb 24, 2026
Keep it up jer and TaxedBeass will turn one of your interred relatives into a chair
Arkin O'Brien
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- Dec 12, 2022
I could only make it through one clip of Jer behaving like a vile sex pest. He is so viscerally disgusting. He's like the worst parts of male nerdom were all piled together and granted life by some horrid alien intelligence.
- Joined
- Jun 14, 2019
My one wish is that they wouldn't do this shit last minute lmao
RMQualtrough
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- Jan 2, 2021
Pathetically tagging her to try to get her attention and then, of course, use niceguy techniques on her only to get rejected due to being hideously fat and autisticm, as usual... How you attempt to be a Niceguy to get laid into your 40s without realizing it hasn't worked and just embarrassed you, I don't understand. Maybe part of the humiliation fetish.
Ultor Corporate Shill
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- Apr 13, 2026
You fat bastard.
Lake_Cresva_Sailor
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- Apr 20, 2026
Last edited by a moderator:
weliveinaMeritocracy
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- Sep 13, 2020
Im noticing some avid Phil detractors covering Ham Planet more often. Something about alcoholics with poor spending habits who are habitual liars really appeals to the Snortex.
- Joined
- Feb 11, 2026
H3 is right now reviewing Jer's YouTube shorts.
- Joined
- Feb 7, 2021
Stunner900
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- Dec 26, 2025
The bailiff of the renaissance fair would arrest him.
Airstrip One
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- Aug 12, 2024
What did you do with your day? Something productive, I hope. I wrote a Quartering-inspired story, titled:
Hambly was a portly gentleman of inconsistent means. At times he displayed an opulence that appeared boundless. He spent lavishly, always to his own benefit, mostly, it must be said, on frivolities. His odd moments of philanthropy were of the kind where it is difficult to say with certainty whether any charitable endeavour has actually been made. Despite his copious wealth, it was common for him to claim to have descended into a state of abject poverty, during which he would beg the assistance of persons, with whom he was barely acquainted, to assist him in such matters as paying the wages of his domestic servants.
The sources of Hambly’s income were as mysterious as its fluctuations. His claims to have made his fortune as a coffee merchant were, at best, dubious. Many recipients of the Hambly-blend – a crumbly brown substance of uncertain provenance – were sceptical in regard to its quality and its freshness. A more credible explanation of his wealth lay in his brokerage of short shorts. These he obtained second-hand and made a cursory attempt at cleaning prior to passing them off as his own creations. If true, then we must give thanks that Hambly, who cut an ogrish figure, had the good sense not to cram his ample buttocks into such tight-fitting and revealing garments.
He spend the bulk of his day in his bedroom, moving between six beds, all of which had specific purposes. On one, he would read aloud from a particular newspaper. Later he would move to the adjacent mattress where he would peruse a different periodical, and so on and so forth, until the sun began to sink below the horizon. In the evenings, he would situate himself in a high-backed chair while his wife busied herself with her affairs on a seventh bed, to which Hambly was granted only occasional access. From this vantage, in the corner of the room, he would amuse himself by opening packs of playing cards, commenting on the artwork and speculating, somewhat ignorantly it must be said, on the purpose of eight of clubs and the three of diamonds.
Eventually a contemporary of Hambly, who it seemed was fed up of being asked for money, furnished him with the means to delve into his ancestry: “Maybe you will uncover some heretofore unknown relative of substance who may well assist you during lean times,” the hopeful well-wisher suggested. Hambly accepted the gift with no great enthusiasm. A few days after, he sat down and, following the instructions provided, sketched out what he knew of his family tree in his own blood. When the paper was dry, he placed it in an envelope, sent it off in the mail, and soon forgot all about it.
Three to five weeks passed. At this juncture, the conscientious reader may wish to take some time to envisage the string of unconnected mundane events that might occur over such a length of time.
It was a Wednesday when Hambly, upon hearing the delivery of the post, ambled to his mail box and perused, amidst the abundant final demands, a curious package, which under closer inspection revealed itself as the result of his ancestry test. With his tongue pressed against the outer corner of his mouth in anticipation, he pawed at the corner of the envelope with his sausage fingers.
‘It is possible my lineage can be traced to the Mayflower,” he speculated inwardly. “Or perhaps to an Irish chieftain who has gained access to vaults of leprechaun gold. Or even a Hungarian count. And where there is such a man there is bound also to be a countess who is sure to be in possession of a pair of massive tits.’
However, as he unfolded the enclosed document, his face fell and his mouth dropped open, for printed at dead centre, halfway down the page were the words:
SAR, one-hundred percent.
Surely it was a mistake. His eyes darted to the smaller explanatory text below. It seemed that he was descended from a family with roots in an infamous district of Kolkata, India. Hastening to the bed where he read aloud from encyclopedias, he retrieved the relevant volume. His fingers scrabbled against the gold leaf of the pages as they were turned back and forth. There it was: A short entry describing his place of origin. A designated shitting street; or rather it was the designated shitting street – the earliest known example, the forerunner of all other shitting streets in India, Portland and San Francisco. The willing hands of his ancestors had cleaved the buttocks of the millions of who had made pilgrimages to defecate there, wiping them clean of residual poo.
It was after this disturbing revelation that Hambly noted a subtle physical transformation taking place. His hands seemed to be turning browner by the day. He shat himself more than was normal and the accompanying gas was more foul-smelling. During an argument with a detractor, a lazily-composed retort emerged from his mouth as: “Now see here, you bloody bastard!” The operators on the East India Company switchboard were openly disrespectful, referring to him as untouchable and casting aspersions on his izzat – a kind of family dishonour masquerading as honour – that was, all of a sudden, tremendously important to him.
On the recommendation of a friend, he presented himself at the offices of one Dr Natas – a foreign gentleman.
“I see your problem,” said the Doctor. “However, you will be glad to hear that it can be resolved through the application of a suit of green felt that will, given an appropriate amount of time, dispel all traces of melanation.
“That sounds most agreeable,” said Hambly.
“Indeed,” replied the Doctor, solemnly. “Though it is my duty to warn you that the felt was previously used as a backdrop for a display of daguerreotypes depicting the most evil men and women ever to walk this earth. Some say that their wickedness has seeped into the fabric corrupting all who make contact with it.”
“Well, that doesn’t seem at all plausible,” scoffed Hambly. A few minutes later he departed from the offices of Dr Natas clad from head to foot in green felt, drawing incredulous looks from all who crossed his path.
Over the days that followed, Hambly had to admit that there were moments where his behaviour seemed governed by an iniquitous spirit that compelled him to commit depraved and immoral acts. He was openly lecherous with his female house staff. One night, he planted French flags on the homes and business of his rivals, standing a safe distance away and watching as these buildings were burned by British redcoats.
Something else that he noticed was the suit gradually tightening, until the day arrived when, having presented himself at his toilet, he found it impossible to remove and was forced to defecate where he stood.
“Well, perhaps it has done its work and can now be cut away,” he theorised.
Indeed, Dr Natas seemed pleased by his progress.
“Now all that is left if for the felt to be removed and all shall be well,” opined Hambly.
At this remark, the Doctor raised a dark eyebrow.
“Sir, did I not promise that the felt suit would erase all traces of melanin from your skin, and has it not done so? Save for that which is still visible on your face, which will be gone in a few days.”
“Now see here, you bloody bastard!” cried Hambly. “I was led to believe the felt would somehow remove the brown pigmentation from my skin. Not that I should have to wear it permanently and soil myself while wearing it. I shall write to the Worshipful Company of Barber Surgeons and have your licence to practice medicine removed!”
At this the Doctor rose from his chair, drawing himself to his full height and tossing his cape across his shoulder.
“A medical licence is but a trifle, for you will see, good sir, when you invert the letters in my name, that they spell Satan!”
“I am undone,” cried Hambly, stumbling backwards into the street, where he felt the embrace of the felt tighten its grip upon him, expanding to cover his eyes, nose and mouth.
It bears mentioning that, several weeks after the disappearance of Mr Hambly, a petulant, morbidly obese, child named Ralph, dragged his mother, Scarlett, by the hand into the gloomy interior of a small toyshop, where he pointed upward at a grotesque troll-like doll sewn from overstuffed green felt and with a feculent odour about it. It seemed to gaze down at the hopeful face of the boy with a pair of eyes that resembled worn-out cunts.
The shopkeeper, Mr Reficul, brought it down from the shelf and handed it to the child who cradled it possessively against the bifurcated overhang of his belly.
“Now I must tell you,” said Mr Reficul, earnestly, “something of the doll’s dark origins...”
The Man in the Suit of Felt
A Tale of Horror and Poo
A Tale of Horror and Poo
Hambly was a portly gentleman of inconsistent means. At times he displayed an opulence that appeared boundless. He spent lavishly, always to his own benefit, mostly, it must be said, on frivolities. His odd moments of philanthropy were of the kind where it is difficult to say with certainty whether any charitable endeavour has actually been made. Despite his copious wealth, it was common for him to claim to have descended into a state of abject poverty, during which he would beg the assistance of persons, with whom he was barely acquainted, to assist him in such matters as paying the wages of his domestic servants.
The sources of Hambly’s income were as mysterious as its fluctuations. His claims to have made his fortune as a coffee merchant were, at best, dubious. Many recipients of the Hambly-blend – a crumbly brown substance of uncertain provenance – were sceptical in regard to its quality and its freshness. A more credible explanation of his wealth lay in his brokerage of short shorts. These he obtained second-hand and made a cursory attempt at cleaning prior to passing them off as his own creations. If true, then we must give thanks that Hambly, who cut an ogrish figure, had the good sense not to cram his ample buttocks into such tight-fitting and revealing garments.
He spend the bulk of his day in his bedroom, moving between six beds, all of which had specific purposes. On one, he would read aloud from a particular newspaper. Later he would move to the adjacent mattress where he would peruse a different periodical, and so on and so forth, until the sun began to sink below the horizon. In the evenings, he would situate himself in a high-backed chair while his wife busied herself with her affairs on a seventh bed, to which Hambly was granted only occasional access. From this vantage, in the corner of the room, he would amuse himself by opening packs of playing cards, commenting on the artwork and speculating, somewhat ignorantly it must be said, on the purpose of eight of clubs and the three of diamonds.
Eventually a contemporary of Hambly, who it seemed was fed up of being asked for money, furnished him with the means to delve into his ancestry: “Maybe you will uncover some heretofore unknown relative of substance who may well assist you during lean times,” the hopeful well-wisher suggested. Hambly accepted the gift with no great enthusiasm. A few days after, he sat down and, following the instructions provided, sketched out what he knew of his family tree in his own blood. When the paper was dry, he placed it in an envelope, sent it off in the mail, and soon forgot all about it.
Three to five weeks passed. At this juncture, the conscientious reader may wish to take some time to envisage the string of unconnected mundane events that might occur over such a length of time.
It was a Wednesday when Hambly, upon hearing the delivery of the post, ambled to his mail box and perused, amidst the abundant final demands, a curious package, which under closer inspection revealed itself as the result of his ancestry test. With his tongue pressed against the outer corner of his mouth in anticipation, he pawed at the corner of the envelope with his sausage fingers.
‘It is possible my lineage can be traced to the Mayflower,” he speculated inwardly. “Or perhaps to an Irish chieftain who has gained access to vaults of leprechaun gold. Or even a Hungarian count. And where there is such a man there is bound also to be a countess who is sure to be in possession of a pair of massive tits.’
However, as he unfolded the enclosed document, his face fell and his mouth dropped open, for printed at dead centre, halfway down the page were the words:
SAR, one-hundred percent.
Surely it was a mistake. His eyes darted to the smaller explanatory text below. It seemed that he was descended from a family with roots in an infamous district of Kolkata, India. Hastening to the bed where he read aloud from encyclopedias, he retrieved the relevant volume. His fingers scrabbled against the gold leaf of the pages as they were turned back and forth. There it was: A short entry describing his place of origin. A designated shitting street; or rather it was the designated shitting street – the earliest known example, the forerunner of all other shitting streets in India, Portland and San Francisco. The willing hands of his ancestors had cleaved the buttocks of the millions of who had made pilgrimages to defecate there, wiping them clean of residual poo.
It was after this disturbing revelation that Hambly noted a subtle physical transformation taking place. His hands seemed to be turning browner by the day. He shat himself more than was normal and the accompanying gas was more foul-smelling. During an argument with a detractor, a lazily-composed retort emerged from his mouth as: “Now see here, you bloody bastard!” The operators on the East India Company switchboard were openly disrespectful, referring to him as untouchable and casting aspersions on his izzat – a kind of family dishonour masquerading as honour – that was, all of a sudden, tremendously important to him.
On the recommendation of a friend, he presented himself at the offices of one Dr Natas – a foreign gentleman.
“I see your problem,” said the Doctor. “However, you will be glad to hear that it can be resolved through the application of a suit of green felt that will, given an appropriate amount of time, dispel all traces of melanation.
“That sounds most agreeable,” said Hambly.
“Indeed,” replied the Doctor, solemnly. “Though it is my duty to warn you that the felt was previously used as a backdrop for a display of daguerreotypes depicting the most evil men and women ever to walk this earth. Some say that their wickedness has seeped into the fabric corrupting all who make contact with it.”
“Well, that doesn’t seem at all plausible,” scoffed Hambly. A few minutes later he departed from the offices of Dr Natas clad from head to foot in green felt, drawing incredulous looks from all who crossed his path.
Over the days that followed, Hambly had to admit that there were moments where his behaviour seemed governed by an iniquitous spirit that compelled him to commit depraved and immoral acts. He was openly lecherous with his female house staff. One night, he planted French flags on the homes and business of his rivals, standing a safe distance away and watching as these buildings were burned by British redcoats.
Something else that he noticed was the suit gradually tightening, until the day arrived when, having presented himself at his toilet, he found it impossible to remove and was forced to defecate where he stood.
“Well, perhaps it has done its work and can now be cut away,” he theorised.
Indeed, Dr Natas seemed pleased by his progress.
“Now all that is left if for the felt to be removed and all shall be well,” opined Hambly.
At this remark, the Doctor raised a dark eyebrow.
“Sir, did I not promise that the felt suit would erase all traces of melanin from your skin, and has it not done so? Save for that which is still visible on your face, which will be gone in a few days.”
“Now see here, you bloody bastard!” cried Hambly. “I was led to believe the felt would somehow remove the brown pigmentation from my skin. Not that I should have to wear it permanently and soil myself while wearing it. I shall write to the Worshipful Company of Barber Surgeons and have your licence to practice medicine removed!”
At this the Doctor rose from his chair, drawing himself to his full height and tossing his cape across his shoulder.
“A medical licence is but a trifle, for you will see, good sir, when you invert the letters in my name, that they spell Satan!”
“I am undone,” cried Hambly, stumbling backwards into the street, where he felt the embrace of the felt tighten its grip upon him, expanding to cover his eyes, nose and mouth.
* * * * *
It bears mentioning that, several weeks after the disappearance of Mr Hambly, a petulant, morbidly obese, child named Ralph, dragged his mother, Scarlett, by the hand into the gloomy interior of a small toyshop, where he pointed upward at a grotesque troll-like doll sewn from overstuffed green felt and with a feculent odour about it. It seemed to gaze down at the hopeful face of the boy with a pair of eyes that resembled worn-out cunts.
The shopkeeper, Mr Reficul, brought it down from the shelf and handed it to the child who cradled it possessively against the bifurcated overhang of his belly.
“Now I must tell you,” said Mr Reficul, earnestly, “something of the doll’s dark origins...”
- Joined
- Oct 10, 2014
Like clockwork.
There are times where I want to cope over not having some of my favorite sources of background noise. Maybe it's all some cunning scheme to make Jer seethe, the perfect timing for whatever reason. Maybe they want to let their paypigs recharge their wallets until Friday. Maybe there's some secret deal in the works with rumble or evil eddie or H3 or some shit and all will be revealed on Friday!
Deep down I know the truth is that PPP is just sitting in a lazy boy eating box after box of timbits while Andy pokes him with a stick.
Arcadian Stag
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- Apr 15, 2025
Holy shit the clips of Jer at the ren fair are absolutely insane, unironically. He's wandering around drunk filming every ass and boob he can see, including kids, and loudly commenting on their appearance while they are within earshot and saying all manner of degenerate things. Like how did the people there tolerate him, surely they could hear him lustfully slurring about wenches and drinking jaeger from the bartenders pussy??!! He is a vile pervert and lecher of the highest order and deserves to be gelded, verily. I'm tempted to submit the clips to the ren fair myself to get him banned as he is legitimately a danger to the women and girls there.
- Joined
- Sep 3, 2014
Given that even when completely drunk, he's able to do these weird fae legal loophole runs with his wording. I'm just going to assume he wants to touch kids at this point.
I mean he's repeatedly defended child diddlers, and he's friends with a member from asex trafficking cult. Plus he wants to clearly turn his wannabe beanie compound into a place where you can get abused women from Ukraine.
If it looks like a nonce, defends pedophiles, makes jokes about children like a child rapist, and then does this while drunk, which remember he openly admits that's the honest words of a sober man, and I'm just going to assume he would totally do it if it wasn't illegal.
Pinus rigida
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- Jan 6, 2026
- Joined
- Sep 3, 2014
No, it's the consequences of them getting way too many donos at once. They're basically going on a hedonistic spending spree just like Jeremy does at the moment and will be back when they realize " oh no, the consequences of my actions" and need another paycheck.
They dropped the ball in the exact same way when idubbz got on them. And do this repeatedly every time they get good times.
- Joined
- Sep 15, 2021
It's good for drama when everyone involved has an addictive personality!
- Joined
- Apr 20, 2025
I'm holding out
CluelessAquarium
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- Apr 11, 2026
Warski getting dressed up for the half hour reenactment of the wife's regular bull sessions.