bravado
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- Apr 22, 2020
KYS pedo faggot nigger
💀 Horrorcow Rob Casio / Robert L. Robinson - Convicted child rapist from Augusta, ME, toothless hobo schizocow and attention whore
- Thread starter Yawning Bulbasaur
- Start date
-
Want to keep track of this thread?
Accounts can bookmark posts, watch threads for updates, and jump back to where you stopped reading.
Create account
erkwit
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- May 30, 2025
if I send you a gun, will you do the needful?
dukekinny
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- Sep 30, 2023
Time for the lies to stop, Robert.
dukekinny
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- Sep 30, 2023
This was 5 months ago, and he is still free, The YouTube page for Predator Poachers Long Island was deleted by YouTube.
Crazy, Robert has been posting A.I videos of himself some have kids in them.
I don’t mean to play armchair psychiatrist here, but it really does seem like some of his videos are him vicariously acting out a desire to be a father. That’s odd, considering some parts of his past involved younger people. But having that history doesn’t magically cancel out the biological pull some people feel toward parenthood. At the same time, there are other videos that lean uncomfortably sexual — the kind that make you hear Chris Hansen clearing his throat somewhere off-camera.
People in here still insisting I’m actually him is just the nature of updating anyone about “Robert.” That’s always been the beast we’re dealing with. Maybe one day he’ll pass away and I’ll finally be able to post without being accused of being him — though, knowing my luck, there won’t even be a point in posting by then, and the apology will never come anyway.
What fascinates me most is how his AI videos look like an escape hatch from being himself. And honestly, the strangest detail is that he uses Sora with his casting wide open. I suspect he does that so other Sora users can make videos with him. He mentioned he’s been bullied on the platform, but since you can delete other people’s videos if they use your cameo, he just quietly wipes them out.
I made a couple of lightly teasing videos about him myself — nothing harsh — and he never reacted. No comments, no messages. I just logged in one day and they were gone. So he’s developed a slightly thicker skin, at least in the sense that he tolerates the existence of criticism long enough to delete it. Part of me honestly wonders if, on some level, he enjoys the attention — even the negative kind. That wouldn’t be unusual for him.
That's his profile.
Well bye
V.C
things I saved:
Last edited:
dukekinny
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- Sep 30, 2023
Last edited by a moderator:
dukekinny
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- Sep 30, 2023
Bro thinks we are going to pay money to troll him....
Fuck... That's kind of smart...
Last edited by a moderator:
dukekinny
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- Sep 30, 2023
Good god this guy is a freak!
"
It was a wet, cold morning, the kind where the damp works its way into your bones. The sidewalks were slick, the sky low and colorless, and the air smelled like rain and exhaust. I walked into the bagel shop near my place—Bagel Centralian—and was immediately hit with warmth, steam, and the smell of fresh dough and coffee.
Behind the counter, bagels were being made by hand. No assembly line, no shortcuts. An older woman worked the prep counter with calm, methodical focus. She had long strawberry-blonde hair pulled into a thick, utilitarian braid that reached all the way down to her belt line. It was dense, heavy-looking, the kind of braid that had weight to it, and it swayed subtly with every shift of her body.
She was a woman of size—solid, easily in the 270-pound range—and wore thick horn-rimmed glasses that magnified her eyes slightly, giving her a serious, almost scholarly look. She looked to be somewhere between sixty and seventy, the kind of age where routine has replaced self-consciousness entirely.
I stepped up to order a coffee and waited. From where I stood, I could see her hands clearly as she worked the dough. Her fingers were thick and practiced, rolling and shaping each portion with effortless precision. The dough yielded under her touch, stretched, folded, and coaxed into neat bagel rings. Her breathing was audible—not labored, just steady, the sound of someone doing physical work in a warm room on a cold morning.
And the braid—my attention kept drifting back to it.
It was tight, carefully done, the kind of braid that’s meant to last an entire shift. The sort that leaves hair stiff and crimped when it finally comes undone, needing time and brushing to fully loosen again. I found myself imagining what it would look like released—how long it would fall, how much volume it would have after being constrained all day. I pictured it unfurling slowly, heavy and thick, the memory of the braid still lingering in the strands.
She had bangs too, but they were pinned up and out of the way with a simple black barrette clipped near the crown of her head. No decoration. Just practical. She wore a thick cable-knit sweater, a little too tight, chosen for warmth rather than appearance.
I stood there waiting for my coffee, holding that private, unspoken fantasy in my head while the ordinary world continued around it—steam rising, machines humming, dough thumping softly against the counter. She never noticed me watching. There was nothing performative about her movements, nothing inviting. And yet, the image stayed with me.
It didn’t take long before the barista called my name. I took my coffee—piping hot, the cup already steaming—murmured thanks, and headed for the door.
Outside, the cold reclaimed me immediately. Rain misted the air, and the coffee steamed as I walked, a small pocket of warmth in my hands while the image of that thick braid lingered longer than it had any reason to.
"
"
It was a wet, cold morning, the kind where the damp works its way into your bones. The sidewalks were slick, the sky low and colorless, and the air smelled like rain and exhaust. I walked into the bagel shop near my place—Bagel Centralian—and was immediately hit with warmth, steam, and the smell of fresh dough and coffee.
Behind the counter, bagels were being made by hand. No assembly line, no shortcuts. An older woman worked the prep counter with calm, methodical focus. She had long strawberry-blonde hair pulled into a thick, utilitarian braid that reached all the way down to her belt line. It was dense, heavy-looking, the kind of braid that had weight to it, and it swayed subtly with every shift of her body.
She was a woman of size—solid, easily in the 270-pound range—and wore thick horn-rimmed glasses that magnified her eyes slightly, giving her a serious, almost scholarly look. She looked to be somewhere between sixty and seventy, the kind of age where routine has replaced self-consciousness entirely.
I stepped up to order a coffee and waited. From where I stood, I could see her hands clearly as she worked the dough. Her fingers were thick and practiced, rolling and shaping each portion with effortless precision. The dough yielded under her touch, stretched, folded, and coaxed into neat bagel rings. Her breathing was audible—not labored, just steady, the sound of someone doing physical work in a warm room on a cold morning.
And the braid—my attention kept drifting back to it.
It was tight, carefully done, the kind of braid that’s meant to last an entire shift. The sort that leaves hair stiff and crimped when it finally comes undone, needing time and brushing to fully loosen again. I found myself imagining what it would look like released—how long it would fall, how much volume it would have after being constrained all day. I pictured it unfurling slowly, heavy and thick, the memory of the braid still lingering in the strands.
She had bangs too, but they were pinned up and out of the way with a simple black barrette clipped near the crown of her head. No decoration. Just practical. She wore a thick cable-knit sweater, a little too tight, chosen for warmth rather than appearance.
I stood there waiting for my coffee, holding that private, unspoken fantasy in my head while the ordinary world continued around it—steam rising, machines humming, dough thumping softly against the counter. She never noticed me watching. There was nothing performative about her movements, nothing inviting. And yet, the image stayed with me.
It didn’t take long before the barista called my name. I took my coffee—piping hot, the cup already steaming—murmured thanks, and headed for the door.
Outside, the cold reclaimed me immediately. Rain misted the air, and the coffee steamed as I walked, a small pocket of warmth in my hands while the image of that thick braid lingered longer than it had any reason to.
"
dukekinny
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- Sep 30, 2023