I don't know the rules around here. Free socks on Twitter.
- Thread starter Ocd
- Start date
I'll leave it up to Jack. If he approves. I will repost the information. The company sells men's and women's socks and underwear. I'm not affiliated with the company in any way. They are holding a contest for free socks. They are giving away five pairs of socks in the contest. They only have three entries. One of the entries is mine. You enter the contest through Twitter. You are required to write a few sentences describing "I'd rather be" blank. You fill in the rest. It doesn't matter what you write. They are giving away five pairs of socks and have only three entries since March 6. If Jack approves, I will post their Twitter handle. :0003
I could use a free [FONT=Verdana,Arial,Tahoma,Calibri,Geneva,sans-serif]pedicure as well.....:0003[/FONT]<strike></strike>
Can't you sign up to get a Twitter account? It's free and it's safe to use. All you need is an email address from anywhere and your good to go. Sign up at Twitter.com
I've gone 56 years without needing a Twitter Account no need to buck that trend today.... #there must be a different way to get into this contest.... I bet Snoop dog doesn't have to Tweet to get his free sock....
Let me know if you find a different way to register, my toes are chilled?.:0008
I will split the socks with you is funny. You have a sense of humor. You can win the free socks in the event of a tiebreaker. I can't copy and paste to the contest. There is only one entry per Twitter account allowed. I would suggest opening up a Twitter account. It's free and safe to use. All you need is an email address from anywhere and you're good to go. Sign up at twitter.com
OK, I will try this twitter thing. Here's my entry in case you don't get twitters:
Henry Hobbs drove into the Third Ward on a Wednesday night after bowling. He knew the ONYX club and he knew of the trailers in the darkness beyond the gravel parking lot. He needed his horns trimmed, his pipes cleared, his load loosened. He drove with the fiery bravado of eleven shiner bock?s in his big southern belly. He didn?t bother with the strip club. He went straight to the trailers and knocked. The little window in the door slid open all speakeasy style and he was in. The whores were sleepy that night. They lounged on ratty couches and appeared to be eastern European, with sharp jaws and steely eyes. All of them wore lingerie except one sporting a biker bitch look with a snap back cap and a silver chain clamped to her nipple at the one end. He chooses one of the bolviks, the one without sores on her face, and she ushers him back to a tiny bedroom.
He strips down and carefully placed his jeans and bowling shirt on the dresser. He left his socks on. They were the therapeutic type, for his circulation. They were black and high, halfway up his calves. It felt clinical almost. Like therapy for the naked. Mercy. And then it was on, it was all arms and legs at first. And then it settled into the rhythm of missionary. The old in out. He?s sawing and sawing without purpose. He tries to concentrate. He plays the slideshow in his mind: Johannesson, Anniston, the Baywatch Locklear, a random cheerleader, Cindy Hemmitt, the girl next door. But nothings working. There?s a disconnect between his brain and his organ. The shiner bock parade at the Lucky Strike has left him listless and numb. His bladder feels like a fifty gallon drum, full to the brim, in the back of a dumptruck going seventy miles per hour.
?пожалуйста, закончите!? She cries. She motions for him to lay on his back. He flips over and she straddles him like Johnny Bench and works his johnson like a brand new lightbulb. Just as he?s gaining some traction, he notices the ceiling is mirrored and he completely loses focus. He can?t stop staring at himself. He looked silly. Fat and white and those goofy black socks. He thinks, I?d rather be home. I?d rather be at Appleby?s watching the Rockets. But there?s no magic slippers, and he?s many miles away from the comforts of his sock drawer and everything around it.
Henry Hobbs drove into the Third Ward on a Wednesday night after bowling. He knew the ONYX club and he knew of the trailers in the darkness beyond the gravel parking lot. He needed his horns trimmed, his pipes cleared, his load loosened. He drove with the fiery bravado of eleven shiner bock?s in his big southern belly. He didn?t bother with the strip club. He went straight to the trailers and knocked. The little window in the door slid open all speakeasy style and he was in. The whores were sleepy that night. They lounged on ratty couches and appeared to be eastern European, with sharp jaws and steely eyes. All of them wore lingerie except one sporting a biker bitch look with a snap back cap and a silver chain clamped to her nipple at the one end. He chooses one of the bolviks, the one without sores on her face, and she ushers him back to a tiny bedroom.
He strips down and carefully placed his jeans and bowling shirt on the dresser. He left his socks on. They were the therapeutic type, for his circulation. They were black and high, halfway up his calves. It felt clinical almost. Like therapy for the naked. Mercy. And then it was on, it was all arms and legs at first. And then it settled into the rhythm of missionary. The old in out. He?s sawing and sawing without purpose. He tries to concentrate. He plays the slideshow in his mind: Johannesson, Anniston, the Baywatch Locklear, a random cheerleader, Cindy Hemmitt, the girl next door. But nothings working. There?s a disconnect between his brain and his organ. The shiner bock parade at the Lucky Strike has left him listless and numb. His bladder feels like a fifty gallon drum, full to the brim, in the back of a dumptruck going seventy miles per hour.
?пожалуйста, закончите!? She cries. She motions for him to lay on his back. He flips over and she straddles him like Johnny Bench and works his johnson like a brand new lightbulb. Just as he?s gaining some traction, he notices the ceiling is mirrored and he completely loses focus. He can?t stop staring at himself. He looked silly. Fat and white and those goofy black socks. He thinks, I?d rather be home. I?d rather be at Appleby?s watching the Rockets. But there?s no magic slippers, and he?s many miles away from the comforts of his sock drawer and everything around it.
If you're unwilling to sign up for Twitter. I can't help you. The contest is on Twitter. I don't know why you're so against twitter. They have hundreds of millions of users around the world. They don't care about your personal information. You can deactivate your account when the contest is over and all your data is gone. Twitter doesn't save your data like Facebook does.
I hear ya but I always screw up these online account things.....Jack has to reset my password here at least three times a month....
Just a thought, can I just send you like $50 and my hand written socks submission then have you set up the account, post the Tweet then send me my socks after I win....:shrug:
