the best way i can describe cheatspeak is as a drug. a sort of caffeine to the manic-depressive. at first it begins as an inquisitive sip, a taster of the forbidden drink, downed with enjoyment--joy that one did not follow the advice of censors in not drinking it. but steadily as a single cup shifts into two and more, soon develops a painful dependency where the ups are shortlived and disappointing, and the downs--where the downs are simply dreadful. nonetheless, it is somehow in this imbalance--this utter catastrophy of society that is bred at cheatspeak--that spawned is something unique to cheatspeak that surpasses the addictions and depressions all in sum, that allays the desperation of the whole thing into a diffused mist. and what, this saving quality? why blankmans penis of course! (and timmy the fuckin spidah too..woah! my legs gone all wibbly wobbly!).
cheatspeak: adoption of escapism or adaption to disease? you decide.
the owner of a sausage factory in milwaukee. it is alleged his arm got stuck in one of the frankfurter vending machines when he was a worker, which is why he now uses the sausage for a prothetic arm. thus, the term is now variously applied to people whose arms look like the said meat.
"hey, jake, are u a yefimobitch?"
"does it fackin look like my arms a sausage?"
"yer, well better lay of the cupcakes there fat mauthfcka"