Instigator / Pro
18
1266
rating
119
debates
15.97%
won
Topic

Somebody slap my fat titties

Status
Finished

All stages have been completed. The voting points distribution and the result are presented below.

Arguments points
3
18
Sources points
8
12
Spelling and grammar points
4
6
Conduct points
3
6

With 6 votes and 24 points ahead, the winner is ...

oromagi
Parameters
More details
Publication date
Last update date
Category
Health
Time for argument
Two days
Voting system
Open voting
Voting period
One week
Point system
Four points
Rating mode
Rated
Characters per argument
30,000
Contender / Con
42
1946
rating
91
debates
100.0%
won
Description
~ 0 / 5,000

No information

Round 1
Pro
omigoooooooooooooood I need you to spal my taf tietoieeszsssssssssssssssssssss
Con
Not the most cogent of arguments, Type1, but I thank you for the instigation.  It may be a stretch, but if  by "slap" Pro meant "discipline;" and if by "fat" Pro suggests "unruly, attention-seeking, irresponsible;" and if by "titties" Pro intended "behavior;" then Con would posit that Pro's request has been fulfilled, at least for the short term.  In the absence of any falsifiable thesis, Con claims the advantage by default and returns the debate to Pro for inevitable forfeit.
Round 2
Pro
Forfeited
Con
extend arguments for forfeit.
Round 3
Pro
Forfeited
Con
I love breasts, hard

Full breasts, guarded
By a button.

They come in the night.
The bestiaries of the ancients
Which include the unicorn
Have kept them out.

Pearly, like the east
An hour before sunrise,
Two ovens of the only
Philosopher's stone
Worth bothering about.

They bring on their nipples
Beads of inaudible sighs,
Vowels of delicious clarity
For the little red schoolhouse of our mouths.

Elsewhere, solitude
Makes another gloomy entry
In its ledger, misery
Borrows another cup of rice.

They draw nearer: Animal
Presence. In the barn
The milk shivers in the pail.

I like to come up to them
From underneath, like a kid
Who climbs on a chair
To reach the forbidden jam.

Gently, with my lips,
Loosen the button.
Have them slip into my hands
Like two freshly poured beer-mugs.

I spit on fools who fail to include
Breasts in their metaphysics
Star-gazers who have not enumerated them
Among the moons of the earth ...

They give each finger
Its true shape, its joy:
Virgin soap, foam
On which our hands are cleansed.

And how the tongue honors
These two sour buns,
For the tongue is a feather
Dipped in egg-yolk.

I insist that a girl
Stripped to the waist
Is the first and last miracle,

That the old janitor on his deathbed
Who demands to see the breasts of his wife
For the one last time
Is the greatest poet who ever lived.

O my sweet, my wistful bagpipes.
Look, everyone is asleep on the earth.
Now, in the absolute immobility
Of time, drawing the waist
Of the one I love to mine,

I will tip each breast
Like a dark heavy grape
Into the hive
Of my drowsy mouth.

-Charles Simac