I thought for a minute that Nick is just like Patrick Bateman but then I rewatched American Psycho and like the first couple things the characters says is “…cool it with the antisemitic remarks” and that thought went right out the window
“It’s fun to purposely have a very stupid belief and feel what it’s like to have it roll around in my head” that really solved the mystery of Nick’s insane thoughts lol 😆
There's a book only scene where Bateman goes full Mullen I pull away, horrified, stumbling uptown, toward home, but people, places, stores keep interrupting me, a drug dealer on Thirteenth Street who offers me crack and blindly I wave a fifty at him and he says “Oh, man” gratefully and shakes my hand, pressing five vials into my palm which I proceed to eat whole and the crack dealer stares at me, trying to mask his deep disturbance with an amused glare, and I grab him by the neck and croak out, my breath reeking, “The best engine is in the BMW 750iL,” and then I move on to a phone booth, where I babble gibberish at the operator until I finally spit out my credit card number and then I’m speaking to the front office of Xclusive, where I cancel a massage appointment that I never made. I’m able to compose myself by simply staring at my feet, actually at the A. Testoni loafers, kicking pigeons aside, and without even noticing, I enter a shabby delicatessen on Second Avenue and I’m still confused, mixed up, sweaty, and I walk over to a short, fat Jewish woman, old and hideously dressed. “Listen,” I say. “I have a reservation. Bateman. Where’s the maître d? I know Jackie Mason,” and she sighs, “I can seat you. Don’t need a reservation,” as she reaches for a menu. She leads me to a horrible table in back near the rest rooms and I grab the menu away from her and rush to a booth up front and I’m appalled by the cheapness of the food-“Is this a goddamn joke?”-and sensing a waitress is near I order without looking up. “A cheeseburger. I’d like a cheeseburger and I’d like it medium rare.” “I’m sorry, sir,” the waitress says. “No cheese. Kosher,” and I have no idea what the fuck she’s talking about and I say, “Fine. A kosher burger but with cheese, Monterey Jack perhaps, and-oh god,” I moan, sensing more cramps coming on. “No cheese, sir,” she says. “Kosher…” “Oh god, is this a nightmare, you fucking Jew?” I mutter, and then, “Cottage cheese? Just bring it?” “I’ll get the manager,” she says. “Whatever. But bring me a beverage in the meanwhile,” I hiss. “Yes?” she asks. “A…vanilla…milk shake…” “No milkshakes. Kosher,” she says, then, “I’ll get the manager.” “No, wait.” “Mister I’ll get the manager.” “What in the fuck is going on?” I ask, seething, my platinum AmEx already slapped on the greasy table. “No milkshake. Kosher,” she says, thick-upped, just one of billions of people who have passed over this planet. “Then bring me a fucking… vanilla…malted!” I roar, spraying spit all over my open menu. She just stares. “Extra thick!” I add. She walks away to get the manager and when I see him approaching, a bald carbon copy of the waitress, I get up and scream, “Fuck yourself you retarded cocksucking kike,” and I run out of the delicatessen and onto the street
“Oh, I almost forgot,” I say, reaching into my pocket. “I wrote you a poem.” I hand her the slip of paper. “Here.” I feel sick and broken, tortured, really on the brink. “Oh Patrick.” She smiles. “How sweet.” “Well, you know,” I say, looking down shyly. Bethany takes the slip of paper and unfolds it. “Read it,” I urge enthusiastically. She looks it over quizzically, puzzled, squinting, then she turns the page over to see if there’s anything on the back. Something in her understands it’s short and she looks back at the words written, scrawled in red, on the front of the page. “It’s like haiku, you know?” I say. “Read it. Go on.” She clears her throat and hesitantly begins reading, slowly, stopping often. “‘The poor nigger on the wall. Look at him.’” She pauses and squints again at the paper, then hesitantly resumes. “‘Look at the poor nigger. Look at the poor nigger … on … the … wall.’” She stops again, faltering, looks at me, confused, then back at the paper. “Go on,” I say, looking around for a waiter. “Finish it.” She clears her throat and staring steadily at the paper tries to read the rest of it in a voice below a whisper. “‘Fuck him … Fuck the nigger on the wall …’” She falters again, then reads the last sentence, sighing. “‘Black man … is … de … debil?’” The couple at the next table have slowly turned to gaze over at us. The man looks aghast, the woman has an equally horrified expression on her face. I stare her down, glaring, until she looks back at her fucking salad. “Well, Patrick,” Bethany says, clearing her throat, trying to smile, handing the paper back to me. “Yes?” I ask. “Well?” “I can see that”-she stops, thinking-“that your sense of … social injustice is”-she clears her throat again and looks down-“still intact.” I take the paper back from her and slip it in my pocket and smile, still trying to keep a straight face, holding my body upright so she won’t suspect me of cringing.
Nick is just a smaller, less jewish but as equally gay version of The Judge from Blood Meridian. There's a whole part about The Judge sicking people on a random priest in the same way Nick does.
![Felix "Unfair" | [Stray Kids : SKZ-PLAYER]](http://i.ytimg.com/vi/Oswujxm2Ag0/mqdefault.jpg)
![I.N "HALLUCINATION" | [Stray Kids : SKZ-PLAYER]](http://i.ytimg.com/vi/n5B5q1Hwt_U/mqdefault.jpg)
I thought for a minute that Nick is just like Patrick Bateman but then I rewatched American Psycho and like the first couple things the characters says is “…cool it with the antisemitic remarks” and that thought went right out the window
😂😂😂😂😂😂😂
“It’s fun to purposely have a very stupid belief and feel what it’s like to have it roll around in my head” that really solved the mystery of Nick’s insane thoughts lol 😆
There's a book only scene where Bateman goes full Mullen
I pull away, horrified, stumbling uptown, toward home, but people, places, stores keep interrupting me, a drug dealer on Thirteenth Street who offers me crack and blindly I wave a fifty at him and he says “Oh, man” gratefully and shakes my hand, pressing five vials into my palm which I proceed to eat whole and the crack dealer stares at me, trying to mask his deep disturbance with an amused glare, and I grab him by the neck and croak out, my breath reeking, “The best engine is in the BMW 750iL,” and then I move on to a phone booth, where I babble gibberish at the operator until I finally spit out my credit card number and then I’m speaking to the front office of Xclusive, where I cancel a massage appointment that I never made. I’m able to compose myself by simply staring at my feet, actually at the A. Testoni loafers, kicking pigeons aside, and without even noticing, I enter a shabby delicatessen on Second Avenue and I’m still confused, mixed up, sweaty, and I walk over to a short, fat Jewish woman, old and hideously dressed. “Listen,” I say. “I have a reservation. Bateman. Where’s the maître d? I know Jackie Mason,” and she sighs, “I can seat you. Don’t need a reservation,” as she reaches for a menu. She leads me to a horrible table in back near the rest rooms and I grab the menu away from her and rush to a booth up front and I’m appalled by the cheapness of the food-“Is this a goddamn joke?”-and sensing a waitress is near I order without looking up. “A cheeseburger. I’d like a cheeseburger and I’d like it medium rare.” “I’m sorry, sir,” the waitress says. “No cheese. Kosher,” and I have no idea what the fuck she’s talking about and I say, “Fine. A kosher burger but with cheese, Monterey Jack perhaps, and-oh god,” I moan, sensing more cramps coming on. “No cheese, sir,” she says. “Kosher…” “Oh god, is this a nightmare, you fucking Jew?” I mutter, and then, “Cottage cheese? Just bring it?” “I’ll get the manager,” she says. “Whatever. But bring me a beverage in the meanwhile,” I hiss. “Yes?” she asks. “A…vanilla…milk shake…” “No milkshakes. Kosher,” she says, then, “I’ll get the manager.” “No, wait.” “Mister I’ll get the manager.” “What in the fuck is going on?” I ask, seething, my platinum AmEx already slapped on the greasy table. “No milkshake. Kosher,” she says, thick-upped, just one of billions of people who have passed over this planet. “Then bring me a fucking… vanilla…malted!” I roar, spraying spit all over my open menu. She just stares. “Extra thick!” I add. She walks away to get the manager and when I see him approaching, a bald carbon copy of the waitress, I get up and scream, “Fuck yourself you retarded cocksucking kike,” and I run out of the delicatessen and onto the street
“Oh, I almost forgot,” I say, reaching into my pocket. “I wrote you a poem.” I hand her the slip of paper. “Here.” I feel sick and broken, tortured, really on the brink.
“Oh Patrick.” She smiles. “How sweet.”
“Well, you know,” I say, looking down shyly.
Bethany takes the slip of paper and unfolds it.
“Read it,” I urge enthusiastically.
She looks it over quizzically, puzzled, squinting, then she turns the page over to see if there’s anything on the back. Something in her understands it’s short and she looks back at the words written, scrawled in red, on the front of the page.
“It’s like haiku, you know?” I say. “Read it. Go on.”
She clears her throat and hesitantly begins reading, slowly, stopping often. “‘The poor nigger on the wall. Look at him.’” She pauses and squints again at the paper, then hesitantly resumes. “‘Look at the poor nigger. Look at the poor nigger … on … the … wall.’” She stops again, faltering, looks at me, confused, then back at the paper.
“Go on,” I say, looking around for a waiter. “Finish it.”
She clears her throat and staring steadily at the paper tries to read the rest of it in a voice below a whisper. “‘Fuck him … Fuck the nigger on the wall …’” She falters again, then reads the last sentence, sighing. “‘Black man … is … de … debil?’”
The couple at the next table have slowly turned to gaze over at us. The man looks aghast, the woman has an equally horrified expression on her face. I stare her down, glaring, until she looks back at her fucking salad.
“Well, Patrick,” Bethany says, clearing her throat, trying to smile, handing the paper back to me.
“Yes?” I ask. “Well?”
“I can see that”-she stops, thinking-“that your sense of … social injustice is”-she clears her throat again and looks down-“still intact.”
I take the paper back from her and slip it in my pocket and smile, still trying to keep a straight face, holding my body upright so she won’t suspect me of cringing.
@@chuckles3116 that's something Nick has actually done
7:28 Stav saying Adam would have to look "up" from "Jewish Heaven" is as hilarious as it is subtle.
stolen from wondershowzen
@@The-xp4xj Stav stole a bit?
Looking up from Jewish heaven. 🤣
Golden line
Ohhh looking "up."
Glad someone else noticed that 😂
That "Eric Clapton/rape/murder at gunpoint" bit is really good.
I've been looking for it but couldn't find. The cumtown gods have shined upon us.
And I'm gay.
that entire episode 254 scenario w nick taking adam out to the woods was one of the best bits they have ever done. killing me
I Cato Sicarius, believes It really is one of the classic episodes.
Stav subtly saying Adam looking up from hell aka Heaven 😂😂😂
Looking up from Jewish heaven. Holy shit
Damn from Stav too? Nice one.
Nick himself is featured in the game at 10:16.
As a general contractor who has payed cash for hammers to do construction in the middle of the night, the last one got me in the feels.
Nick Mullens Bill O’Reilly moment, and I’m gay.
Hell yeah, dude.
I laughed so hard that I shot water out of my nose and inhaled about half of it
The goddamn Eric Clapton stuff always gets me.
Fun game looks like, too. Haha
It's called "gay porn game" google it
I like that song.
Nick is just a smaller, less jewish but as equally gay version of The Judge from Blood Meridian.
There's a whole part about The Judge sicking people on a random priest in the same way Nick does.
Nick mullen is the postal dude lol
5:26
10:17 that guy looks like nick
Good vid
how is the game? is it actually worth getting
It's amazing, there's a free demo on steam i think if you're on the fence
anyone know what game that is?
Postal: Brain Damaged
anyone know whycome nick is being called a psychopath?
not that I can relate, just wondering why y'all such critics
because he's gay
Hi, my name is KB toys, uhhhh…why come da shoes ain’t free?
How does Postal brain dead have worse graphics than the original one
Looking up from Jewish heaven
Who are the guests at the end? Horrible.
It sounds like the dudes in the "I loathe racism" sketch on the AFS. Who were those dudes and gal?