A normal insult does not befit you. You
deserve only the most inventive insults for a person with
repulsiveness of your calibre. That sounds like a positive thing at
first, but it's not.
You are the scum of the earth. Not even
the Earth – you are the scum of the universe.
If you were to travel in your
scum-spaceship to distant nebulae, where particles of the elements
and building blocks of our reality intertwine, atoms and ageless gas
clouds would circulate around you and would suddenly develop the
sentience to think to themselves, “Ew. That person is scum.”
You're like some weird Japanese product
that normal people would have no use for.
Or obscure Taxes.
Or the iPad.
WHY DO YOU EXIST?!
You are the coffee stain on my pristine
white tablecloth.
You are the malaria-spreading mosquito
that buzzes around my ears when I'm trying to sleep.
You are that one little bit of yoghurt
that spills on to my new shirt.
I can't enjoy yoghurt because of
you.
You are a joke.
Wait, no.
You are not just a joke.
You are a bad joke.
If the world's best comedians got up on
stage at a comedy festival and did as little as say your name, they
would be booed off the stage, have rotten fruit thrown at them, be
chased by a lynch mob, and then be sent back in time to Medieval
Britain to be hung, drawn and quartered alongside William freakin'
Wallace.
And oh my goodness, your mere presence
can make waves.
Quite literally.
Don't go to the beach, because if you
waded into the water, the water would be so revolted by you
standing in it that it would simply EXPLODE OUTWARDS FROM YOU.
FORCIBLY. Rendering many people dead, or with severe concussion or
blindness.
And don't think that this can make you
walk on water.
No way would the water let you do a
Jesus. It would part, and let you fall hundreds of metres down to the
sea floor.
The only reason that the sand and
earth's crust wouldn't part is because the planet tolerates you.
ONLY BARELY.
But humans are special creatures, and
thus have the power to NOT tolerate you.
Your personality is so vile in every
single way, that I have reason to believe it could be used for birth
control.
Scientists could clone you, and then
genetically engineer the clones so that they grew to only a few
centimetres in height, LITERALLY make miniature copies of you, put
them in boxes, and sell them to horny couples.
So that whenever they felt like getting
it on, they could just get the mini-you out, look at it, and
instantly be rendered PERMANENTLY INFERTILE.
I might write a
song about you. It'll have the same title as this blog post, and the
same words as this blog post. The exact same words. It'll just
be set to a repetitive guitar melody, played on a guitar that is out
of tune, designed specifically to annoy the living FISHCAKES
out of you.
And it shall be oh
so sweetly cathartic.
And now, I have run
out of inventive things to say about you, so I will simply resort to
shouting at you through text.
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAATHISISDONEFORHUMOURANDISNOTAIMEDATANYONEINPARTICULARAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH.