Let's cook us some toast on this flame!Let's cook us some toast on this flame!(Note: This is just massive flame. Feel free to ignore. Or continue. I can't stop you.)
This happy fun flame goes out to the imbecile I must suffer every
fourth period.
You disgust me. You disgust all of us with every ignorant word that
falls out of your mouth like feces from a diseased donkey. I regularly
dream of you being abducted by aliens who mistake you for a
particularly overweight cow with strange birth defects and being
turned inside-out so that we no longer have to suffer under the
horrific visage that you dare call your face.
If you died, I would be happy. I would dance on your oversized grave.
I would even go so far as to can-can on your grave. Or maybe even
mambo on it.
Or perhaps I wouldn't. The stench of your rotting corpse and the mere
thought of being so close to your puerile form that I would vomit and
probably require immediate medical attention.
Your stupidity is surprisingly immense. I am surprised your bloated
head is so massive, as it obviously doesn't need to do anything except
protect the perfect vacuum that rests between your ears. Information
goes in, but somehow you fail to comprehend even the simplest piece of
data and end up saying something intelligent like, 'Oh. What did you
say?' or you might even have a flash of genius and say 'What? Could
you repeat that?'
If I must listen to one more repetition of you saying 'Please and
thank you.' Or you talking to yourself one more time, I swear I will
scoop out your insides with an ice-cream scoop, sell them for medical
tests to see if you really do qualify as genetically human.
I hope that when you die, naked sixty-year old hermaphrodites will
smear massage oil on your tormented, bloated, peurile soul for
eternity and set it on fire. Regularly.
Aaah.. Now I feel much better.
-- Skuk
'May your intestines be worn by beavers as hats!'