- last post: 01.01.0001 12:00 AM PDT
You can't even figure out which gender you are, you moronic androgynous specimen. You couldn't get a date if you bought them dried in a tin, you under-medicated, rump-ruptured chronic self-abuser. You're the kind of greasy, giggling, girly gombeen who buys STDs from a viral lab just to make it look like you get laid. You're damn right about being vomit-inducing fugly. You have a face that would give Freddie Kruger nightmares. How much would you change to haunt a house? You're a politically vacillating phony liberal -blam!-; too damn broadminded to take your own side in a debate. Calling you a pea brain would be an insult to peas, you jellyfish-sucking mental midget. Did your mother leave you in the dryer too long when you were a kid, you little tap-dancing Leprechaun in a pink wig? Be careful you don't bump your head on the door handle on the way out. I bet the highway patrol make you wear a sign on your fat ass that reads, 'Caution: Wide Load!' Get a job, you goddamn leach! You're as useful as anti-wrinkle cream in a lepor colony, you clodhopping simpleton. I love that suit you're wearing. You never throw anything away, do you? What makes you such an -blam!-? Is it the flawed family birthing process of the father sucking the infant spawn from the mother's rectum and spitting it headfirst into the tin bath?