I fucking hate you motherfuckers

What’s left to say, I’m holding the gun, you’re standing there in black socks and a Hawaiian shirt. I’ve shot your bitch right between the eyes and no brains came out. The sun is a nigger with two scoops of bullshit and it set fire to Detroit: no more cars.

You dumb bitches, the world would be so better off without you. If only men could shit eggs which then hatched into other men or men magically walked out of caves full grown. It has nothing to do with Gay: no women = no sex = no faggotry, just the peace of war between tribes and epic poems where beer is the only hero.

Moron celebrities take the time to breed–why? So the next generation of spoiled assholes can spin off their breeders’ dumb luck. If a grand piano had fallen on Billy Ray Circus, smashing his achy-breaky-head we wouldn’t have his wig-wearing daughter running around and Jew “talent” agents doing cartwheels in money.

Sadly for you, no one cares what you think, so put your “I’m offended” bumpersticker on the inside of your middle school locker. Black sock wearing professional waste-of-atomic-mass, I’ll put a bullet right between the eyes of your programmed sensibility. I am not your equal. You’ll know if you were better because the bullet will strike upward through your dishwater-gray guts instead of downward like seagull shit splattering hot on your scalp.

I’m so sick of you bukyaks. Please take your big ass, big hips, played-out pussy, double-penetration, etc. and fucking vanish like David Copperfield’s asshole under the Statue of Liberty. It’s not an unreasonable request, and now that Evel Kneivel is dead, killed by a random rocket over the Grand Canyon, there is no one to take the place of Kermit the Frog demanding Germany rise from the ashes. Do you know (do you know where you’re going to?) what your stupid tribal tattoo says about you? That you were a dumbass sheep in the 1990s.

This sangria isn’t greatly helping this fucking coke. I boiled all 8 hot dogs in the Sangria and made sangria dogs. I don’t know if they were any good, I only know that I ate four.

The famous actor was considerate, he wanted to row a rowboat out to the middle of nowhere, lean his head over the side and blow his brains out so there’d be no cleanup. He didn’t and decades later God got him through the mail slot the usual way and who knows what happened to either of them.

Now I’m just sitting here like a zombie with a bellyful of brains.

20 minutes just passed faster than a joint at a reggae concert.

There’s nothing, just…nothing.

Now this is done.

Briefly, to recap: fuck off.

ha ha ha ha ha.