Consider the rose—a fruity and colourful flower, full of intrigue and trepidatious to the smelling. A man of citizenship might fain try; a pig can belch, yes he can emit the loud and gaseous tremulous rumblings from the inner intestinal ovens of his corpus. And thence will fall the most odiferous rotten stench that could ever be imagined. I am a man of gustiness, a real fop of a delinquent who asks for butt slaps. And you, you trollop, you donkey’s wench, you crenulated finger food, you fjord dwelling, troll smelling, toll belling, roll swelling, hole jellying horse pig! You are the reason I am a trout. You are why I tie figs to my ankles and emit the harshest cries of woe. Victoria Day cometh and who do I celebrate with? A real tiger of a dame.

And you with your face of plaster, your teeth of titanium, you crack your jowls and reach for your sharpened saber. You really make me sick! A man must not fight in a duel without making sure his shoelaces are tied, and you what do you do first? You rub cream into your cheeks, butt and face, and then only when your skin is moist enough do you fight—not like a man, for you are not a man, but rather like some effeminate goat. That is how you fight, you stellar dweeb.

No comments: