"My work may be garbage but it's good garbage." Mickey Spillane
This is a guest piece by Erinsmith.
I am crossposting it here with her permission in the certainty that it will be deleted by Roger the Cad
Roger, you cad, you horse swine, you arse, you horsemonger, you son of a seacook, you yellow bellied, cotton livered, no good dirty rotten piece of 4 year old fermented cow shite, fucktard, asinine individual, man whose worth amounts to nothing in comparison to that of Steven Beeho. You, you are a worthless prick. You are a little man, with a little kingdom. One day I hope you wake up in the morning and realize just how despicable you are. I hope you hate yourself, I hope you gag, puke, and vomit with the bile of your own existence. You are a puny little man. You think that because you have a minute amount of computer ability you can harpoon a site and destroy the lives of those who don’t quite agree with every vile, detestable action you decide to take. I have a news flash for you Mr. High and fucking mighty. You are nothing! Your territory which you rule with your iron fist of injustice amounts to nothing in the lives of those about you because, we, those who know ourselves and are good people, don’t need your affirmations to keep us company at night. You can rot in the hell of your own making. Lie in your metaphorical empty bed, the one which you so spiteful made. You are Ozymandis, congrats:
I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand,
Half sunk, a shatter’d visage lies, whose frown
And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamp’d on these lifeless things,
The hand that mock’d them and the heart that fed.
And on the pedestal these words appear:
“My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!”
Nothing beside remains: round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
The lone and level sands stretch far away
Author: Percy Bysshe Shelley
Oh silly me! I thought to post a poem to you, like you would understand such a thing. You sir, know nothing of life, literature, or anything else for that matter. You are a Langolier, you eat and eat until all that is left of your tiny world is nothingness. I can hear the metallic grinding of yours jaws as you, even now, prepare to devour this poor community in your gluttony. I pity you. You are the sad product of devolution. Somehow the world came together and was able to produce you. I personally am loathe to imagine for what possible reason you exist, but then again, why should I. The world is riddled with wonderful, caring, considerate, helpful people, like Steven Beeho, for such a person to exist obviously, there must be some scum of the universe at large, such as yourself, to balance out that stark contrast. I would like to close with one last bit of advice.
Consider snuffing out your own existence. Kill yourself, do society a favor. Maybe other degenerates such as yourself will take the hint and off themselves too. Maybe the whole fucking world of slime balls such as yourself will have a suicide pact day!! I CAN ONLY HOPE AND PRAY! You may if you wish disembowel yourself, slice your neck open, castrate yourself and allow your blood to flow until you die, maybe just stab yourself repeatedly, cyanide or arsenic always works wonders, belladonna maybe? You could set yourself on fire, and then go jump in a barrel of methanol. I don’t care how you do. But I do know that Karma is not on your side. Best make reparations. I suggest the only way to save your immortal soul is to fuck off, and die, murder yourself if necessary.
Thank you. Have a nice day.