To the angry abusive intimidating bell end who shouted at me at my work tonight, for no fucking reason whatsoever; I hope you get AIDs and die. Slowly. I hope it hurts. I hope whilst it hurts, you accidentally get your scrotum caught in the mouth of a rabid rotweiler, and you contract rabies and then get your face raped on your way home by John Leslie, crying because you now have AIDs and Rabies and John Leslie’s unwashed cock in your face. And then I hope you fall and graze your knee, because grazed knees are the worst. I wish the very worst on you. You deserve the very worst.
“DO WHAT I SAY and don’t fucking argue with your fucking clients!!”
Don’t argue with your clients? Who made that rule? What if your clients are clearly trying to intimidate as many members of staff as possible, in the hope they will get free food and drink as some sort of apology for not being up to your level of satisfaction when you make up your own rules for the entire place? I will argue with you; I will absolutely argue with you. I wont be the one to back down to your nasty little games, you real life lump of unflushable, irritatingly relentless shit. Irritating relentlessly unflushable shit, regardless of if you put it in an expensive business suit; is still irritating, and it’s still shit, and you still wish it didn’t exist.
Oh and whilst you’re busy being an utter shit, it might do you pretty good, if you shaved the bit of hair that joins your eyebrows together. When you’re angry, and have only one eyebrow, it’s very difficult not to point at it and laugh when it moves up and down, because it looks like a hamster is fucking your face.
The fact that you exist, stealing oxygen from the rest of us, makes me want to vomit. And poo. Vomit and poo at the same time. That is an affect not many people have on me. You managed to achieve it within seconds of opening your arsehole (I was unable to distinguish your mouth from your arsehole. Seemingly both omit excrement).