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Dear Sir,
It is said that you are unscrupulous, deceitful, vile, and corrupt. Such claims mislead since these are inarguably your best qualities. You are a scrofulous eyesore and ungroomed. House flies and swine avoid your company in fastidious distaste. You indulge overmuch in commercial bawdry.
Your visage and character are such that companionship must be purchased at exorbitant rates. It is widely known that your own mother absconded on the day of your birth. She swore oath to celibacy, poverty, and suffering, in an effort toward atonement. The orphanage matrons were driven to festoon your attire with choice cuts of beef, their vain hope to attract a stray dog for your playmate.
Your sartorial splendor recalls the homeless addict; your hair, the nest of last year's buzzard. Your complexion might resemble long-soured dough, were the flaccid mass slathered with lard. Your posture is that of a dyspeptic toad, your gait more appropriate to the warthog. Your physique speaks of long hours spent reclining in camaraderie with sugary snacks. Your face proclaims dull confusion and your eyes sparkle with depravity as you gaze at the tip of your nose. You look like a child molester.
Your green-snaggled, unshaven smile brings to mind the mule, and the intimate perspective of the plowman. Many a jilted sow pines for love lost, and sheep circulate pamphlets of warning. The barnyard holds for you many tales and many metaphors, much to farmstead chagrin. The dog is considered by many a loyal beast, but with you, the bond is ancestral.
Your voice keens like a rusted gate as you whine your nasal denials. Your vocabulary is that of a street urchin reared by pirates. Your tales are asinine, monotonous, and grotesque, your bombast, deranged and obscure. Your oratory is widely considered less fascinating than tending the growth of mold. Your speech is a corrupted opacity of stutter, lisp and belch. Your prosperity was assured the day you learned that others pay well for your silence.
You are too lazy to pander, too dishonest to steal, too simple for graft or fraud. Pimps think you unprincipled. Pederasts question your morality. Despots condemn your heartless malice. Beggary exceeds your ambition as debauchery exceeds your imagination. Your value to society is less than that of a fetid outhouse, shut tight in the summer sun.
It is said your greatest skill is quaffing nectar of the vine, though antifreeze will suffice. The vintages you prefer lurk in gaily colored boxes. No strong beverage nor any brain-stunning brew is beyond your adoration. Your fondness for draughts alcoholic is legend throughout the land.
Yet the hangover each day is your true renown. As noontide fades, you creep from darkened lair, your eyes like orbs of lean bacon, your breath a menace to paint. It is at that moment you are at your shining best, though blasphemous to every perception. For in that feeble hour, so weak and palsied, you cannot offend any further.
Your fingers become adhesive when they sense an unwary pocket. Yet your own pockets gape barren and desolate when the meal check arrives. No guestly chicanery is beyond your commission, no social indiscretion beyond your purview. Your courtesy has shriveled to dust. To borrow, for you, is to own. No welcome can be ever outworn. You sample from your neighbor's plate.
Your wisdom is that of the mollusk, your insight that of asparagus. Many varieties of rotted stump consider you of slow wit, and cabbages think you a simpleton. Confusion, for you, is achievement. Your intuition is stagnant, your instinct defunct, your humor is dead in its grave. A casual greeting is deep conversation. Mental gymnastics it is, for you, simply to recall your name. You cannot count to ten.
Your character is absent, your credibility arrested. Virtue is a foreign word. Of generosity and compassion you have no comprehension. You would climb to the highest treetop to lie, though truth would achieve more on the ground. Your weakness offends the most timid. You are insipid, irrational, and dim. You are unable to show loyalty, even to yourself. You have no redeeming qualities. Even as scoundrel and wretch you fail of exaltation. You cannot be labeled a failure because you cannot conceive of endeavor. You are a cannibal.
Your self-esteem is beneath abysmal, yet self-love is your strongest motive. Your greatest energies are expended in minding the affairs of others. You play the accordion. Your dignity is beyond reproach, since so clearly it does not exist. Your strength and stamina are eclipsed by the sickly child. Your sturdiness is that of marshmallows. You replace perseverance with well marshaled excuses. Your courage flows from a bottle.
Your upright bearing and precise carriage suggest a potato lumbering on toothpicks. Seated you resemble nothing so much as a noisome puddle. Your shoes lack laces. You are ever unaware of the compelling need to pull up your pants. Your socks are a mismatched web of holes, your underwear symmetrically stained. Briskly you walk for good health, knuckles abraded raw. You are pathologically flatulent.
Your diet is disturbing, your hygiene obscene. You annoy by your very existence. Diseases ride you like an uptown bus. Your only ally is the sewer rat. Your friendship is a leading cause of suicide and your family tree is plywood. Your handshake is limber and moist. You are entirely unacquainted with nail clippers. You dice poorly.
You're arrival is greeted with applause otherwise reserved for meatloaf grown furry on prolonged refrigeration. Your exit is accompanied by poignant regret, that melancholy heartfelt at the demise of a rabid skunk. Your architectural taste runs to packing crates and corrugated metal. You pick your nose and wipe it on your shirt. Your every phone call is obscene.
Gambling houses hold you in perpetual exile, no luck can be had in your presence. You derive your fortune from frivolous lawsuits. Your ventures in real estate are each a study in disintegrating neighborhood value. Your tongue is covered with warts. Bishops and Saints turn agnostic on making your acquaintance. Your cockroach infestation filed for divorce.
You are a self-serving, grasping, greedy indulgence made animate. You are rancor, viciousness, foulness, and imperfection given corporeal form. You are corruption with feet.
You are a malevolent villain, a felonious zealot, a wicked and criminal barbarian. You are offensive, insolent, prurient, and cruel. You are a contemptuous parody of yourself. You are scandalous and vile. You are decadent, unsavory, shifty, and devious. You give delinquency a bad name. You are untrustworthy, treacherous, unreliable, perfidious, and pathetic. You are immoral, craven, wanton, wicked, and weak. You suck.
Your joy is transgression, your happiness wrongdoing. Your handwriting is illegible. Your very existence is both unpardonable and unforgivable. You revel in debauchery, venery, and dissipation. You are lax, salacious, and crude. You are indecent, inelegant, improper, unseemly, indiscreet, and uncouth. To call you vulgar is a complement. You are intemperant, indulgent, undisciplined, immodest and incontinent. You drool on your tie. You are a swinish, gluttonous drunkard. You are an epicurean ghoul. You are an inebriated weasel with bad teeth. You are an illegitimate, willful and egregious cretin. You have a morbid fascination with bellybutton lint. You are demented, twisted, unbalanced and weird. The village idiot despises you.
Yet even this careful deliniation of your shortcomings does not capture your offensive character.
Sincerely,
Yella Dawg
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