Dear beloved Douche Bag,
Allow me to kowtow to your sense of inferiority and remind you how incompetent you are. I shall sink to a lower level, just so I can pull the carpet from under your poorly shaped shoes and gangly frame.
My soul spits upon your pompous attitude. Your preening and posturing is simply a defense mechanism for the empty hole you have within you. I don't necessarily blame you. Women were forced to raise you when your father skipped town the moment he realized how weak you were. Rather than resort to cannibalism and eat your paltry infant body (as is the right of any beast in the wild), he left you for what he hoped was a worse fate.
Alas, the Hand saw fit to save you from the jackals and bathe you in a light that made you blind to reality and compassion. You had maids that wiped you ass and told you that you were special, for no reason other than they were paid to. You had women praise you as a "fine young man" whilst no real man stood in your presence. Is it safe to assume that you pee sitting down? Although I applaud these ladies' showering of pity disguised as love and compensation, I want to tell you that were done a grave injustice by their rearing.
How do I know? Well, you flat out stated that you are your own man. You feel the need to make that point known. You resemble these buffoons I see on "COPS" or "Hardcore Pawn", always claiming, "I'mma grown-ass man!" Really? If it was self evident, that would never be an issue. Why convince me or even address it, as is the case with you? I never convinced anyone I was heterosexual because I did not need to. It just was. And I needn't convince anyone I am a man because the status speaks for itself. Perhaps you should take note.
See, I come from Planet Awesome and we always triumph over all that sucks. And you suck. It's plain and obvious, like the genital warts you get from your extra-marital trysts. And let's talk about that thing you parade around with and think so highly of. For you to cajole about with such a poor excuse of a woman, your home life must be an inescapable nightmare in which the only relief you find is in the company of your female Sasquatch. I know deep in your mind, you must be thinking, "God, I really hope she's not a dude." But then again, maybe not. I am sure you'd love to convince me otherwise...
You are offended that I question your judgement? I assume it is because that, deep in your impotent brain, even you know that no one questions good judgement. And if I questioned it, that must have really got your thong in a twist that may cause your balls a painful testicular torsion. It may be fitting for your gonads to retreat deep within the recesses of your body and for you to finally parade around like the bitch you are. In fact, castration would be an act of compassion, liberating your balls from such a needless carcass.
I am glad that you took my actions personally. I spoke to you without animosity or adversity, seeking a common understanding and solution. And you bitched out like the playground pussy, whimpering about your feelings only because the situation was not to your liking. I poised myself with reasoning and logic, and you shit all over it like a crackhead in a holding cell going through withdrawal. In the end, I am thankful, for I now know to what infinite degree your douche-baggery ascends to.
I look forward to all future interactions as it will allow me to show how inadequate and stupid you are. It will be my pleasure to show you that I corral more power and influence than you, making you more uncomfortable than ever before. I anticipate every inane and pointless comment you make and all the self-bloating and aggrandizing that I will choose to ridicule in your face. You are a slave and your mind is trapped forever in the chains of your arrogance and ignorance.
You know how I feel. This "open letter" is merely a more creative vehicle for my angst, but it holds utter veracity all of my feelings and thoughts. I hope you read this and throttle yourself with shame and a merciful suicide. And I mean merciful for those around you, not yourself. You could drape yourself in raw chicken and lay beneath the sun and let the scavengers slowly pull you apart and I would be just as fine with it, just as fine as if you swallowed 3 gallons of laxative.
And if the proper moment ever presents itself in which I piss on your leg (standing up, of course), I shall take it.
Lovingly,
El Maldito Sucio
(the Dirty Bastard)
