Jeeeez, I, Anonymous writers. Today's submissions are like reading the script to Sam Raimi's next movie.
You fucking piece of shit man-whore. In the four years we’ve been roommates, not only have I had to suffer through countless nights of your Mike Patton tributes—dude, didn’t anyone ever tell you it’s only cool for a girl to be a screamer?—I’ve also had to share my living space with some true fucking champions of skank. Remember that 40-something panther with the flapjacks you picked up in the Kmart parking lot? There’s nothing I like more than waking up hungover in the morning to find some grinning snaggletooth wandering around my kitchen, remnants of your duck butter glistening in her nasty fucking post-menopausal ‘stache. What the fuck? Then there’s that poly hippie chick whose nappy-ass boyfriend you let crash on our couch while you were fucking her. Oh yeah, hmmm... why did we all end up with crabs two days later? Fucking moron. And that was my fucking couch. But now you’ve really fucked up. I’m leaving this carnal cesspool, and I hope you drown in your own putrid fucking semen. Remember our trip to Seattle for Bumbershoot? Remember how I had to piss so badly, and you wouldn’t stop the fucking car because you were in a hurry to meet up with some internet ho, but you were so kind as to pass me your empty Yoo-Hoo bottle? Oh how generous and thoughtful of you, you fucking winner. Guess what? My doctor told me today I have fucking herpes! And don’t try and tell me it wasn’t you, you Valtrex-popping motherfucker. Now I’ll remember you by for all eternity, you fucking douchebag. Oh, but wait, there’s more: Remember when your sister came up here to visit you last weekend? That night you were out “sarging” with your fellow man-whores? Oh yes. I did.
Can you really get herpes like that? Also, are you reading this as though he passed the herpes on the the sister? Horror of horribles. Not that the ladies are keeping it clean:
To whichever of the two teenage snatch beasts that came into my boutique the other day stole a pair of underwear: Naturally, I’m upset that you stole from me. I'm an artist, desperate to support myself in one of the worst economies in the nation. Mine is a very small business that barely has a leg to stand on. Unlike Wet Seal or Forever 21 or Skanks 4 Less, or wherever you typically shoplift. But aside from my own struggles, my real problem with you greasy cunts stealing from me is knowing the fate of those poor panties. Those painstakingly handcrafted underwear that are way too good for you must now suffer rubbing up against your putrid gash while your ballsack of a boyfriend dry humps you in the Lloyd Center parking lot to a Nickelback ballad. They will be forced to withstand the cottage cheese geyser that will gush forth every time Taylor Lautner removes his shirt in the next Twilight movie. I’m so very sorry, Panties. I’m sorry that my belief that not all teenagers are worthless shitbags caused me to not pay close enough attention to the two that took you.
I guess "putrid" is our word of the day.
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