To: The Douchenugget who hacked my Myspace account. With love, Moi.
I want to express my most sincere appreciation of your tremendous efforts to hack my Myspace account. My friends and I thoroughly enjoyed the well-crafted spam I left in their comment boxes, courtesy of you. Seems that fourth grade education and relentless dedication to computer porn is really paying dividends eh?, Your father and the goat he impregnated that blissful drunken night behind the barn must be overwhelmed with pride.
Seriously brother, you need some help. Fortunately for you, I be in the givin’ mood. Y’know, tis the season an all that.
Here we go.
First, turn off your grandmother’s computer. Yes, I realize this will mean a temporary interruption of your marathon ‘watching child pornography while rectally pleasuring yourself with the back end of a Mag-light’ session but bear with me here. This is apt to contain words with multiple syllables so you’ll need all the concentration you can get.
Second, close your eyes. (Ignore the images of the dark, rubber-gloved figure creeping up to your childhood bed to love you in ways you were forbidden to ever speak of. With enough therapy and an incredible amount of medication they’ll eventually fade out).
Ok now wait a minute. You hear those words resonating somewhere beneath the suppressed memories and latent homosexuality? Those words are called thoughts. (It’s perfectly ok to be a little frightened as these will be utterly unfamiliar to you but don’t sweat it, everybody has them). What you are doing right now is called THINKING! Don’t worry, it becomes easier with practice. I’d stock up on Tylenol though if I were you. (Were I you, I’d also stock up on razor blades and draino but that’s a whole ‘nother letter)
Congratulations, that’s all there is to it! Now armed with this new found weapon you should be able to (say it with me now) THINK of a more productive way to spend your time than phish for account passwords using internet spam. I hear the fast food industry is booming this time of year. With a liberal amount of training and some good ol’ fashioned hard work, you may just be qualified to work the drive through! How’s that sound, huh? Drive through? In time you could even move up as far as the french fry machine, but we’re getting a bit ahead of ourselves here. One retard limp at a time, brotha.
If all else fails, you can always pass the time seeing how many paper clips you can fit into the wall outlet.
Finally, I would like to like to express my relief that the chances of your actually having children are about even with Stephen Hawking’s odds of choking out Chuck Lidell. Though I’m sure your immense collection of inflatable sex animals is a tremendous aphrodisiac, nothing short of knocking an elderly hooker unconscious with a sack full of gold is likely to get you laid. Darwin wins again! Hooray!
In closing, I wish you nothing but dick cancer,
- Location: Straight on till morning
- it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests