Fuck you.
Seriously.
There I was, eating you, cramming your frosted strawberry goodness into my pie hole when you, whilst I was nary half way through devouring your splendid succulence (F.Y.I. "Spendid Succulence" is the title of my forthcoming smooth jazz album), decided it was in YOUR BEST INTEREST to break in half! Who does something like that? Who gives up on being eaten half way through, besides my last girlfriend?
I could've been as happy as the little asshole on the left, you dumbass Pop-Tart!
So, you break in half, and what happens?! You bewitch me with a spell that renders all cognitive sense inside me mute! Yes, that’s what happened. That has to be what happened, stupid fucking Pop-Tart, because when the uneaten portion of your fruitful geometry (F.Y.I. "Fruitful Geometry" is the title of my forthcoming gay porno, and "Forthcoming" is also the name of the planned sequel) began falling to the floor, I tried to grab you with my other hand. THE OTHER HAND THAT CONTAINED A GLASS OF WATER! Yes! A glass! Of water! Who tries to catch something in a hand that’s already filled, I ask you, you stupid, asshole, cunt Pop-Tart! Me! That’s who! Yes, the bedazzled and brutally blinded buffoon that you made me, shit-sucking, twat-bag, Pop-Tart.
Seriously, Pop-Tart, go fuck yourself.
Seriously.
So there I stood, water splashing onto my shoes and onto my new copy of National Geographic (actually, it was Hustler), with only HALF of the Pop-Tart for which I paid good unlaundered money for and NO WATER LEFT IN MY CUP! Thanks for ruining my day, asshole Pop-Tart!
This must be exactly what Jesus was feeling when the Jews were whipping Him! Oh God, why have you forsaken me?!
Pop-Tart, take a seat. I want to express my full disdain for you. If you had a face, I’d punch you in your stupid fucking strawberry frosted face! Pop-Tart, if you had balls, I’d kick you in your gooey, artificially flavored balls. (Actually, that sounds gross. NOTE TO SELF: Strike that sentence before it goes out for final edit!)
Pop-Tart, if you had a mother I’d call her a bitch right to your stupid face. But you don’t have a mother! Or a father! HAHA! YOU’RE AN ORPHAN! FUCK YOU!
So, in conclusion, rot in Hell half of the Pop-Tart that I paid the FULL price for! (And yes, I know that I ended that sentence with a proposition, but, piss off, don’t correct me on MY grammar, you stupid-ass, shitheaded, communist, giving-up-half-way-through, lazy-ass Pop-Tart!)
Fuck you, Pop-Tart.
Seriously.
Fuck you.
I Loved You… Once,
Mike
