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Dear capitalist fuckpig,
Ha! Did you see? Did you see what I did there? By juxtaposing "dear" (a common salutation that implies affection for the addressee) with "fuckpig" (a snarky word that I just made up -- that's my intellectual property, by the way -- don't make me sue you, shiteyes) I have shown you all what a riot bastard I am, and you can't deny it, even as you just can't stop laughing at my incredible wit. You love me, yet hate me, because I've insulted you, see, and you just can't get enough. You're like, "Fuck! How did that bastard get to be so bastardly and clever? What a bastard! I worship him." Do you? Then EAT FUCK, assclown. Ha! Fuck! Ha...oh my...
Mr. Von Mises, I have a problem. No -- fuck that. THEY HAVE A PROBLEM. If you can believe it, there are some people who still refuse to acknowledge what a true bastard I really am. I wouldn't care, because I don't give a FUCK! what some basement-dwelling momma's boy thinks about me; how could someone like that ever hope to understand me, professional writer, downloader of pictures of high-school-dropouts/hot-tattooed-model-artists, family man, genius, scientist, novelist (six issues of a comic book IS A NOVEL, MOTHERFUCKER -- look it up), and consummate, magnificent, sterling bastard? It's preposterous. My ass needs a licking, fanboys -- get in line. I'm sure a man of your stature sees where I'm coming from, Von Mises. I'm sure you wish you were half the bastard I am, but that's ten times more bastardly than these wanna-be bastards to whom I refer, so if anyone could possibly start to grasp me -- an enigma locked inside a contradiction wrapped up in a paradox and sucked into a black hole that can only stay open for six minutes at a time every twenty-four hours (something else I created) -- well, then, I guess it would be you, fuckface. Here's a kerchief. I think that's some of my cheesy smegma sticking to the corner of your fucking split sphincter mouth, you withered shitlord.
But the haters are still out there. Some say that, at 68, I'm getting a little old for this sick, sad game...some even say I'm getting too old to rock out with my cock out. Some would even question my scientific credentials! HOW COULD I WRITE SCIENCE FICTION IF I DIDN'T UNDERSTAND SCIENCE, ASSHOLE. Jesus. Do you see what I have to put up with, Von Mises? William Gibson doesn't have to deal with this shit. As long as these detractors are out there, spreading their litany of lies, that means there's still bedwetting virgins out there who have yet to become my devoted fans...and without their financial support, how can I be expected to provide for my family? This is BULLSHIT. God, I want to punch a baby in the face. (And I really mean that, goddammit. I'm not making that up. Even though I love children. You'll never understand, so don't even try.)
Von Mises, they're fucking robbing me over here, man, and I know this is the reason why I don't have a movie deal or a TV series yet. Those Hollywood fucks wouldn't know talent if it was shoving a sharpened cokespoon into their shaved nutsacs (FUCK! I'm awesome. FUCK!!!!), but they'd instinctively cower in the presence of a real bastard like myself were it not for all the spunkeyed masturbators who say I'm washed-up, a sellout, a poseur, and all the rest. They're standing in the way of my bullshit-deity-of-your-choice-given right to turn my obvious amazing abilities into the financial empire every atom in the universe is screaming for them to be. WHAT THE FUCK!
Answer me, you fucking mummy,
Warren. |
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