Oh, Marky boy, did you think I was going to take the knee, well here’s my knee in your balls, you fucking pathetic loser, what’s the matter arse pounding cretin breath, didn’t you like the fact that the kiddy vinks were coming down to my campsite in the night and I was telling them stories and jokes, and teaching them big words, and telling them that they could do anything they wanted too, as long as they said to themselves, I can, not I can’t, were you jealous homyped, pedometh, Yomo Pedanga, where are the Yomi Pedanga now, arse pounding cretin breath from another dimension, Marky boy, thanks for the photos you loser, you surrounded my unit in Balranald, town of a thousand losers, that you imported, and you drugged me with ecstasy gas, then you wanted to film me masturbating, because I had a hard on that I had to get rid of because you shoved stinking sexually arousing gas into my flat, then I tried to have a quick 30 second wank, because you sterilised me, and that’s all I can manage now, because you ruined my virility, which I had gotten back, but I of course lost interest, because I don’t like pulling my dick, because it’s a waste of my time and energy, but I became so interested in the fact that there were people on my left, such as Jimmy the Jim Jam Jerkweed , duplex, jive arse loser, the Lord JAMF, himself, Jive Arse Mother Fucker, Mr Pillory himself, raping a woman in a Pillory in a shopping centre, with his mates, and I saw the photo, and he was in the flat next door, with his good friend, old corpse walker herself, who kicked me out because I heard she had three girls hanging upside down from her hallway ceiling, and had them shackled with titanium handcuffs to Jimmy’s floor, then they were arse pounded to death, and you had people on my left, people on my right, people out the front and back, people in the ceiling, Roof Spiders, who were trying to stop me from looking at an old mediocre porno site, that I became horribly interested in why you were trying to stop me from looking at a bit of girlie porn, that I lost interest in my hard on, decided not to strangle the lizard, choke the chicken, that sort of thing, that I decided that it was more interesting to see if I could actually get into that stupid site, because your stupid hackers, all 50 thousand of them, the Razarus gang, The Lazarus Gang actually, but I was taking the piss out of them, you know, Rice bowl Charlie and Chop Stick Suey, that I was able to hack into your stupid site of a billion sexual assault trophy photos, and I discovered your moronic hall of fame, rape photos, you sick miserable fucks, that I decided to download a heap of them, and I was severely traumatised by the malevolent nature of those disgusting photos. What’s the matter Balranald, did I construct a super phosphate bomb twice, off the cuff, out of household goods and blow your stupid Meth lab under my flat to pieces, twice, and I did like the passing parade of Singed Mincie Boys, Burnt Cretins, and Toasted Morons, who walked past, happily I might add, swearing and cursing that they had 2nd and 3rd degree burns, and had to go to the Op Shop for some new clothes that had been seared off by a rather unexpected and novel bomb blast. What’s the matter Marky boy, I found your trophy room, your hall of fame, and I haven’t even gotten to the Pop Top photos yet, you know, cut the tops off children’s heads while they’re still alive, and sample their brains, Silence of The Lambs style, suffer Marky boy, loser.
