How cool would it have been to live back when the wind and birds and avalanches sounded like Black Sabbath, and killing gave people these huge fucking hard-ons? You’d be so dead.
If death is like a million miles of this then pick up that rock over there and pretend you’re Poland in the Forties and my head is Adolf Hitler.
If I rubbed a magic lamp and some genie smoked out and granted me three wishes, I’d wish for a zillion euros, infinite wishes, and that the lamp was your cock.
So many evil people have designs on my crotch it’s like a thousand pairs of hands are crumpling one piece of paper.
When I grow up I want to chug-a-lug a zillion beers then behead your wife and kids. What do you want to be? I mean besides my sex slave slut.
Me growing up is such an oxymoron it makes the Flintstones seem like the Dead Sea Scrolls. Unless 16 counts. Okay, I’d like to turn 16.
I’m the coldest piece of shit in human history but your rotting, stinking corpse is so hot in theory I think it’ll melt me.
I’ve tried to kill myself so many times since I met you that every time you hit me it’s like the ten thousandth car running over a dead dog.
The idea of raping and killing you just triggered off its million billionth hard on, but this one is God’s. That’s my gift to you.
I’m boring. You’re boring. Sex is boring. Being tortured is boring. Being killed is boring.
The problem with pretending your ass was my right hand all these years is fist-fucking you is like playing ‘Grand Theft Auto: Vice City.’
The problem with being a suicidal airhead is getting raped and killed by my best friend seems superficial, but if it keeps you here for five more minutes, then go for it.