It’s unfortunate, because you probably can’t even read, but to the pathetic excuse for a douchebag who kept screaming at me last night at the bar, you ought to be more careful who you start trouble with, especially at a bar, especially when you’re drunk, and especially if you’re a retarded moron with breath like Medusa’s menstruating vagina. Physically, you were not a match and i don’t know why i didn’t just punch you in that dung factory you call a mouth, but my days of waking up in jail after spanking grown children are behind me, alas, not without some gnawing tinge of regret. You were close, but you wouldn’t cross that line, would you? Just a baby with a bottle, that’s all you are. Bars are for adults. Unless your mama’s the bartender, nobody wants to hear you bitching and moaning about you why can’t get it up without a picture of David Hasselhoff glued to the ceiling, or why everyone lied to you about size not mattering. Do the world a favor, next time you feel like you wanna go out and have a beer, why don’t you just go buy a six pack and find a rock to crawl under. you said you were a guitar player. why don’t you try writing a love song about the toothbrush that broke your heart. prayerfully, there will be a reconciliation. Otherwise, you should learn to put a goddamn cork in it, fucko.

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