But twice as filling, if you catch my drift. Not Rorke's Drift, because those Zulus were probably a lot more filling than me. Spear shafts ain't in it. Just, I am in danger of the dread blank page, so perhaps a bit of whimsy is in order. Take this comment from acerbic visitor Jay Gatsby (damn that name rings a bell...) to my ancient post entitled, appropriately enough, Poor People Suck:
you my friend, are a fucking retard. Who the hell are you to call anyone poor? because anyone who works for fucking bell south making $40,000 a year is fucking poor. My car costs double your yearly income. How much a person makes doesnt make them better or worse. its class. 50 cent and paris hilton and those little bitches are piles of shit, as are you. but they are no different then the poor drug running piles of shit in the inner city. bad people suck, poor and rich.
Let us disassemble this comment. Fucking retard? I always give a folk that one. The very fact I have masturbated in indecent places without bothering to glance over my shoulder makes it so.
$40,000 working for Bellsouth? Why, I don't work for Bellsouth. Jay doesn't understand the concept of landlord and tenant, apparently, which surprises me, because he is apparently of the corrupted genera of poor white trash that measures their worth not by their soul, but by the length of their motorized stallion in relation to their abode. $80 grand car, $750 rent, 3 inch penis. I state as fact, unseen, that Mr. uh, Gatsby is not only bald but the proud bearer of an egregious comb-over as well. Dyed a virile chestnut brown, which is continually betrayed by the fickle wind, cruel Boreas, which unexpectedly blows the 12 inch comb-over to the wrong side, exposing three inch white roots as the pelt lay upon the wrong shoulder. And he oblivous to the sniggering of the errant passerby.
But enough of the superficial, repugnant Jay. Although superficiality is his stock in trade, I detect. Let's peel the onionhead back. Gee, the very fact that someone would choose the name Jay Gatsby as a nom de cyber speaks volumes to me. To insecurity only alleviated by flash cove coin, to sexual inadequacy unspeakably and embarrassingly only ameliorated by a poorly hidden paederastic desire for Robert Redford, to the aforementioned fancy car. I believe we may all reasonably assume it is a Porsche. Flagship vehicle of the Flaccid Fey Fop, the passenger seat eternally empty unless his mechanic needs a ride to Pep Boys.
Ah, Gatsby. You speaketh of class, that most ephemeral of qualities. I think it is like the Burger Court defined pornography. You know it when you see it. And you, sir, possess not a whit. Class envy, sure. The slothful's path to smugness. Oblivion to irony and satire? Absolutely, although I salute both of your dimensions, length and width. Depth you must find several lifetimes hence.
May I make a gratuitous aside to excoriate your abysmal, infantile grammar? There are mandrills beating out better syntax at the Yerkes Primate Research Center on cobwebbed Commodore 64's, you damnable demiglot. They leave more intelligent comments here, too.
Your worst sin? I've already lost interest in you. I'm wasting some fine made up words on your worthless hide. But perhaps I was wrong, after all. Maybe it isn't poor people who suck. Maybe it's just you.
Posted by Velociman at June 25, 2006 7:56 PM