Fuck off. I don’t know a thing about those slag-arses. Thud bonk bonk splat. It was on the eve of the first fortnight of flibbertigibbets that the young man found himself in the fledging strokes of a bildungsroman. He dies. The end. Bratta tat tat tat uomph spelling this sentence backwards sdrawkcab ecnetnes siht gnilles hpmou tat tat tat attab.
It’s not a satire. I just hate you and think you don’t deserve better. You want this? It’s yours, free of charge. A gift to the world. Savor it.
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