h2g2 The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy: Earth Edition

Does your mother know you talk like that? I'd ask her but she left early this morning with a smile on her face.

Ah, so there is some life milling around in this shallow excuse for a gene pool that you, if not lacking in the gift of conscious thought, would call a forum. The inane and not entirely unexpected request to join you in bed would be ignored, except I feel the need to point out the fact that even if I were as as infintescimally small as your brain, I could not share in that filth due to the enormity of your girth. As for your insult, I've seen better verbal skills in a tumor riddled dead mouse.

Ah, you were able to view the entire backlog and cut and paste something that made partial sense? I'm amazed your pudgy little fingers could find the keys, did a nurse help? Some of the words were more than two syllables, that must have been challenging.

The rather sophomoric suggestion that my mother is a "loose woman" or a whore is obviously a projection of the thoughts and feelings you harbor toward your own mother. If you wish to share these incestuous thoughts with anyone other than your left hand, turn to your side (that's any direction you are not currently facing) and tell your sister.

Me talk too big for you? Want me talk little for you?

So you, ignorant Viking Fartknocker that you are seem to believe that your pea-sized intellect can overcome your genetic betrayal? Who would have guessed that anal sex would result in you, rather than the usual smaller sized turd.

Fartknocker. Interesting choice of wording for someone who couldn't even tie his shoes with the British emperial army to help him. Did you learn that "word" yesterday at recess? Here's an interesting word descibing you that you can fling your mind in the general direction of: pedophile (assuming you are developed to the point of differentiating between yourself and your surroundings).

I had a pedal file once, but when I sharpened the pedals they cut my feet so I gave my tricycle to a little girl who wanted to be a ballerina. She wound up becoming a pedicurist. But I don't think she could find a cure for you lot.


~jwf~

What, exactly, was the intended purpose of that peice of drivel? The only ascertainable function was to waste my time. It's organisms like you who give plankton a bad name. I hope you have a horrible, sorrow-filled life and die slowly long after any mutated children that you may spawn with your animal friends.

*British emperial army*

Hmm, interesting form of an existing phrase.

*Pedophile*

Taking an interest in your family tree then? Especially the little shoots?

Oh, let me bow before such an authority on the art of insult as yourself. Should I get a pen and paper and take notes on your every insignificant movement? The fact that you can type at all is a scientific wonder to be surpassed only by the answer to one question. How did you not die in the womb?

*take notes on your every insignificant movement*

No, continue to do so for yourself though. Don't forget to leave a pad and pencil by the litter box.

You actually remind me of cat retch, but that may just be your personality rather than that slimy hairball you call a face.

If you weren't looking into the mirror you might acknowledge that, given your propensity for bashing your head into the wall, you have little more intellectual capacity than a broken toaster oven.

*If you weren't looking into the mirror you might acknowledge that*

What, is that your version of "No I'm not but you are"? Very mature, just get out of kindergarten then? Daddy will be home soon, he had better not catch you on his computer!

Oh, I see that you must resort to paraphrasing my insults and tossing them back in my direction. If your head were not firmly planted in your rear end, you might could come up with some insults of your own. I wish I could say I have had fun matching wits with you, but as I have alluded to several times before, you are an unarmed opponent. I refuse to waste any more of my time helping you to evolve.

I hope you and all those who even remotely are related to you are cleansed from the gene pool. I will return another day and, because I pity those less fortunate than myself, allow you to observe your better at work.

Just pointing out some of your less obvious faults.



You bore me so I will leave you. You now will resort to your rather infatile need to have *the last post*. Have fun playing with yourself.

Ah... Ringwreath, it's a wonder you can type with the wads of rotten flesh falling from your arms. You're obviously an evolutionary throwback to the time when impressing a female with your natural musk was appropriate... Actually, it's fortunate that no female has fallen for your charming effluvium; I shudder to envision the offspring spawned by those twisted, withered genitalia.

Dear Lintzilla, I kindly hope your mother recovers from the PTSD she has suffered since your birth. Watching a monster like you come oozing from her own flesh must have caused incredible amounts of emotional damage. I certainly cannot begin to empathize with her because it is not possible to imagine you as anything but the huge bag of stinking excrement that you are today.

You are an artles, churlish, clay-brained bum-bailey, droning on endlessly from that codpiece you call a face. A fawning flap-dragon with missplaced delusions of grandeur, inebriated with your own bloated sense of self importance. In short, a full blown lower class twit with related parents.

You, Ck Hummer, were not being addressed in the previous post. If I wished to address a doltish clot such as you, I would do so directly, by plunging my head into the rear end of a maggot infested dead yak. Since that is the kind of thing the Limpzero does for fun, I will get him to deliver this message:

You have no social skills, you are ugly, women think you are a bore, men thank God that they are better looking than you, and people suspect you are a pervert. You will die cold, ugly, poor, and alone.

Your tedious company and repetitive atempts at insults have enervated me. I long for respite from that which you find entertaining. I am too horribly bored to be the least bit interested in exercising any more than the few clicks I used to generate an artificial insult:

I hate you. You're a loser. Nobody likes you one bit, and I'm not the least bit surprised. I AM surprised that no one's killed you yet. You suck. I wish I was dead instead of in your company. You are a freakish sewer.

It would seem the insult generator has roughly the same intelligence as you do. I am not particularly surprised. The great ennui your presence and weak attempts have created in me have drained what little interest I could muster. Begone, or better yet I shall leave.