I wish he fucked your face up, like a barber version of Dr. Giggles. I also wish you slipped and fell on the curb on your way out and smashed out a bunch of teeth, and then some street orphans came over and stole your stuff and pissed and shit all over you, and that a big crowd gathered because one of the orphans was slow pinching one off, but no one helped you. They all just clapped at your misfortune like they had each just finished a platter of Big Macs. Then I hope you tried to stand up, but you slipped on a nugget and fell, and slammed the side of the head on the curb, making you even more r-word-tarded—so r-word-tarded that you started picking up the other shit logs and eating them and maybe rubbing a few on your body. You eventually crawl into traffic like a particularly stupid baby. The crowd’s applause goes louder, and aylur death the merriment reaches such a peak that there’s a spontaneous round of Don’t Stop Me Now sung. The whole world is happy about your death. Every newspaper the next day runs two stories: one about how awful of a pig you were, and another describing every detail of your death. Even Donald tweets out about how much of a sack of garbage you were and how much better Earth is now that they’ve decided to shred your remains in farming equipment and feed it to death row inmates. It’s his most liked tweet ever.
