Fortune Cookie Writer with Tourette’s by Richard Weaver

You are a tall dark stranger. And one strange son-of-a-bitch. Unfortunately, you’re also a fucking ugly bastard, and will never meet ANYONE who will change that fact;
not even a top-shelf plastic surgeon.

All of your children will be born in a landfill, each one whelped by the open sewer
that is your common-law wife. All will die of humiliation and lead-poisoning.
Just so you know. You massive coprolite wad.

Tomorrow will be the best day of your life. A mangy rabid dog will stalk your hairy ass across town and have his way with you repeatedly until you bleed a wide river.

Your shit stinks now. It will stink tomorrow and the day after. A month from now you will die of sepsis. A week after you’re buried, your grave will overflow with shit
and the EPA will declare it a toxic site. And you call yourself an American. Bastard.

Two hours from this moment, 120 fucking minutes, 7200 suckass seconds away,
a priest high on Viagra, you know what I mean, will enter your Uber in the deep end, and baptize your fucked-up face in the name of Jesus.

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