Whosoever shall be enamored of humiliation may query us for the purpose of ascertaining the adroit opinions of the snottiest entity on earth. It may inquire about whatever it wishes, and it shall enjoy the reward of our snippy and invective sarcasm. We await its feeble efforts at constructing sentences with bated breath.
Do you have Prince Albert in a Can?
Are we suffering from a blow to the head?
We refer to it as a toilet. It is behooved to reserve its Brooklyn slang for its peers.
Greetings, President Bush.
Do you have a link to whatever it is you’re whining about?
Whom can it possibly mean? It suffers apparently from a delusion that it is our equal. Or else it sees its pronouns with eyes crossed.
Og sort rubbish!
snotty people go in bin
Certainly not. That is beneath us. What Eurotrash.
Do you have a toilent in a can?
How’s the weather up there?
[sub]And welcome back, ya nutty SOB![/sub]
Perhaps the President should put away its toys and go to bed. […trumpets…] We are summoned to our balcony appearance.
It’s like a cross between Queen Elizabeth I and Jaime Gumm, with a dash of bjorn-style provocation disguised as obtuseness. Please stop.
or OG SMYTE!
Huh? Should I have asked, “Is we suffering from a blow to the head”?
How dare it address us as a second person. The hubris.
The air is rarified and frigid.
If it does not wish to savor a smell, perhaps it ought not to leave its nose to linger.
Yes, Mr. President, we know. Its bombing raids are legendary.