I am going to fucking kill you.
You may not be able to remember every single one of the heinous acts committed during your long and miserably pathetic tenure as a complete and utter fucking drain on society and a professional baby-eating fuckhead, but allow me to do my best to refresh your cocaine-fried, oven-baked, mothball-addled memory about a particular incident that is of highly critical importance to me. Pay close attention to what I am about to say because I want you to fully understand the reasons why I want you to fall into a hole, land on some spikes and then be torn apart by rabid wolves and sharks with frickin laser beams attached to their heads while Amazonian tribal chieftains perform a ritual ceremony eternally damning you and your entire family to a life of poverty, ugliness, misery and a perpetual case of amoebic dysentery.
Around midday on 18 May 2006 I left my office to use the restroom and go buy myself some deliciously disgusting and inexpensive Taco Bell tacos so I could enjoy the Grade F quality meat, cheese and tortilla while reading "Truth & Rumors" on SI.com. While I was away on my Earth-shatteringly important mission, you decided to take the opportunity to sneak down the halls of my department, brazenly enter my office, take my iPod off my desk and leave the building with the fruits of my hard-earned 35-hour-a-week labor in your sweaty, vile, thieving homeless-person clutches. I returned to find my trusted companion missing, and after a thorough search of my office I realized that my iPod had fallen into enemy hands and I was powerless to do anything about it.
This is you.
I can't believe you took my favorite and most treasured piece of portable technology right out of my fucking office during regular business hours. Yes, I displayed a level of intelligence usually reserved for rocks, inanimate objects and yourself by not closing the door when I left for lunch, but I didn't really believe that some mischievous corrupt Satan-worshipping crap bag jackass would actually come take shit off my desk. What the fuck, man? I don't go down to your alley and steal your heroin spoon when you're urinating in a dumpster or kick down the walls of your cardboard box of a home, so what the hell are you fucking with me for?
I WAS TAKING A PISS. Jesus, is nothing sacred anymore? While I was trying to relieve myself you were making off with my shit like you were those fucking guys in Willow and I was Madmartigan. Only a total fucking pansy coward noodle-armed nutless weakling takes advantage of a guy when he's in his most vulnerable and unsuspecting state. Obviously the solution here is for me to either hold it in for the entire duration of the time I'm at work (which I've heard can lead to impotence) or maybe when I catch you (and I will) I can just chain you to the ventilation pipe next to my desk and just piss directly onto you every time I have to go so I won't have to leave my office. But then again maybe you'd like that you sick necrophiliac puppy-kicking gutter trash. Plus the thought of having to look at your iPod-snatching commie-nazi apple-pie-hating acne-dented face every single day makes me want to simultaneously wretch up my cranberry juice and boil myself to get the foul taint of your food-encrusted unwashed child-molesting aura off me.
This is me.
I really hope that the twenty grams of Ziploc-bagged street crack you bought from some sweaty sunglass-wearing half-naked dude in the back of a conversion van behind the dumpster at 7-11 is worth the epically ultimate assbeating you will receive if I ever find you. Actually, I hope he sells you fucking Arm & Hammer Baking Powder and tries to pass it off as crack and then you get really sick when you try and inject it directly into your aorta. Either way, I can assure you that when I am finished with you your fucking parents won't even be able to identify you, assuming of course that they haven't already disowned you in disgrace for being a fucking blight on civilization whose mere existence could be considered an internationally-recognized crime against humanity. Having my iPod ganked out of my office in broad daylight by some shitbrained loser makes me so super King Kong Omega pissed that I really and truly believe that I could punch you so hard that your head explodes. I'm not even kidding.
I was going to get an Xbox 360 too, you motherfucker. As you are probably aware by what the pawnbroker you gave my poor defenseless iPod to re-sold the item for, an iPod like the one you took costs almost the same as a new Xbox. Now, you stupid piece of donkey shit, I am forced to make a decision as to whether I want to spend my hard-saved monetary resources on an Xbox or a new iPod. I HATE making decisions like that, because I am an indecisive asshole. Just know that a couple of months from now when I scrounge together three hundred bucks and am standing in Best Buy staring intently and agonizingly at the iPod and Xbox displays I will also be screaming profanities and eternally cursing your name. Sure, everyone will be like, "who the fuck is 'you stupid crackhead douchebag' and why should his damnable soul burn in the fires of the Nine Hells for all eternity?" but that will not deter me from directing my hate-fueled 'roid rage at you as virulently and malevolently as I possibly can.
I hope that you can see this,
because I'm doing it as hard as I can.
Plus I have no good Game Boy Advance games that aren't as played out as the new Green Day album or Paris Hilton's vagina. With no iPod however I'm relegated to playing stuff like Advance Wars (a great game, but I've already beaten it like five gajillion times) in order to survive my harrowing twice-daily journey through the Boston mass transit system. It wouldn't really even be so bad if I didn't usually suffer from cases of crippling motion sickness when I try to play games or read while the train is moving, but now I'm stuck spending an hour every day feeling nauseous and bored and quietly mumbling to myself about all the ways I would love to kill you when I should be listening to mega xtreme pump-up music. God I hope you choke to death on a cock.
Did I mention that the iPod was a Christmas present from my wife in 2004? You should probably just turn the swag back over to me right now because if she catches you she'll probably seriously pull your balls off with a clawed fist. You can trust me not to go there but it's no-holds-barred with her.
Oh man I wish I could have caught you in the act though. It would have SO been worth it. I would have said something fantastically clever before calmly taking my iPod back out of your hands and headbutting the ever-loving shit out of you. I bet I could probably have headbutted you into next week. I know that's just a saying, but I really think that I could do it. Maybe you'll come back looking for more of my shit to steal. If you are so goddamned stupid that you would even think of attempting that (and given the fact that you probably have the IQ of a fucking broken cinderblock I give you about a 50-50 chance here) please be sure to bring my iPod with you so that I may pry it from your mangled corpse with a crowbar because God knows I'm not going to go digging through your colossally disease-infested hobo pockets with my bare hands.
But if you don't come to me I'll do my best to try and find you, because I leave no man (or machine) behind. As of right now I have you narrowed down to one of three people:
- The old creepy insane crackhead who lives in the hedges outside my office, sleeps on an umbrella and asks every girl that walks past him if they "want fries with that shake".
- LaTroy Hawkins -- not because I think he's a thief or a crackhead mind you, but because this guy just seems to haunt me everywhere I go. It's really uncanny. DAMN YOU LATROY!!!
- This guy:
Now I am well aware that I am largely acting out of my own impotence by writing a malignantly venomous letter to a cosmically incompetent, pitifully pathetic fucking alcoholic douchebag loser who serves only to contaminate the populace with his decay and who probably couldn't operate a computer if his life depended on it and you offered him all the Vicodin in the pharmacy, but it is strangely therapeutic in the sense that the mere thought of pulverizing your malformed druggie head into billions of microscopic pieces and then FedEx-ing those pieces to every country on Earth with a note saying, "the final remains of the Earth's stupidest assclown" in ten different languages really brings a smile to my face. I can almost see the happiness on the Nepalese children's faces when they open their box and read that I have cleansed the planet of such a heinous infection. It's almost enough to bring a tear to my eye.
But I guess these things happen. I know I should probably be glad that it was just my iPod being stolen and not some other horrible cataclysmic castastrophe, and should take pride in the fact that I'm nothing like you and I don't have to go door to door stealing stuff from empty offices in an often-vain attempt to put food on my table or crack in my pipe. I should just suck it up and stop whining about my stupid problems. But you have grievously wronged me, and I cannot silence my heart if it cries out for vengeance!
In conclusion, please die immediately and leave a message for the coroner to mail my iPod back to me. In the mean time, treat it well and love it as I have loved it. I hope you like Bad Religion, Primus and video game MIDIs because that's pretty much all that's on there. Also, the headphones are broken and sound only comes out the right speaker. I got those for free from AirTran Airways and they have roughly the life expectancy of a fruit fly in bat country. Also, please feel free to print this update out (or have someone who is computer-or-book-literate do it for you if you're too functionally retarded to perform this simple operation yourself), use it to cover your entire body with paper cuts, and then jump into a swimming pool filled with salty lemon juice.
May you die a thousand agonizing deaths and spend eternity being eaten by vultures, you thieving bastard.