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Well
well well well well - well well well.
“Ms.” Martha Stewart, you fat-faced, insider-trading
toad-shaped bat! What
took you so long to be exposed as a cretinous, greedy, imposterous
“domesticated” demon? It
was only a matter of time; obvious since you put one of your fat
foots forward onto the public stage that you are not the cheery
kitchen-bound broad of every dingbat’s and dickhead’s delight.
Instead,
one could see immediately that you are a manipulative, spoiled,
conniving, meddling, egotistical, grubby bitch, lacking any socially
redeeming qualities whatsoever.
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You are not “Martha Stewart” which is not your real name
anyway, but instead “Mothra Sewage” a dank, horrifying, ugly,
fat, and prickly-haired insect flying from the slimy underworld.
A frighteningly mean-spirited uncouth moth; an unsavory
anti-butterfly. Sure,
you cast a big shadow (literally!) - but ultimately you burn to a
crisp. Too bad we
can’t bring back that Joan of Arc-style blaze of glory for you,
you harridan of celebrity whoredom.
Have you ever considered trussing yourself up like one of
your fabled holiday stuffed roasting birds and doing a little
rotisserie in your own jumbo toaster oven?
What an incredibly unpleasant and messy thought, but only too
good for Mothra Sewage, purveyor of post- post-feministic ideals
with a dollop of personal physical ugliness heaped on like a pile of
overly watery dry-flake mashed potatoes.
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It has been obvious
since you put your first flabby foot forward into this
world’s celebrity-sucking culture that one day, Mothra, one
day you would misplace one of those hefty hooves onto your own
carelessly-tossed banana peel and take a well-deserved flying
fucking header. Call
this concoction “Mothra Sewage’s Banana-a-go-go.”
That time is now, and look at you squealing like the
swine from which you’ve surely been spawned.
You’re the largest, surely the most annoying phony
since Tammy Faye Baker, make that, an even bigger fraudly pest
than that demented dame. The stench emanating from your body mass reeks of crime,
haughtiness, cheapness, and squalor.
You think “Mothra Sewage,” you think “bag lady in faux
glitz; absent any glamour.” You
likely make even the most incredibly expensive shoes you buy look
like the plastic toy shoes you stick on some five-and-dime doll.
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It
doesn’t matter if you sold your Imclone stock on inside
information or if your timing was pure luck.
The bottom line is, appearances are everything in your cozy
little fraudulent “domestic doyenne” world – appearances are
all you’re built on. And
this stock sale, by all appearances, reeks disgustedly like
unrefrigerated 7-week-old goat entrails.
See what you can make of those stinking babies, you
warp-minded, ham-faced sow. Here’s
praying your deserved downward spiral is as rapid as your puzzling
and transparently crass ascent.
And that all things considered, you end up in the ultimate
prison kitchen challenge: trying to whip up a little something that
goes well with dyke-drip lesbo juice. The kind you’ll be slurping
for years to come if you ever end up behind bars, where you surely
belong if for no other reason than the appearance of your stock
fraud, if not for your unsightly appearance itself
--Dick
Acorn
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