Just because you are fucking my friend does not mean you get to
crash my birthday party! It should have been obvious that no one wanted
you there when your lame-ass beat-boxing “performance” was met not with
roaring applause, but with blank stares and awkward silence. And “how
dare I” suggest going to a bar on my fucking birthday, you presumptuous
piece of shit? I get it, you’re straight-edge, but that also means you
can just—gasp!—NOT COME! Instead, you sabotaged my plans
for a debauched, fun night with my friends by being a
stick-up-your-ass, sour-faced prude. Maybe it’s “edge” to expect
everyone to bend over backward to accommodate your buzz-kill self, but
I’d prefer for you to bend over for me—so I can ream your whiny,
self-centered ass with a whiskey bottle lubed up with the blood of a
newly slaughtered calf.