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Listen, lady: Your kid fucking stinks.
I’m sitting here in this nice little coffee shop surrounded by the
smell of coffee and pastries, trying to write an existential romantic
comedy
about a doomed love affair between a zombie and a living
girl. And in you walk with your fleshy round offspring, this staggering
little alien, busily inflating its diaper with insanely pungent feces,
filling the entire cafe with this moist brown stench. Put that smelly
creature back in your vagina, reabsorb it into your uterus, and rethink
your life, lady. You are pissing me off.
That’s… not even funny.
Nor cute or clever.
You pretty much suck at life.
I think it’s funny.
not funny…don’t you dare reproduce.
You deserve that child’s shit smeared all over your face for trying to write an “existential romantic comedy (three words which should never appear in a synopsis of ANY creative endeavour) about a doomed love affair between a zombie and a living girl.”