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.