Calling that mass of revolting sludge of yours a story is like calling a bucket of putrid, stinking, maggot-infested garbage a steak dinner. Like rotting garbage, there’s occasionally some recognizable trace of what it was supposed to be, which only makes the rest of that disgusting sack of offal posing as fanfic just so much worse. Then you have the utter gall to beg people to praise your efforts, as though you actually made some effort instead of just scribbling down your brain drool and contaminating the Net with it. Nobody with the intelligence of a body louse would pretend that was a story. In fact, I owe your lice an apology for saying that. I’ve had toenail fungus that was smarter than you. I’ve read better stories in random combinations of words made from old bills that have gone through the paper shredder. You would have to get smarter to become a drooling idiot. Whoever deluded you into believing you could write ought to be flogged. Not only do you expose unsuspecting readers to the foul mess of slaughterhouse waste you call a story, but you cry like the whiny little baby you are when people don’t tell you it’s the best story ever. I bet you’re crying right now. You’re an infected boil on the buttocks of fandom. Your momma curses herself daily for ever letting a stupid brat like you be born. I hope you someday have the decency to blow your own head off and put yourself out of our misery.
Posted on: Tue, 09 Dec 2014 04:53:14 +0000
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