You piece of shit. You know just what you did, and its not for us to tell you, but we all hope you’re happy. As far as I’m concerned you deserve exactly what’s coming to you.
The investment fraud, cheating at ping pong, murdering your father and sleeping with your mother. I’m not sure how you thought it would end, but tonight it's all coming to a head.
You’ll be out on a date with a supermodel, one of the ones with three names, at least two of which sound vaguely Russian, and it’ll seem like nothing could go wrong. That’s when your deliciously ironic punishment will strike.
A falling safe will cave in your skull and crush most of your upper torso. According to the model it will be “kind of fucking sweet,” but also “totally gross.” We wish you’d had better taste in women so we could’ve gotten a vaguely literate depiction of your death, which we’ve been aching for for months, but hey. We’ll take what we can get.
Oh, and congratulations, you son of a bitch.
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