Congratulations to the clever prankster who placed a still-smoking dog dookus on the seat of my Vespa--you succeeded. I did not notice your well-camouflaged pre-sent until it was too late. I spent the entire 40-minute ride home with a toboggan-swoop of fresh shit down the seat of my dungarees. Still, I can't help but wonder: How did you maneuver the turd? How did it travel from street to seat? Did you, as I suspect, pick it up with your bare fingers? Does that not make you, by definition, a turd-fondler? I believe it does. So upon you, turd-fondler, I sincerely wish every single one of life's ailments, just short of farm equipment-induced disfigurement. I hope you wind up in the Ironic Punishment Division of hell, stuffing warm turds down your gullet as fast as the conveyor belt brings them, a la Lucille Ball in the chocolate factory. I'll buzz around you in my shiny Vespa, cackling and farting clouds of blue exhaust into your contorted face, before speeding off to Heaven, where assholes like you are responsible for wet-napping the smegma off my ridiculously large tool. --Anonymous
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