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Jesus fucking Christ on a cum-soaked pogo stick, you’re a walking, wheezing shit-tsunami of rancid fuck-blubber. That pathetic cockatiel isn’t perched; it’s fucking marooned on the sweaty, pus-dripping avalanche of your triple-chin tit-shelf, begging for a mercy-kill. Your face looks like a gangrenous cunt that got skull-fucked by a rusty cheese grater, then hosed down with curdled jizz and left to fester in a porta-potty. Those greasy, matted cock-snot dreads? They stink worse than a nigger’s asshole after a three-week crack-bender in a Tijuana donkey show. The cage ain’t for the bird, you crusty, cum-gargling whale-cunt; it’s the industrial-grade titanium shit-box they weld your fat fucking carcass into so you don’t devour the goddamn drywall, the neighbors, and half the fucking county. That shirt’s stretched thinner than your mom’s prolapsed asshole the night she shat your worthless, yeast-infected ass into a KFC bucket. Keep grinning, you pock-marked, shit-smeared cum-rag; when that bird unloads a hot, liquid turd straight down your gaping, cock-holster throat, it’ll be the first protein you’ve swallowed that wasn’t deep-fried in donkey spunk and regret.
