You subhuman baboon. You literal Jock.
How dare you speak, you swarthy loch monkey. How dare you open your fat chinned, ginger haired, Haggis smelling mouth?
You are human trash, Angus Bruce Dougal MacAlastair. Universally despised, derided and mocked. Your nationality and self-hatred offers no hope to the world that Celts can ever prosper. Crawl back into the wee hill you came out of, you literal orangutan.
I hope you decide to push your grandfather’s wagon to England and rape some sheep, as is in the Jock's nature. It would still be the whitest pussy you ever had. Give Nigel and Robert a chance for some target practice, your sole use to the world. Scottish obsession with a green and plentiful land in the South is hilarious but sad. Coincidentally it's the only worthwhile contribution Scotland has made to the medical field. The BASTARD ENGLISH sentiment in the average Scot is both an early warning sign of autism in children, and early onset of Alzheimer's in adults.
Take your hairy fingers off your keyboard, and never talk about the human species again, you mockery of our supposed shared ancestor. No amount of Irn Bru and salt slabbed on your face every morning will make you white. It's about as delusional of an idea as your daydreams of Irish heritage.
You Jock.
You make Wales look like a beacon of civilisation.
You are the Canada of Europe.
Go fertilise the glen with you and your family’s corpses, it's the best you can hope for in life. For the first time in your life, Jock, you have a job making food for beings vastly superior to yourself. English cattle. Coincidentally, it would be the first time a Scottish "man" provided for a family.
Die, Angus. No one would miss you. Except for Australian Aboriginals, who now would have no one to make them look good.
