I've been tabloid stalking you, Kim Kardashian. I know you're all alone now. You're all used up. Damaged goods. How old are you now, 32? That's like a thousand in dog years, Kim. What are you doing with your life?
Kanye doesn't love you. He only loves himself and his shitty, shitty music. Nobody else will have you. Nobody but me, Copernicus Thunderbird, Homeless Lunatic Wizard. You're fat now. I like it. Your titties, Kim. Give them to me.
We'll make a sex tape in my dumpster. Your fans will love it. You'll be the biggest whore on the planet once again, just like back in your glory days. But I'm not going to put any part of my body inside your vag, Kim, because babies crawl out of there and that shit is just creepy and gross. I'm not getting stem cells and placenta all over my wizard staff. No thank you.
No Kim, we're going straight to hardcore anal. Now I'm sure you've probably got some $500 an hour manservant named Sven that plucks the pubes in your crack and scrubs the poop out of your asshole with a toothbrush every morning, but even if you don't it's fine because I'll be bringing a six pack of lemon bleach and a can of wasp spray. Hey, you never know. I'm not accusing you of having an ass full of wasp nests or anything, it's just good to be prepared. It's also good for hornets, locusts, cicadas, bumblebees, spiders, fire ants, centipedes, or any other plagues of horror you might have breeding in your glory holes. Don't lie to me, Kim. I know there's something lurking down there.
Anyway, we'll make with the sex and you'll fall in love with me because I'll be the best you've had. It's understandable. Once that's out of the way, it's time to start thinking about your new reality TV show: Dumpster Diva. It will be full of sex and drama and me yelling at you and you crying. You simply can't make good reality TV without rivers and rivers of mascara stained tears because your fans are all human sharks and they thrive on your misery. But you knew that, right? Right? Wait, what was your theory? Oh, right… you're pretty. Yeah, that must be it.
The first episode will be our big wedding. Your wedding dress will be made from black plastic trash bags and rotted lettuce. I guess we could spray paint it white if you want, but you won't fool anyone. Don't worry about bridesmaids, I've got a small harem of bag lady hookers that will do anything to get on TV. Don't worry about your friends and family either, because they're not invited. But just to make your mother happy I'll send her a card and sign it as Kopernicus KaThunderbird. I know she has that weird spelling disorder where everything has to start with a K.
The second episode will be our honeymoon. The only thing I know for sure about that is I'll be getting really drunk and you'll be getting really peed on.
By the third episode you'll be preggosaurus with my hobo love child. I've already arranged to have your old baby sold to Honey Boo Boo's mother. She's a way better parent than you could ever aspire to be. As for our child, if it's a boy we'll name him Kobra Kommander and if it's a girl we'll name her Kunt-Thunder. You'll try to argue and I'll ignore you and fall asleep. You'll cry yourself to sleep while masturbating on camera with an ice cream cone. You'll get an infection from some sprinkles stuck in your urethra. It will be unpleasant.
I don't give a shit what happens on the fourth episode because by then I'll have already left you. Seriously, Kim, you didn't think I'd stick around, did you? I could do way better than you.