>>> Primal Urges
By staff writer Nathan DeGraaf

February 20, 2008

Roxy: Do you think I’m vain?
Nathan:
Well, your hair, eyes, breasts, lips, and eyelashes are all fake.
Roxy:
Fake eyelashes and hair extensions don’t count.
Nathan:
I’m gonna need a copy of this rulebook.
Roxy:
What rulebook?
Nathan:
That’s my little genius.

Hey you. Yeah you. You’re a bitch and I hope you die. Why? I have my reasons.

You see, you’re the kind of motherless whore who walks around saying things like, “I am so bored,” and “Do we have to watch football?” You’re the kind of girl who cuts people off in traffic, then turns up the stereo and shrugs. Because everything is beneath you.

You litter. And worse than that, you litter everywhere you go because your precious car and your precious purse don’t deserve to have garbage in them, not even for a second. I guess you’re garbage enough for your car.

“You spend $200 on your haircuts and you highlight your already bleached hair.”

You hate racism but would never date a black man. You would never drink and drive but encourage your boyfriends to do so whenever you “need” something.

You have no idea what it’s like to actually need something.

You talk shit about poor people as if your parents and boyfriends didn’t pay for your car, your college, and (essentially) your lifestyle.

You only drink ridiculously overpriced glasses of wine that I can’t pronounce and don’t want to learn how to, and when you do, you tell stories mocking “friends” of yours who drink inferior wines and just don’t get the deliciousness of Chilean sea bass.

You are exceptionally skinny because of bulimia, anorexia, and/or a severe cocaine habit.

You’ve never once actually paid for your cocaine… well, with money anyway.

You fucked your professors in college.

Your boyfriend is a vapid meathead who longs for the days when the “coloreds and the women knew their place.” You think his behavior is just a case of men being men because you are a fucking idiot.

Your tits are fake. Nice, but fake nonetheless.

You got your job because you were bored with living off your men and, not only did the gig come with health insurance, but you also get a free plastic surgical procedure once a year.

You think I feel privileged to fuck you, but angst is all I feel. Well, maybe not quite all that I feel…

Your jokes were all on television or in a movie at one time. Your favorite book is a gossip magazine. You tried to make me drink peach fucking beer.

You’ve spent the night with a host of celebrities whose pictures you keep in your cell phone. None of those dudes remember you.

You spend $200 on your haircuts and you highlight your already bleached hair.

You decide what your friends will do for a night out, you turn every stupid moment into a drama-filled, me-first spectacle, and whenever anyone brings up an ex-boyfriend of yours in conversation, your first thought is to outline all the gifts you got out of said relationship. Oh, and you’ve gotten a shitload of gifts out of your relationships.

You. Got. Yours.

What you don’t have is a sense of decency, the realization that class isn’t something that you buy and the understanding that you are a boring whore.

People put up with you because you have money and an inside track on the finer things in life. But they all hate you.

You don’t respect your fellow humans, you don’t know what love is, and you’ve never seen the inside of a homeless shelter. Your life is purchased (mainly by others), your opinions are reiterations of talk shows, and you only think you know how to think.

And whenever you leave one of your jam-packed clubs, sweat sticking your designer shirt to your saline implants, a cigarette hanging from your collagen lips, the strobe lights lighting up your hair extensions, and your color-contact-filled eyes red from smoke, one woman invariably turns to one of her friends and says something to the effect of, “That bitch would fuck a rhino for a chance to be on TV.”

You ma’am, are a fucking cunt.

And I pray to God that you don’t reproduce.

But I’ll settle for a blowjob.

Mainly because that way, I won’t have to listen to you talk.

Bitch.

Continue to “You Sir, Are a Douche” »


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