From: randy@rss.dl.nec.com (Randy Bullard)
Subject: Insults!!!
Followup-To: talk.bizarre
Organization: NEC America
Date: Fri, 10 Apr 1992 20:09:03 GMT

For a couple of weeks now me and a co-worker have been sending back and
forth insults at each other in the mail.  We've been attempting to outdo
one another in disgusting, perverse attempts at humor.  For some reason
I began saving the morsels in a file and I finally realized why.... 
disgusting perverse attempts at humor... perfect for talk.bizarre.

BTW, many of these are quite disgusting.  If you don't like foul 
language and utterly filthy tasteless humor, you may not want to
read on.  (if this doesn't whet your appetite you eat too much white
bread)  Otherwise, enjoy!









	When I look at you, my eyes fill with pus.

	When I breath your foul air, my lungs fill with fluid.

	The very thought of you makes me cough up black bile.

	You make me want to pour jet fuel on my toes and light them.

	When I think of you, I flatulate uncotrollably.

	I would rather suck the fart out of the ass of a week-old bloated
	corpse than look at you.

	I would gnaw the genital warts off of Dom Delouis before I would
	fuck your mother.

	I would rather have Roseanne Barr sit on my face and force vaginal
	farts down my throat than admit I know you.

	I would rather take a curdled buttermilk enema than gaze upon your
	ghastly image.

	I'd rather drink your expelled, curdled buttermilk enema than see
	you up close.

	When I think of you, my bowels turn to water.

	You make me want to guzzle napalm and light my greasy farts.

	I would gnaw the umbilical cord from a new mother before I would
	break bread with the likes of you.

	Eating afterbirth is preferable to sharing your lunch.

	I would prod myself with a Rough Rider Studded Butt Plug (TM) before
	I would look at you.

	Why don't you go suck on a blood-stained tampon?

	I would rather eat the nasal secretions of a warthog than have
	lunch with you.

	I would rather pierce my body with a chicken bone than eat lunch
	with you.

	/* 'duck butter' is the smelly, smeared remains of a premature
	 * wipe from a really greasy shit.
	 */

	I would rather eat a duck butter sandwich than have a meal with you.

	I would eat smegma on crackers rather than dine with you.

	I would rather pierce my eyes with piano wire than look at you.

	Your ugliness make me want to set fire to my hair and
	sing "Yankee Doodle".

	The thought of smelling your foul breath makes me want
	to eat my own feces.

	You remind me of a dirty, flapping sphincter, throwing fecal
	matter and billowing attendant gases.

	Oh the dread and horror I feel before I have to come into the
	office and look upon your ghoulish face...  I would rather ride
	across a mile of city tities on a seatless unicycle.

	I would rather have my brains pulled out through my nose with
	a fish hook than have to debug your hacked-up, unreadable,
	core-dumping code.

	I'd rather have my eyes pinched out with an ice hook than ask
	you for advice.

	You know, sometimes I can just be sitting there having the most
	pleasant time, having a nice conversation or enjoying a nice
	meal..... and then I'll kind of start day dreaming and your
	vile visage will enter my mind and immediately I'll retch all
	over myself.  It's rather unpleasant.

	Speaking of vomit, I would rather eat the still-warm, reguritated
	contents of a Saint Bernard's stomach than look at you.

	I would rather get fucked in the ass by Rambo with a splintered
	two-by-four than gaze upon your sickly figure.

	I'd rather have dragons embroidered on my nipples than watch
	you get fucked in the ass by Rambo with a splintered two-by-four.

	I'd rather jack-off with a barbwire glove than admit that I know you.

	/* Observer is a local weekly newspaper */

	Just a minute ago I picked up this Observer, having forgotten that
	you'd already handled it.  Immediately boils swelled on both of my
	hands and burst, spattering a rancid smelling, orange, viscuous
	substance all over my cube.

	Actually, those rancid smelling, orange, viscuous boils are caused
	by you pulling your pud too much.  You know, slam your ham, beat
	your meat, lube your tube, jerkin' the gherkin, choke the chicken, 
	tossing off, rubbin' the nubbin (ask your wife), spank the monkey, etc.
	Next time, collect that substance and use it for greasin' her up.
	It burns so good.

	By the way, your face reminds me of some roadkill I cleaned off my car.

	Oh yeah?  I'd rather have my love rocket painted to look like
	a carrot and have it chomped on by a hungry mule than sit in
	the stall next to you.

	I'd rather take a Ronco Spiral Slicer Dicer and spiral-cut my dick
	than talk to you.

	I'd rather run my feet through a meet grinder and run a marathon
	than go sign the Perot petition with you.

	I would rather eat my own testicles with a melon baller than
	utter your name.

	I'd rather take a hole-punch to my scotum than send you mail.

	I would rather have my teeth cut out with a buzz saw and embedded
	in my living flesh than talk to you.

	/* And the piece de resistance... */

	I would rather eat the unstrained bloody remains of Roseanne
	Barr's menstrual cycle than look at you.

	I am totally nonplussed.  I am completely bereft of any response. 
	You must really hate me.  *Knowing* she hasn't douched in over
	30 years!



-- 
- Randy Bullard 

| Have you ever rubbed your thigh with number 10 sandpaper and     |
| poured Red Devil turpentine on it?  I hate it when that happens. |
Newsgroups: talk.bizarre,talk.abortion