I don’t say it enough. Fuck you, Donny; you’re a monkey’s cunt-hair and when that big, greasy heart of yours goes, I’ll whistle Dixie.
Fuck your demented blabbering and your 200-word vocabulary and your mouth that reminds me of a dead dog’s asshole.
Fuck your hobbled conscience–if it ever learned to walk in the first place–and your pathetic need for your father’s love.
Fuck your thin, orange skin.
Fuck your racism and all your little toads who just ask questions–But how exactly is he racist?–and your winks and whistles.
Fuck you for not reading. Do you even have a favorite band, you soulless cocksucker?
Fuck you for your incompetence. Shit, Dubya was a dunce, but he managed to fuck the world up real good; you can’t even do that.
Fuck you for making me nostalgic for Dubya.
Fuck your blithe know-nothingism, your historical glissandi, your “you’ll see in two weeks” bullshit.
Fuck you for thinking we’re stupid enough to ever believe you.
Fuck you for sitting your fat ass where Teddy Roosevelt wrote and thought and led.
Fuck your golf clubs, and fuck golf in general.
Fuck you on behalf of the Mexicans, the manatees, the homosexuals, and the hurricanes. And Harriet Tubman; fuck you on behalf of Harriet Tubman, Donny. And the Christ, too, for tho He is surely infinite and therefore you are of the Christ, if the Christ is infinite, then He must also be a complete asshole in need of a stomping.
Fuck you for embarrassing me, you ape made of shit.
Fuck you for embarrassing America, whom you do not love, just use as a whore.
Fuck you, Donny.
And God fuck us all, everyone.