“You are so clueless that if you dressed in a clue skin,
doused yourself in clue musk, and did the clue dance in the middle of a field
of horny clues at the height of clue mating season, you still would not have a
clue.”
I have a bunch of
un-used insults that I’ve written over the years intending to sprinkle them
into future posts on this site, but the intended recipient of these insults is
now “in a better place”. While I know other people – coincidentally blood
relatives of the originally intended recipient – I now no longer have to
correspond or relate to them. In fact, just this morning I deleted two
voicemails from DOBs nursing home to ask me to call them about her. This, despite
the fact that I have, not less than four times, asked them to remove my phone
number from their call list, relinquished all responsibility for her care, and
shredded her advance directive and prepaid cremation agreement.
So, I now offer these
insults to pay it forward to anybody who might have a use for them, and who
might enjoy mixing metaphors as much as I enjoy mixing vodka martinis.
You have the imagination of a tree stump; the table manners
of a hungry sewer rat; the initiative of a broken toaster; the conversational
skills of a drunken hobo with the DTs and a bad genital rash; the intellectual
acuity of Albert Einstein (who died in 1955); the reaction time of a walnut in
a drug-induced coma, the caring nature of a sociopath with an AK47, a meth
hangover and a bad concussion; and the fashion sense of Disco Stu.
The extent of your situational awareness can be measured in
nanometers. And speaking in metric, you are about one kilo short of a
kilometer. You are several iambs short of a pentameter. On a good day you have
the morals of Charlie Manson on a bad day. You have the fine motor skills of a
small puppy; the haircut of a pineapple; and the personal hygiene practices of
a toothless 95-year old morbidly obese diabetic dementia patient (too soon?). You’re
such a micro-dick that you were apparently infected by a blanket contaminated
by smallcocks virus.
You wouldn’t think of helping yourself any more than a
badger would think of taking CPR classes. You wouldn’t think of helping anybody
else any more than a suitcase that fell out of an airplane would think of
dating a sea horse.
You have the energy of a dormant undersea volcano, the human
compassion of a drug store pharmacist stealing prescription painkillers from
uninsured chemo patients, the hypocrisy of a pope who apologizes to victims of
clerical pedophilia within weeks of conferring sainthood on one of his
predecessors who knowingly did nothing when these crimes were perpetrated on
his watch, around the world, over several generations - thereby breaking the
golden rule, among several other laws of god and man.
You, at least, wouldn’t do unto others much of anything
because you’re lazier than the hair stuck in a hairbrush, more oblivious than a
dust ball behind a broken piano, and weaker than scotch tape used once already
to patch a flannel blanket. Your energy level is so low that it sucks in
surrounding energy like a black hole. You suck the air out of despair. You have
the initiative and motivation of a rusting 1970 era car with no battery and a
skeleton locked in the trunk. (I know I already insulted your lack of
initiative, but it’s a bit of a sore point with me.) You wouldn’t put off until
tomorrow what you could put off until the day after that; and you won’t get
around to doing that until late next week after you complete the first item on
your 1987 to-do list.
You have the patience of a rabid dog from Lyme Connecticut
who is several months behind in his flea and tick treatments; and the
stick-to-itiveness of a tube of Krazy Glue that has been left open since Bill
Clinton was President. You have the leadership skills of a pile of leaves being
raked into a hefty bag by a marsupial without opposable thumbs. You have the
ability to change the world only slightly less effective than my ability to
shoot invisible death rays from my eyes into the brains of stupid people.
If wishes were horses, you’d be Genghis Kahn rampaging
across the steppes with a horde of wild horses. Sadly, wishes aren’t; and your
rampaging these days is about as proactive as a piece of yellow crime scene
tape would be in stopping a lava flow.
If you had a conversation with the most interesting man in
the world, the conversation would be of average interest.
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