Kim Jong-Un, you little pig-faced bitch-ass shit-sucking pussy
cunt cocksucker, The Interview was
only a cover created to distract you from the real plot. At night, some night
soon, you will wake up in your own bed, stripped down to your pink leopard
thong, suffocating from your tiny little testicles stuffed in your mouth.
You will try to spit them out, but you won’t be able to because a large hand
will be clamped over your lips, a hand that has just wiped diarrhea from your
wife’s tight little asshole. You will both have salmonella because a few days earlier
someone will have unplugged your freezer and plugged it back in before
anyone noticed, but not before everything inside got warm. Why'd you think that bag of frozen peas was one big chunk, dumbass?
At first, as you wriggle in your bed, mouth full of scrotum, you will try, and
succeed, to breathe through your nostrils, as the diarrhea runs down your fat
little chin. But not for long. Several horny transients will finish themselves
off all over your face, clogging your nostrils with their semen, and you will
gag, and choke, until you lie in your bed limp, naked but for the pink thong. Your
little corpse will be embalmed with a chemical created just for you so you’ll
never rot, and then displayed in an art class created just for you where every
day people can draw whatever they want all over your puny, pathetic, weak,
little pudgy body, or pose in front of that nasty little corpse with costumes
(you know, like that silly little army outfit you dress up in that makes you
look like a little autistic boy obsessed with military history). Or for a small
fee (don’t worry, all proceeds go straight to Seth Rogen) they can pull back
the pink thong, and give your itty-bitty little limp penis a flick.
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