Look at you. Just—look at you. You are, without exaggeration, the most pitiful little wet mound of fungal failure I have ever seen. You're not a man. You're not even a character. You're a—you're a collection of smells and stains and shame glued together by delusion!

You think putting on a wig and throwing out words like "gosh" and "triggered" makes you interesting? Based? No! It makes you deeply unpleasant to be around. You're a walking, leaking question mark!

You have no talent. Zero. Less than zero. You are the talent void. You walk into a room and suck ability out of everyone in it. My IQ drops when you speak!

You’re ugly in a way that’s offensive to me. There is no angle—no light—no miracle of nature that could fix what’s happening on that… melted-candle of a face.

And worst of all? You think you’re winning. You think you're clever. You sit there farting into that chair like you've tricked the world. But nobody is fooled, man. We all see you. We see you sweating under the wig. We hear you whispering your made-up catchphrases in the dark. We smelly your shit-covered butt plug. You’re not a mystery. You’re just... sad.

So here’s what’s gonna happen, pal: You’re gonna sit there. Quiet. Soaked in your own illusion. And I’m gonna go be radiant in front of real people, people with functioning egos and clean sex toys.

You’re not a character. You’re nothing.