Listen up, you greasy fucking blob of expired mayonnaise. That poor cockatiel ain't perched on your shoulder; it's trapped in the gravitational pull of your triple-decker tit-sack. Your face looks like a cum-stained pizza that got fucked by a lawnmower, and those sweat-matted pubes you call hair? Smells like a dead raccoon's asshole after a three-day bender. The cage behind you isn't for the bird, you cum-guzzling ham planet; it's where they lock your fat ass up so you don't eat the drywall again. That shirt's screaming louder than your mom's regret the night she shat you out. Keep smiling, you crusty cum-rag; the bird's about to shit directly into your gaping maw, and honestly, it's the most protein you'll swallow that isn't deep-fried in lard.