>>938549894
Beedrill?! That’s the best you fuckin’ got, Troy? You sittin’ there in your sister’s garage, drunk off your ass, and the big insult you come up with is a goddamn faggoty Pokémon?

Listen to me, you fuckin’ fat animal: Parker ain’t worried about no cartoon bug. He’s out there ridin’ his scooter, livin’ free, while you’re sittin’ in a pile of Hot Pocket wrappers, high as giraffe pussy, thinkin’ you just dropped a nuclear roast. You didn’t drop shit, cocksucker — you just embarrassed yourself in front of the internet… AGAIN.

‘Beedrill.’ Holy fuck. That’s the level you’re operating at. No wonder your sister looks at you like you’re the world’s saddest science experiment. You’re sittin’ there makin’ bug jokes while she’s workin’ her ass off to feed your chickens and your fat pedo ass.

Let me tell you somethin’, Troy — Beedrill don’t sting as bad as reality, cocksucker. And the reality is, you’re a broke, sister-moochin’, AI-child-postin’ degenerate who couldn’t sting a mosquito if it landed on his dick. Shut your fuckin’ mouth with that Pokémon shit before I smack you with a Game Boy Color.

Bro, one time I’m on Craigslist—yeah, back when Craigslist was still the Wild West—and I see this ad from some horny old broad who says she wants a night of passion. I’m thinking, ‘Alright, Uncle Joey will bring the magic wand, a little blow, and we’ll make a night out of it.’

So I get there—bro—it’s J-Tard’s mother. I almost turned around, but I’m already in too deep, I got two grams in my pocket and a half bottle of Tito’s. I figure, fuck it, Joey’s not a quitter.

She’s on the bed, legs open… bro… it’s the biggest monkey I’ve ever seen in my life. It looked like somebody dropped a fire hydrant in a barbershop. The smell? It was death, pure death. My Cuban egg roll took one whiff and said, ‘Not today, cocksucker.’ So I go, you know what, we’re going in fist first like I’m punching out a prizefighter. I’m telling you, I barely touched the sides, it was like throwing a hotdog down the Lincoln Tunnel.

And then—then—this fucking maniac J-Tard comes rolling in on his Herman Miller chair like a NASCAR pit stop, asking where his shota dolls are. Next thing I know, he’s having some autism fit, spinning around like a fucking dreidel on crack. The phimosis goop starts flying like we’re at a Gallagher show. His butt plug shoots out like a mortar, smashes the window. Now there’s glass everywhere, the smell of death, and I’m fist deep in the mother of the year.

I just walked out, bro. Didn’t even zip up. Left the blow on the dresser. I knew that house was cursed.

Listen here, you cocksuckas — the other night I got so high I could smell the 80s. Two stars of death, little reefer, and my buddy says, ‘We’re watchin’ Rocky Horror Picture Show.’

Within five minutes I knew I’d been tricked. This movie sucks harder than a crackhead with rent due. The plot’s got more holes than the Holland Tunnel, the songs sound like they were written on a bar napkin by a retardrd guy with syphilis, and the sets look like they were built by a blind carpenter on a coke bender.

Every schmuck in the theater’s singin’ along, throwin’ rice, actin’ like they’re part of some sacred ritual. Meanwhile I’m sittin’ there thinkin’, ‘This ain’t a movie — it’s a fuckin’ county fair freak show with worse lighting.’

Then you got these pretentious little herpes sores goin’, ‘Bro, you don’t get it, it’s supposed to be bad!’ Oh yeah? That’s your defense? Next time I take a wet diarrhea dump on the floor, I’m gonna say, ‘Relax, bro. Breathe it in. It’s supposed to smell bad!’

The only thing keeping this thing from being a full-on war crime is Tim Curry — that’s it. The man’s struttin’ around in heels like he owns the building, absolutely buried everyone else. And Susan Sarandon’s tits — holy Mary Mother of God. I’m talkin’ Pulitzer Prize-winning tits. You could project the fuckin’ movie onto them and it would be a better film. Every scene without them is just torture with glitter sprinkled on top.

Everything else? Shoot it into the sun. Grind the negatives into powder and snort it just so you can shit it out and flush it away.

Final score? Two stars. Tim Curry’s one, Susan Sarandon’s glorious tits are the other. The rest of it? It’s like gettin’ herpes from a carnival — yeah, it’s memorable, but you’ll wish it never fuckin’ happened.