Holy fuck, you walking cum-dumpster avalanche of cottage-cheese cellulite. That poor fucking cockatiel isn’t perched on your shoulder; it’s stuck in the goddamn event horizon of your sagging tit-flaps, praying for death. Your face looks like a prolapsed asshole that got gangbanged by a cheese grater and then jizzed on by a septic tank. Those greasy, sweat-crusted cockroach-nest curls? Reek worse than a gloryhole floor at a truck-stop shit-house after dollar-beer night. The cage in the back ain’t for the bird, you crusty cunt-waffle; it’s the reinforced titanium pen they chain your whale-ass into so you don’t devour the fucking furniture like a goddamn wood-chipper on meth. That shirt’s stretched tighter than your mom’s gaping snatch the night she squirted your worthless ass out. Keep grinning, you pimple-cratered cum-bubble; when that bird shits straight down your throat, it’ll be the first solid protein you’ve swallowed that wasn’t deep-fried in rancid donkey spunk.