Fer F*cks Sake Bud
Listen here, ya absolute weapon of mediocrity. Fer fuck’s sake, bud, I swear if brains were poutine, yours would be a cold, soggy mess drowned in too much fuckin’ gravy. You’re out here chirpin’ like you got the IQ of a Tim Hortons double-double, but let’s be real—you couldn’t outthink a bag of milk. Hoser? That’s too generous. You’re more like the puddle of slush that soaks through a guy’s work boots in February. Take off, will ya? Go back to whatever corner of the bush you crawled outta and rethink your life choices, ‘cause right now, you’re about as useful as a snowblower in July.
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