Right off the go, I gotta be real honest here. I've been . . . umm . . . interested in child molestation (more specifically, victims handling their issues) since the first time I heard Korn's first CD, which was back in '94. I mean, 'Blind' kicked ass when it came out. That song (if not that whole CD) pretty much paved the way for more than a few bands you normally wouldn't have heard of, and for their success, God bless. But us true Korn fans know of a ditty entitled 'Daddy' where Jon starts weeping at the end in basic live misery, and once you heard it, you needed to hear it again, and again, and again just to feel its complexity, raunchiness, and ambiguous lyrics. So once you listened to it for the 40th time, only then did you truly sympathize, if not empathize, with Jon's cathartic lament, which if you don't know by now simply means to purge some demons within yourself by sorrowfully screaming . . . and scream we must, so here we go, mother fuckers . . .
It's a cliché to say, "I wouldn't wish it upon my worst enemy," and in this case, it's true. I wouldn't wish a female rape victim upon anyone. If it's happened to any guys out there more than three times, I want to send you money via Paypal with best regards, because they've entered my life three times now and I would rather suck exhaust from a tanker than open my abode to another fucking broad who's been touched by daddy, raped in the alley by two Mexicans, or woke up on the north side of your town with a limp and claimed she couldn't remember it all, yet next quarter the whole 2pac and Biggy quarrel finally interests her.
Whatever, bitch. Yea, yea, it's a goddamn shame you were so violated, but that doesn't mean I should have to pay taxes because you couldn't get proper medicine. At least 20,000 women are mistreated like this every month in the States, and a tenth of them have what most would call an epiphany and join the convent or some shit to make other's lives easier despite their misfortune, yet unfortunately the other 18,000 wacked-out broads decide to grab onto a pole and shovel vodka, pain killers, and cocaine into their bodies then expect those of us with a fucking brain to commiserate or sympathize every time they get all misty-eyed. Bitch, just because you didn't get a glimpse of the Second Coming while you were choking on your own tears doesn't mean Satan should spawn from your head once every two weeks.
It's always petty shit, too, when they freak out. It's always because they wanted to leave early, or because you were ignoring them, or she saw you talking to that girl, or you were this or you were that, blah-blah-blah. It all makes me envy the deaf. Bitch, fuck you.
Flip to dyke right now and save every other man on the planet the torture. If therapy, crying, failed suicide attempts, Paxil, Prozac, and Lexipro hasn't helped, then for the love of God, don't even pretend you can handle a relationship because you will fail on a massive level, and in the end once you've finally driven him completely crazy, you will still be to blame for it all because your mind is weak and completely useless at overcoming adversity, and additionally you better bet your fucking sweet ass there will be greater hardships in the fucking horizon.
Life ain't nowhere near done torturing you, baby, especially if you're still under the age of 30 and crying about that slit between your legs being manhandled like a chicken in a basement full of Mexicans. If I could, I would hate every bitch out there who decides to pawn off their childhood misfortunes on someone else. But then again, I wonder if I should even waste the effort of hating you misanthropists because you obviously already hate yourselves whilst living in your own hell, therefore, rather than death, I insist you keep living it. Just stop sharing it with the rest of us.
Of course, these rape victims I'm talking about surely want everyone to taste their pain, much like a fat fucking biker farting in the cab of your truck while it's raining outside, and despite you giving him a ride because he can't drive at the moment, he just doesn't give two shits and makes you smell his. Well isn't that just great how they all want to share their misery with the rest of us? Fuckwad, douche bags.
Mentally revert to the night before he treated your womb like a drive-in movie theatre and start acting right, you greedy, self-absorbed, dysfunctional whores. Yea, 'dysfunctional' is the operative word here since I can't remember a chick I've dated within the last ten years whose parent's house I've been over to for dinner. Wonder why. I guess daddy can break your hymen but not bread with me, eh?
C'mon, baby, be a team player---'Team' as in the human race, and save every man the torture of pretending to tolerate your lachrymose demeanor every time a scene comes up in a movie where a woman is in danger of a predator and we're right next to you trying to ignore the situation when we already know you've been treated like a boy scout at Neverland Ranch. In essence, you having been raped makes us feel uncomfortable with everyday situations, so stop being a burden. Stop being a fucking vulture.
Really. Save us by being a team player and just end it. Don't worry. After you kill yourself, I promise, once the dirt hits your coffin, there will be no resurrection and I'm betting that few would even pray for one. It's simply mind over matter . . . We don't mind that you don't matter, bitch.
DFS. That's what we in the strip club industry refer to is as . . . Daddy Fucker Syndrome. So sorry he fucked you, baby, but don't fuck me. Your misery can't save me even if you cloned it, squared it, and reproduced, because after you've been raped, you're really nothing more than a junkyard of uselessness with vocal cords and bad taste in music.