Fuck You Ben

Fuck you Ben and your jerk-off facial hair. Ben, you are not a magazine that I would ever subscribe to. In fact I wouldn't even browse you at the book store. I would consider using you to potty train my dog but I would be wary that it might catch what ever douche virus you are carrying. You are a 23 story building of suck with broken elevators and a sock puppet full of curdled milk and rotten egg plant as a doorman. If you were a superhero you’re power would be making things awkward. If you were a supervillian, your power would be raping rainbows and drowning cats. You are the first sober person I’ve ever seen throw a beer pong ball underhand like a horseshoe. People that drink until they have Down Syndrome can understand beer pong but for some reason you can’t. Trying to impress your partner by telling her you’re a waiter for some ass-fuck of a restaurant may get you to first base but it’s just because she looks like a doll from a Japanese horror film and no one else will touch her anyway. Do you know what other sanitary wipe was named Ben? That’s right, Benedict Arnold. And he was a damn traitor. Just like you. And he’s probably the type to take the shit I say seriously, even though I’m so drunk that I can urinate out of my ears. Dear Ben, you are the worst kind of person ever. You probably buy your Grandmom men's shoes for Christmas just so you can borrow them knowing damn well you won't give them back. You are the type of guy that likes to get spermed up in the mouth. And the worst part is that you're not gay. You're all about the sperm. P.S. Ben. Go fuck yourself.