Afternoon Delight

Octomom, Please Octodie

November 01, 2012

Multiple Pages
Octomom, Please Octodie

Nadya Suleman, you are everything that is wrong with the world at the moment.

The question isn’t what’s wrong with you—that’s obvious. Everything is wrong with you. The real question: Is there anything right with you?

You are a repellent, repugnant, loathsome, attention-seeking piece of rotted flesh wrapped around a black hole that sucks the goodness out of everything in its vicinity.

“Nadya Suleman, you are everything that is wrong with the world at the moment.”

Whether it was flaunting your C-section scars for the camera at a celebrity boxing match…sticking your bloated, cosmetically mangled bottom-feeding catfish face in front of every paparazzo willing to snap a picture of it…going on talk shows to seek counseling for your “compulsive hoarding disorder”…declaring bankruptcy after running up a million-dollar debt…then going on welfare…then bragging that you were off welfare because you were finally self-sufficient as a result of doing porn…has revealed you to be a lower life form than even the humble, often good-natured amoeba.

Now—to the same sort of garish public fanfare that accompanies all of your disgusting behavior, you have entered rehab for alleged addiction to Xanax, a pill designed especially to numb the rudimentary brains of weak-willed people who can’t handle life.

Yes, leave your 14 children…all fourteen of them..did we mention there are fourteen of them?...behind while you go and deal with your precious anxiety.

We feel bad for your kids, but then again, maybe not, knowing that they’re at least partially made of you. The fourteen baby octopi that once occupied your womb apparently stretched it out so badly that it has left a giant gaping hole inside you, one that you constantly seek to fill with attention.

Oh, you have “anxiety.” We wish you actually did—the kind of anxiety that sentient, mature beings experience when they’re enduring the sort of hardship and suffering that wasn’t entirely of their own making. We wish you all that, plus more anxiety as a form of lifetime punitive damages. If there is indeed an afterlife, we cast you into the bottom of the lake of fire, where the worm dieth not and the fire is not quenched, and worst of all, where you’re so deep in the abyss that you receive zero attention from anyone, not even Satan.

We wish pain, suffering, and, yes, a slow and grinding death upon you in every possible way that it is legal for us to wish such things upon you. We will take it right up to the line between legal and illegal, but not an inch less. Is it legal to wish someone would kill you? Perhaps it’s at least legal to imply that inside our hearts, we wish someone would kill you, so long as we don’t come right out and say we wish someone would kill you. If that’s legal, then yes, we’re implying we wish that would happen.

There is no “war on women.” Women, at least in the West, have it better than they’ve had it at any point in world history. But let’s have a war on your type of woman. Let’s have a scorched-earth policy on your sort of ghastly retarded Medusa so that it never dares rear its ugly head with its puffy cheeks, dopey eyes, and bloated lips again.

 

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