Dear Criminally Insane Fuck Muffins:

You don’t know how much it thrilled me to hear that yesterday, my sweet 85 year old grandmother was minding her own business, shopping at K-Mart, when you decided that she would be an acceptable target for your illegal activities. How much planning did it take for you to snatch a purse from an octogenarian? Five minutes? Ten? And to make it worse (in my opinion), you tricked her into opening it before you took it. All I have to say is this:

You fucking twat dollops. You sick, demented, preying-on-the-weak pieces of shit. I hope rabid porcupines butt-fuck you in a pool of rubbing alcohol. I hope spiders lay eggs on your tonsils. I hope you catch sickle cell anemia. I hope this is your third strike. I hope your eyelids get cut off, and you’re forced to watch reruns of “Elimidate” until your sockets bleed.

I suppose going out and getting a job is too much to ask, huh? Instead you decide that accosting an 85 year old woman, a woman who worked as a teacher for 40 years, a woman who isn’t rich by any standard except wisdom and kindness, is the easiest way to get paid. I hope your parents are proud of you both, if you haven’t already killed them for the insurance money. You laid in wait until my grandma walked out of the store, and one of you asked her to use her cell phone. She told you the truth – it wasn’t charged. But you pressed the lie further by claiming it was an emergency, so she reached into her purse to maybe see if she could get it to turn on for a few minutes. And in that moment of vulnerability, you ripped her purse from her shoulder, jumped into the waiting car driven by Syphilis Chick #2, and said “Drive!”, and you sped away with her money, her credit cards, her pictures, her cell phone, and her faith in humanity.

The only thing I’m grateful for is that you were smart enough to not injure her. That would’ve been a very, very bad move on your part. I’m 1,000 miles away from her, but I can cover that distance with the quickness, and you better know that. I know you know where she lives – you have her driver’s licence, too. But if you decide to pay her a visit, make sure your life insurance premiums are up to date, ’cause I’d hate for your funeral costs to be an additional burden on your poor family, who is already burdened enough with your mere existence.

I’m all about the fun and games and joking, but I’m as serious as fucking cancer right now. I passed “pissed” about 4 exits ago.

Disappear, ladies.

Vanish.

Crawl back under the baseboard you crawled out from, and never again let the sun shine on you.

I’m serious. Stay away from her.

I hope you die, slowly, painfully, and with no one around you.

And I hope no one remembers you were even alive.

With sincerity,

Dark Damian.

Fuck peace.

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