Weeb Slinger
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- Sep 4, 2019
Dear Ethan Ralph
It is customary to begin an intervention letter with a heartfelt declaration of love. I will not deviate from this tradition.
I very much doubt there is a single human being anywhere in the world who loves you. You have worked very hard to bring about this state of affairs and you should be very proud of your achievement. In the past, when you have been offered love, you have knowingly squandered it for pesos on the dollar. You have shamelessly exploited anyone who ever cared about you for selfish, short-term gain. The very second that your hair-trigger paranoia leads you to suspect a betrayal by one of your allies, you immediately unload on them with both barrels. The infernal landscape that is your social circle, is formed from the reeking, sulphurous ashes of the many bridges you have burned.
There exists within easy waddling distance, the potential for a mutual bond of unconditional love in the form of your daughter, Rozy. Many a man who was thought of as beyond redemption, and insensible to any civilising influence, has been guided along the path towards salvation by the tiny hand of their newborn child. Though it is not too late for a sea change of this kind to occur in your life, it seems unlikely that fatherhood will bring about any such positive transformation. You are an undeniable scaring and scarring presence in the life of your daughter - a genuine monster, too morbidly obese to fit underneath the bunk bed, hollerin' incoherently, slurring his speech and emitting noxious plumes of toxic gas from various bodily orifices in her presence. You are as indifferent to her safety and well-being as that other well-known, planet-sized gas giant – Jupiter – is to its orbiting moons.
Another common characteristic of an intervention letter is the inclusion of a positive memory of better times, that might act as a beacon, guiding a person who has gone astray back towards some earlier, better version of themselves. I would wager that, in your present fucked-up state, you can no longer recall a single instance when you weren't an utter piece of shit. I can't think of any either. I am sober.
At present, you are deeply addicted to alcohol. You are dependant on pharmaceutical drugs. You smoke weed to excess and may also partake in other street drugs. If the rumors are true, and you are tapping into the franchised Aladdin's Cave that is the Mexican pharmacy network, then you may well be addicted to compounds that are yet to be named by science.
These addictions have impacted negatively upon your life. Your tendency towards oversharing sensitive information, the passwords to your online accounts, your tastes in pornography, and the dimensions of your truncated penis, makes a former women's studies major, who is editorialising her poor life choices through the portal of a minor online media platform, appear like a model of Amish restraint by comparison. In Portugal, the customary manner of disguising yourself as a panda would be to either engage the services of a licenced and bonded face painter, or to avail yourself of the nearest fancy dress shop or fur-suit maker. Very few people opt for a savage alley beating and permanent head injury to achieve this look. It may astonish you to learn that some people go through their entire lives without telling strangers who have inconvenienced them to suck their dick. Very few people will ever be thrown off a flight, and be forced to purchase new tickets while also losing their hand luggage in the process. Your sporadic threats to commit suicide, when you are called out on your behaviour, might carry more weight if you weren't already killing yourself in bullet time.
Even Stevie Wonder can see that any goodness in you is a mirage, seething in the feculent heat haze of your personal miasma. Any intervention that has a hope of succeeding must appeal to the asshole that is the totality of your character.
It is with this thought in mind that I ask you to think of your mannish korephile wife, who you married out of spite in Vegas, in the sight of an Elvis impersonator. Think also of your neglected daughter, who, for the want of an age-appropriate car seat, seems fated to be propelled through the windshield of your year-old, but already broken-down, 4WD, like daddy's little aeroplane.
Now, more than ever, these two women are dependant upon that dribble of income that you haven't allowed to slip through your fingers like warm, diabetic piss, enriching casinos, drug dealers, whores, and outlet malls trading in cheap designer goods. It is within the hands of our children that we place our legacy. It is through them that we achieve a semblance of immortality. Don't you want to remain in your daughter's life long enough for the seeds of your reprehensible and abusive personality to take root? Why settle for Rozy remembering you as an off the peg piece of shit, when she can remember you as the biggest piece of shit ever to be hoisted through the roof of a rented property by the Mexican fire brigade.
More important than any of that, think of the fathers of the two women who have given birth to your children. If you are absent then who will bombard then with drunken online threats? Who will shower ancillary female members of their families with unsavoury sexual slurs, if not you? On the subject of the distaff side of the population, have you given any thought at all to those women who you have yet to publicly label as whores for spurious reasons, and whose reputations may go unsullied without you?
Think of the damage that your premature death (most likely on livestream, on the tail-end of a drawn-out shart) will do to your reputation. I can't conceive of anything less dignified than being outlived by Jim – a man who is dying from literal cancer aids – a man who traded the name his daddy gave him for the love of a feral Korean woman, and a house constructed from anime DVD box sets.
In the past you have claimed that you will live to see Joshua Moon in jail. Who will seed the Internet with false accusations against him, if you are not around to do so? I have personally witnessed Moon taking positive, well-rationalised steps towards improving both his personal well-being and the well-being of the online world. He lacks the low self-esteem to destroy himself without your assistance.
Think of the sektur. Who will manage it after you are gone? Beardson? Some other cat-eared twink from the harem of Nick Fuentes?Who will uphold the legacy of your blue checkmark on Twitter?
Do not fool yourself into thinking that there are no new worlds left to conquer. There are bowling trophies yet to be purchased, and then awarded to yourself after everybody else has gone home. There are wrestling belts to be commissioned at great expense, abandoned in the hands of your enemies and then destroyed. There are acres of denim, stretching to the horizon and beyond, that are waiting to be sharted on.
Both figuratively and literally, the world is an objectively shittier place with you in it.
It is customary to begin an intervention letter with a heartfelt declaration of love. I will not deviate from this tradition.
I very much doubt there is a single human being anywhere in the world who loves you. You have worked very hard to bring about this state of affairs and you should be very proud of your achievement. In the past, when you have been offered love, you have knowingly squandered it for pesos on the dollar. You have shamelessly exploited anyone who ever cared about you for selfish, short-term gain. The very second that your hair-trigger paranoia leads you to suspect a betrayal by one of your allies, you immediately unload on them with both barrels. The infernal landscape that is your social circle, is formed from the reeking, sulphurous ashes of the many bridges you have burned.
There exists within easy waddling distance, the potential for a mutual bond of unconditional love in the form of your daughter, Rozy. Many a man who was thought of as beyond redemption, and insensible to any civilising influence, has been guided along the path towards salvation by the tiny hand of their newborn child. Though it is not too late for a sea change of this kind to occur in your life, it seems unlikely that fatherhood will bring about any such positive transformation. You are an undeniable scaring and scarring presence in the life of your daughter - a genuine monster, too morbidly obese to fit underneath the bunk bed, hollerin' incoherently, slurring his speech and emitting noxious plumes of toxic gas from various bodily orifices in her presence. You are as indifferent to her safety and well-being as that other well-known, planet-sized gas giant – Jupiter – is to its orbiting moons.
Another common characteristic of an intervention letter is the inclusion of a positive memory of better times, that might act as a beacon, guiding a person who has gone astray back towards some earlier, better version of themselves. I would wager that, in your present fucked-up state, you can no longer recall a single instance when you weren't an utter piece of shit. I can't think of any either. I am sober.
At present, you are deeply addicted to alcohol. You are dependant on pharmaceutical drugs. You smoke weed to excess and may also partake in other street drugs. If the rumors are true, and you are tapping into the franchised Aladdin's Cave that is the Mexican pharmacy network, then you may well be addicted to compounds that are yet to be named by science.
These addictions have impacted negatively upon your life. Your tendency towards oversharing sensitive information, the passwords to your online accounts, your tastes in pornography, and the dimensions of your truncated penis, makes a former women's studies major, who is editorialising her poor life choices through the portal of a minor online media platform, appear like a model of Amish restraint by comparison. In Portugal, the customary manner of disguising yourself as a panda would be to either engage the services of a licenced and bonded face painter, or to avail yourself of the nearest fancy dress shop or fur-suit maker. Very few people opt for a savage alley beating and permanent head injury to achieve this look. It may astonish you to learn that some people go through their entire lives without telling strangers who have inconvenienced them to suck their dick. Very few people will ever be thrown off a flight, and be forced to purchase new tickets while also losing their hand luggage in the process. Your sporadic threats to commit suicide, when you are called out on your behaviour, might carry more weight if you weren't already killing yourself in bullet time.
Even Stevie Wonder can see that any goodness in you is a mirage, seething in the feculent heat haze of your personal miasma. Any intervention that has a hope of succeeding must appeal to the asshole that is the totality of your character.
It is with this thought in mind that I ask you to think of your mannish korephile wife, who you married out of spite in Vegas, in the sight of an Elvis impersonator. Think also of your neglected daughter, who, for the want of an age-appropriate car seat, seems fated to be propelled through the windshield of your year-old, but already broken-down, 4WD, like daddy's little aeroplane.
Now, more than ever, these two women are dependant upon that dribble of income that you haven't allowed to slip through your fingers like warm, diabetic piss, enriching casinos, drug dealers, whores, and outlet malls trading in cheap designer goods. It is within the hands of our children that we place our legacy. It is through them that we achieve a semblance of immortality. Don't you want to remain in your daughter's life long enough for the seeds of your reprehensible and abusive personality to take root? Why settle for Rozy remembering you as an off the peg piece of shit, when she can remember you as the biggest piece of shit ever to be hoisted through the roof of a rented property by the Mexican fire brigade.
More important than any of that, think of the fathers of the two women who have given birth to your children. If you are absent then who will bombard then with drunken online threats? Who will shower ancillary female members of their families with unsavoury sexual slurs, if not you? On the subject of the distaff side of the population, have you given any thought at all to those women who you have yet to publicly label as whores for spurious reasons, and whose reputations may go unsullied without you?
Think of the damage that your premature death (most likely on livestream, on the tail-end of a drawn-out shart) will do to your reputation. I can't conceive of anything less dignified than being outlived by Jim – a man who is dying from literal cancer aids – a man who traded the name his daddy gave him for the love of a feral Korean woman, and a house constructed from anime DVD box sets.
In the past you have claimed that you will live to see Joshua Moon in jail. Who will seed the Internet with false accusations against him, if you are not around to do so? I have personally witnessed Moon taking positive, well-rationalised steps towards improving both his personal well-being and the well-being of the online world. He lacks the low self-esteem to destroy himself without your assistance.
Think of the sektur. Who will manage it after you are gone? Beardson? Some other cat-eared twink from the harem of Nick Fuentes?
Do not fool yourself into thinking that there are no new worlds left to conquer. There are bowling trophies yet to be purchased, and then awarded to yourself after everybody else has gone home. There are wrestling belts to be commissioned at great expense, abandoned in the hands of your enemies and then destroyed. There are acres of denim, stretching to the horizon and beyond, that are waiting to be sharted on.
Both figuratively and literally, the world is an objectively shittier place with you in it.
