Maledictions
Some copraphagic piece of humanity (who lacks a valid, two-parent birth certificate and is undoubtedly capable of conjugal feats of self-gratification that would defy the abilities of mere mortal assholes) has put a deep, eleven-inch scratch in the back bumper of my Prius.
There is no circle of Hell suitable. There is no jury that would convict. There is no fury like.
This was not there when I got home from grocery shopping last night. It must have happened in the parking lot outside my apartment yesterday evening. If this is next-door neighbor Princess Pea’s idea of getting revenge on the Socialist’s loud music, I swear she’ll get the crown she deserves.
Pardon me while I go out and murder something.