What the fuck did you just fucking say about me, you skinny bitch? I’ll have you know I graduated top of my class in Competitive Consumption University, I’ve been involved in numerous secret raids on the dumpsters behind every major fast food outlet in a ten mile radius, and I’ve gained over 600 confirmed pounds. I am trained in eating delicious animals, and I’m the top gainer in the entire US. You are nothing to me but just another meal. I will eat you the fuck up with gusto the likes of which has never been seen before on this Earth, mark my fucking words. You think you can get away with saying that shit to me over the Internet? Think again, twiggy. As we speak I am contacting my secret network of FA bloggers across the USA and your address is being traced right now so you better prepare for the eatening, bones. The meal that digests the pathetic little thing you call your body. You’re fucking emaciated, kid. I can ride my scooter anywhere, anytime, and I can consume you in over seven hundred ways, and that’s just with my mouth. Not only am I extensively trained in eating with my bare hands, but I have access to the entire Paula Deen recipe book collection and I will use it to its full extent to make your ass taste like butter-basted lard, you little shit. If only you could have known how hungry I was, maybe you would have held your fucking tongue. But you couldn’t, you didn’t, and now you’re paying the price, you goddamned snack. I will eat you all up, then shit you out, and then eat you all up again. You’re fucking food, kiddo.