You have all the wit of a lascivious sea-slug in heat.
You have a face unfit for radio.
Entire branches of science have sprouted from the study of your alarming personal hygiene and weapon-grade body-odour.
Your conversational skills are slightly better than a day seminar on Latin grammar.
The very image of naive optimism is you, buying an engagement ring.
You're like the poster child for Roe v. Wade.
Sorry for interrupting, I was just wondering how much I owe you for curing my insomnia?
My mother told me to never speak ill of people. So, let me just say you are a marvellously articulate chimp.
You make a strong case for wars of attrition.
It's not that I find you boring. It's that you are.
My friend bet me I'd never find someone who looked like a pair of donkey testicles, dangled over a raging chemical fire, then doused in brine, scrambled in horse urine, and peppered with the sweepings from a rather large state fair. He owes me twenty bucks.
I'm so sorry about your acid accident.
Well, I think it's brave, going about in public with such a heinous birth defect like that.
Just think, when your dead, Michael Jackon will pay a fortune for your corpse!