You SIR, have the hygeine of an overly ripe avocado and the speaking habits of a vaguely deranged chess set. I find your manner to be unctuous and possibly libelous, and whatever standard you set for orthodontal care, it's not one I care for. Your choice in news programs is semi-literate at best and I do believe your favourite news anchor writes erotic literature for university mascots. While I'm not one to point out so obvious a failing, there has been rumour that the brunches you host every other Sunday are made with too much lard and cilantro. If you get my meaning. There is something to be said about your choice of motor-car fuel, but it is not urbane and if I were to repeat it, mothers would cover their children's ears and perhaps not a few longshoremen within earshot would blush.
How you maintain that rather obscene crease in your trousers and your socks is beyond me, perhaps its also during this time that you cultivate a skin regime that I'm sure requires the death of not a few dung beetles and a charmingly morose flamingo. But at least a flamingo has knees, and not just a continuation of the most unsightly part of one's ankle all the way up to those frighteningly child-bearing hips you happen to have.
Your favourite French translator has a unhealthy fascination with crankshafts and your favourite novelist was last seen doing something trite, shallow, and vastly popular.
I don't think I speak out of turn when I mention your gait reminds me of a palsied giraffe in his death throes being beaten about by a troop of erotically charged baboons.
You remind me of a stork with a lacerated colon. If you don't mind me saying your face has the repugnant sensibilities of one who, quite mistakenly, stopped short of suicide at a young age and, to the consternation of all that is just in the world, failed to fall to childhood consumption as well. Your rather oddly proportioned body reminds me of a humourously crafted sausage that has since gone stale and is only kept on as a curiousity at the local pawn shop. And though it pains me to point out, your ears have all the charm of a wayward pigeon masticated by a gaggle of ravenous seabirds. I imagine it takes a rather shocking amount of fortitude, ignorance or bravery to look in the mirror every morning.
I'm sure your credit is quite fine, something steady and respectable only earned by a man of no taste, little imagination, and a family pedigree about as long as my cuticle. Which I suppose counteracts your preference in short, stout women whose resemblance to sheared horrifically disfigured farm animals is more than passing, and have all the intelligence of an out-of-season pinecone. And not to put too fine a point of it, old chum, but your consistent choice in conversation topics has made me consider avoiding you altogether and say, chatting up a rather long insurance quote for a 17th century shipyard.
Has it been very long that a family of schizophrenic racoons have burrowed up your nose and eaten all that is left of your brain? Are you just running that thick and dimmed skull of yours on racoon droppings and a displaced sense of duty to keep up appearances; because if you must know, there aren't many to keep up.