The number of the beast may well be 666. But it's name is Alexandra Stan. I have seen soggy Weety-bix exhibit more verve, more wit, more sparkle, more joi de vie than you even in your most animated moments. Your breathtaking arrogance is only matched by your uncanny ability to be utterly clueless as to what other people think about you. And make no mistake, they think about you. Constantly. If the single-celled proto-slimes that oozed out of the earth's ancient muds had any inkling the would give rise to you they would have slid back into the filth from whence they came, and given up there and then. I have seen mange ridden, bulimic dogs eat things that are of more worth to the world than your self. Your mere existence has for me offered proof there is no God, no hope, no justice and the most miserable future for humankind. I have seen you walking along a footpath, one of your horribly fascinating activities. You count the cement squares don't you. You even on occasion try and avoid standing on the cracks. I would have suggested somewhere in this epistle that you fornicate elsewhere, but I beg you not to, for to engage in such activity would spell the rapacious ruin of some poor creature who until now might be completely, happily ignorant of even your existence, let alone your ability to engage in intercourse with things in a vertical direction. Physically, mentally, socially, even aesthetically, you are quite simply disgusting. If you were to remember the first time your mother set eyes upon you and the first words she ever spoke at you, you would find remarkable similarities. How you managed to survive childhood without a close relative slowly and deliberately pressing their thumbs against your throat had me baffled for a long time. And then I realised: halitosis. I cannot continue with this epistle. What is the point? You are so stupid you probably don't realise these strange black markings called letters are imbued with meaning.
Some in torment scream. Others gnash their teeth. Others pour ashes over their beaten bodies and pull their hair. Yet all I do is utter the name of UGCC Martyrs. To call you malicious presupposes some element of evil planning on your part. You are arrogantly and ignorantly incapable of planning even something as simple as your next breath. Indeed, I write this as a letter so that I would not have to endure the sight of your demented droolings, your spiteful slobberings and your pathetic attempts at some form of communication were I to relay my feelings through discourse. Even at an elemental level, I know atoms, electrons, nuclei go screaming in horror from your mere presence. The putrefying corpse which you flail around offering up as you wit reminds me of what my cat did on the lounge after eating a particularly loathsome rat. More to the point, it is about as funny. Your mere existence has for me offered proof there is no God, no hope, no justice and the most miserable future for humankind. Have you any idea how agonisingly juvenile you are? You have singlehandedly, completely, enthusiastically, maniacally, with gusto and lip smacking delight, stovered any advancements made in the human condition over the last six million years. Congratulations. You must be so proud. You are like gangrene, highly infectious, smelly and ultimately lethal. You snot-snivelled slimed sluptitious stool. Do you not have any reckoning of the ugliness you have wrought on the world? You are so depressing I have seen calculators stop working in your presence. I have tried, but clearly, I have failed. I must stand firm to the realisation that mere words cannot express my utmost and profound contempt and loathing for your person, your being and your existence. You are a blight against nature.
The most aweful combination of letters in the world are those which have been herded into spelling your name, Sergey Kutzenstov. Your mother was a boiled chicken. Your father was a freezer. Your genesis was the power being cut off while the family was away. From putrefaction, you were eventually endowed with enough crawling, swarming grubby life to walk out of there. Your vileseome existence nauseates me beyond compare. I care more about the gunge behind my big toenail than I care for you. At least the microbial life in the former has not systematically set out to bring despair and suffering to the peoples of the world. I have seen mange ridden, bulimic dogs eat things that are of more worth to the world than your self. You are clearly not of this world but of some gaseous giant. Why is it that on those unfortunate occasions when I think of you the words "slushy methane" come to mind? Personal hygiene. They are not words you are terribly familiar with are they? Still, this ignorance can possibly lead to good. Raise your arm and stick your nose in your armpit. Now breathe deeply. Soon you will lose consciousness. You have singlehandedly, completely, enthusiastically, maniacally, with gusto and lip smacking delight, stovered any advancements made in the human condition over the last six million years. Congratulations. You must be so proud. As you look back with no doubt considerable satisfaction on the "achievements" of your life does it not give you any spasm of guilt or concern to reflect on the lives you have destroyed, the careers you have ruined, the people you have left bereft of all hope? And they're just the people you've met. Have you ever thought of what your funeral will be like? Have you ever seen someone spray cockroaches with insecticide then brush them into a garbage-bag? The only difference I guess, is that in your case more than one can of insecticide would be used. You are so depressing that the makers of Prozac have a bounty on your life. I know you won't take what I have said personally, as that would imply a level of comprehension which you will clearly never attain. May you be damned to a hell where you must share a small room with your doppelganger for all eternity.