Listen, Rush, and try to wrap what little is left of your mind around what I’m going to tell you. You’re a rancid bag of meat, your pronouncements the fetid stench of your corruption, your followers mere maggots pursuing your putrescence. You could make a vulture gag and a wolverine vomit. A bucket of excrement is like a bouquet of roses next to your intellectual miasma.
I hope you live a long life, Rush, rotting in your cocoon. Maybe you were supposed to emerge as something beautiful… or at least human. But we’ll never know, will we?