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(Theres No Place Like) Home For The Holidays - Robert Goulet

Its like a portal into another dimension. Plopping alien life-forms on Earth at a pace greater than the environment can sustain. The portal should be filled with concrete, permanently sealed, since the you refuse to use your brain.

You are perpetrating irrational, selfish crimes against humanity. Wrap your wanker or we'll wrap it for you, you wanker.

Oblivion flows from her uterus, with each miracle ride the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. The gaping hole unleashes Hell, with all its fury. Your ignorant bliss harkens our demise.

Well, done stupid humans, well done. You make fun of all around you, yet somehow think yourself above the fray.

The brain you refuse to use would do well to stop supporting life altogether, much as it stopped supporting intelligent life long ago. You are a living breathing crime against humanity, your reproductive organs are weapons of mass destruction.

If only your reproductive organs were as barren as your brain.

With every bump and grind you thoughtlessly condemn us to a world full of ignorant breeders. Diluting the world with your demon-seed miracles, diluting the intelligence of the populace with a shower of dullards.

A bomb is less deadly and more honest. The person dropping a bomb at least has the decency to admit they want people dead. You fly the flag of life, while your cornucopia of pleasure deals murder by death.

We may want to send in a spelunking team to search for weapons of mass destruction in your partner's rabbit hole. There we could get a glimpse through the portal of the thoughtless breeder and chat with the Devil (who certainly must be amused by our willingness to breed ourselves into oblivion).

Good on you with the 19 kids, you own a Prius. I see your solar panel and your low-flow toilets. I also see your bus and Humvee. Your carbon footprint is the size of the crater the asteroid left that killed the dinosaurs.

Drive the Prius, park the penis... you ignoramus.

We should bronze your penis immediately, so you can't wield it against humanity. Having a world filled with your selfish offspring is not utopia, unless you confuse your utopia with my suicidal utopia.

Silly kids Trix are for kids, and kids are what you eternally are. Locked in emotional stasis by books that tell you not to question. You have toys you're not emotionally equipped to deal with.

Wielding your genitals like guns to the head of humanity. What do you care? You'll be gone before your tsunami of simpletons crashes to the shore, obliterating life. Too much life is the friend of Death. Please keep your magic wand in your pants, we've had enough miracles out of you.

Humans that do what you do, should not be celebrated, they should be mocked, vilified. I may write a third rate sci-fi novel and start my own religion based on Soylent Green. Soylent Green is People!

The problem is by NOT wanting more people My people would lose out to your people... so mob rule rules.

An abyss masquerading as the fountain of youth is her cavern. Curled up in the depths of the abyss is Death, Cheshire Cat grin wide and bright. A glowing egg awaits a swimmer from the scepter of stupidity. Deadlier than a grenade, the egg will first rain down death on intelligent life. Then, as shrapnel does, it obliterates all life.

Your uterus washes away hope for a better tomorrow. An ignominious end to a consistently disappointing species that elevates the greedy to exulted status. You are just steps away from extinction.

The Cosmos will not be surprised, the eulogy will be short: They were really dumb, but deluded themselves into grandeur. They didn't care about each other, but talked about caring. They thought a God created them, they created as many Gods as they felt they needed. An infallible God created THEM? Ahem, please fart in the general direction of where they were.

Congrats! Your opus, "An Over-Populated World Chokes On The Fruit of My Loins" has been chosen by the cosmos as this years "Darwin Award" winner. You genocidal maniacs have won a no expense paid trip to oblivion.

Luckily, no one will remember Humans existence, so you won't be laughed at throughout eternity. The Island of Misfit Toys is no longer.

Your God, had there been an all-knowing, omnipotent vapor, would've known the outcome from the genesis. Would they not have found their own utopia by falling on their own knife out of shame?

Maybe God never existed, maybe they are dead. Maybe they found their suicidal utopia.