You are about as entertaining as a child's inflatable punching toy. You bop it, it springs back, you bop it again and you forget it ever existed. It slowly deflates in an unused corner, then one day you throw it away. There's nothing wrong with you that couldn't be cured with a little Prozac and a polo mallet, or, better yet, suicide. Maybe you wouldn't read like such a pathetic loser if you weren't afflicted with mental retardation; if your weren't so fat that when you stand on the weighing scale, it reads: "Sorry, we don't weigh livestock.", or if you didn't have a face like a bulldog chewing a stinging nettle while taking a constipated dump in a heat wave. Who am I kidding? You would.
In future, wake up the dozy peglegged hamster operating that wheel-powered brain of yours before you start typing.