Zale Morris is A Douche Bag

I have dealt with plenty of assholes in my life and boy, are you off your rocker, motherfucker. I had a bad feeling about you from the very beginning, but I needed a job. I thought I was just coming in for an interview and as soon as I got there, you sent me to work. No talk of pay or anything of the sort, just sew this, fetch that, carry this, pack this, stitch that. And you have the nerve to tell me to follow you from now on, and that this shit should have been put away a long time ago?

FUCK YOU!

You are nothing more that a fat, fucking, tub of lard-o-rama, weirdo, loser. You are pompous and have no right to be. Your only claim to fame is that you're working on E.R. through the union, big fucking deal. Television sucks balls anyway. Get a fucking life you schizophrenic
poodle-haired-flap-jack-face! And another thing, I traveled a million fucking miles to get to your house, I told you I wasn't feeling good, and you still insisted I drive with you to Ventura, after I had just been out and about all day in the sun, looking for fabric everywhere and Tahiti, and you wanted me to work another 6 hours, slaving away in god-knows-where for 10 measly fucking dollars an hour?

FUCK YOU!

And my name is Marc asshole, not John, stupid fucker!

So, if you see this fat, son of a bitch on the street, and he answers to Zale Morris, sock him in the teeth for me.


Thank you for shopping at Biglots and have a pleasant evening.

Stop Starring at me, you freaky-eyed bitch!