The mind of a person who isn't a retarded, narcissistic asshole who spends three or four hours every day on a political site talking about himself and making personal attacks on other individuals and the Irish people as a whole
The Irish people deserve everything they get.
You too deserve to be lampooned, laughed at, poked at, and laughed at some more.
Secondly, these are not political discussion sites - these are the dank basements where freaks and weirdos like you congregate to exchange your bitterness and rage with their bitterness and rage. The difference between you and me is that there is no you - only me. Even my enemies are fans. I make a point of hopping onto these sites for a few hours to remind thick cunts like just how bad you have it while I'm cruising along having fun. In the world's happiest country.
What would it take for Ireland to take that crown? Will it ever happen in your lifetime? No, of course it won't - hence the bitterness and rage. It bothers you more that I'm from Ballyfermot, and I'm still smarter than you, living a life you could only dream of. You wish something awful to happen to me, and that's another thing that fuels your rage with what life's dumped on you.
Tell us: in the entirety of your lexicon - aren't there any other slags and jibes excluding retarded, low IQ, Oasis, Liam Gallagher, and The Bangles you might use?
It's not that they bother me - it's that they bore me, and everyone fucking else who reads your maudlin pale-wet second-hand shit.
And another thing: come the fuck out of that closet, you raging homosexual.
Like many who've gone before you, you adore me, can't get through a day without me.
I'm likely the reason for your rage, but even so - you can't stop adoring me, which is exactly how it should be.
I'm here to make sure you never get an even break, that everything you say on here is thrown back into your ugly face, to remind you that your country is a fucking dire shit-hole: over-priced, out-dated, filthy, miserable, knacker-covered, junkie central poxy island of lost souls like you - a whole generation like you, useless. Unwanted. Raging. And jealous as fuck that I outrank you all.
We don't really need to know anything more about you, you're one more victim of the Irish mince-maker. But people always want to know about me - hence the (now) nine thousand eight hundred plus people who hang on my breath. Even on these sites, they flock to me. You can't stand that, right? You think it should be you who has a fan, rather than having to assemble your Z Team to try to ratchet up your scores.
It's Saturday evening, it's blazing outside but with a strong breeze that cools the skin as it tans.
You're sitting at home reading about some bloke who watched his wife and kids drown, then decided to rape a young girl while her mother watched, then killed them all. That's entertainment, alright.
You sad, sad bastard.