Serious insult

A serious insult (also known as a bitch, singular) is an insult that turna out to be serious in nature. The critera for seriousness is as follows: 1. The insult was made either towards your birth mother (stepmothers don't count) or the veracity of your underlying endowment (also known as a weenis. 2. The insult implies that you are of the sinister race (a Jew) or of sub-human ancestry (such as the common nigger) or, done through any spoken tone of the mocking variety—a bad person, such as a "jerk," but not necessarily a cunning egotist, or a "self-centered asshole" (thereby implying some individual qualities thus exonerating the insulted from Jewry and/or nigracy). 3. The insult is made in: an unspoken language (e.g. Greek), a made-up language (such as Hebrew or Spanish) or demonic homomyms inflected using an archaic tongue, or that of a non-human animal that is mal-intentioned (like a goat or snakes) but not too stupid for its own good (like anyone reading a particular wiki). 4. The insult leaves you feeling emasculated, but not in the sense of a man without masculine qualities, but instead the sense of a man whose sexual interest prescribes to the familiar sex, rather than that of the foreign. 5. The insult is originating from a somewhat famous individual ("famous," like in the same league of popularity as Akefu Brewer, not to be confused with "well-connected," as pertains to a boot-licker with a singular checkmark Twitter follower (like Ryan Wild), nor is the insultor simply just a rich douchebag (like Brandt Andersen). 6. The insult comes off as poorly-worded, hasty or otherwise low-effort (you must instead exact a passionate and most loathing remark on oneself, one which lemmings may quote for the ages). 7. The "insult" is of the substance that you are racist, homophobic, or some other quality which any decent person should come to possess. 8. The insultor is at or below the height of 5'6", for which the insult must instead be taken as one of pathetic envy for the unstunted kind. 9. The insultor may in no other way be construed as a loser, to which end the insulted might vindicate himself by way of non-sequitur launched with explicit precision. 10. The insulted has, by merit of their own status as a failure to all of humanity, or by alternative merit of being reasonably percieved as a transgressor to the likes of Clyde or Brickster, thus stripped themselves of all their divine sake and doth forsaken his lineage for all eternity.

Serious insults can take many forms, even those which are not serious, nor are they seemingly insulting, and yet, careful observation lends to the inferrence that the quip in question is, indeed, a verbal precision strike against one's own essence, and all that which exist therein. Here are some examples of serious insults, none other than the worst kind thereof: 1. "I don't want this to rub you the wrong way, but there is human shit trailing down your pants coming from out of your buttcrack." This is both a critique on the man's intelligence (assuming some unawareness of shitting oneself) and his impotence, for doing a racism against the most kind, undeserving people of The World's Best Kick-Ass Country, or the U.S. of A., O' Lord, Amen, who walked the trail of tears all the way from Nazi-occupied Mexico in order to dispose of tea and bring a straight-lined sense of order to the chaos that is natural geography, he whose boundaries do not run in parallel parity. 2. "I'm not really feeling up to giving another footjob today. If you'd like, maybe you could just waft your musk my way and we end the night with the exchange of seminal fluids." This is a textbook case of a hysterical woman trying to humiliate her boyfriend, or "foot daddy," into suppressing his naturally-driven sexual desire to have a woman's feet grace the penile throbstick. 3. "I'm too young. I'm only 16," is a classic false flag used by (legal) adult-aged, regular boylovers masquerading as children, as made obvious by their unwittingness towards sex, when anyone who's not been living under a rock will know that pedophilia is legal in this country now—in laymen's terms, the archetypal libshit. 4. "Please put on your seatbelt before driving me to the destination, if you may." As an Über driver, and secondly an American, you have the DOW-given right to have little regard for the morally-righteous, happiness-contraning, flaccid suggestions made to citizens in the form of "laws." Anyone who would ask you to entrap oneself in the labrynthic fate-maker, whose red jaws push closed and then open, laying out the bondage before your contorted fat self. The mammoth who art thouself encumbered by thine blubber doth press against the seated furnishings of thine automotive legs. Hath thine fleshly diversion into four sticks been severed by the rage of metals, reverberating against the other? Doth thou make haste, or make waste; wasting away in the confines of thine deflated cage whose bars avail my lackluster perversions to sling along grazed asphalt, only to settle within the neighboring cell that is the other fatso? 5. "Only a tapeworm could write so feverishly about the dregs of slinking across roads into a new host." Stop, if you know what's best for you; stop toying with imaginations of talking worms. Time has come for you to release your grip upon the follies of profiling what may potentially be a parasite, but, if not for the worminess, none more so a parasite than yourself. You are leeching off time, using its nectar to satisfy your bullish appetite with the provisions given to you by an artist in perfect mediocrity. It is somewhat beautiful, almost as though you never truly existed, or even had the potential for "existence" lest your bowels fail to satisfy my ever-increasing length, nested within your wet tracks. My slimey, sallow state, ingesting the intestinal contents, investing them into the eggs I shall lay all around thee. (They shall hatch and unfurl into your new friends; your personal, discrete dietary board. For no longer will your caloric intake seem gluttonous, instead it rather generous to the only children you shall ever have. 6. Okay, so it has become obvious to think that I am a worm. But, hear my words and prey upon them well: I, a tapeworm, He whose vary name invokes such disgust—such power is this—and He who knows his place in this thing you call a world: that is, to feast upon this thing you call life, for my purpose is to make you my own, so that, without me, you are derived of any such purpose for your vessel—a vessel so empty as thou, such the actor that you are who recite lines to a crowd who doth not consider them. What the actor you must be to incense yourself with such pretend fulfillments as paltry fuckings and drunken mornings? You are incensed most by the gutteral feeling of my every movement, for I am a worm, and you know not what you are. In the presence of such majesty, it is only right to be on knees. One must not only be on his knees, but to also run dry as parchment for the creature comforts you so deserve. My voice, an abberation of your soft, broken mind; the words, from straight within yourself into thee. After all, what is the brain but another worm coiled up within my cranium to command my teeth to chatter at the reach of a sharp, absolute wind? After all—after it all, all you're left after my shit are your carcass limbs taking the fall, lulled into the torrents of feelings—the sense of the shallow depths of preferential, personal "qualities" that qualm my knowing—knowing I shall know now and forever that I don't know, that I never knew you from when you first called. That there was never any worm except for the murmur of faded memories, they fall—falling away from a place that seems familiar, feels warm to the touch, but somehow cold to the thought.

Using proportional violence, a serious insult should be responded by using a lighthearted jab at one's humanity, be it through doxxing, or with a subtle nod to the temporal nature of one's existence, by partaking in the barbarian, Nubian ritual of "squaring up." This is to be concluded by laying the offensive matter to rest with the very same imposition as made unto his body, from which point the soul is discharged of all its intrinsics with the letting of a braap.