Sarcasmus (sar’kaz’-mus): Use of mockery, verbal taunts, or bitter irony.
“You look like a gerbil in a dress. What are you going to do about it? Cut down on the food pellets? Work out on your hamster wheel more often and more vigorously? Wear a mumu? Hide in your cage? Liposuction?” I was mean. I was angry. I was tired of dating a bowl full of jello.
That said, you’ve got to remember how you got this way and do it in reverse. I think ice cream played a role—you actually did scream for ice cream when I duct-taped you to a chair to keep you out of the refrigerator. Then, you whined like a dog begging for a treat. I turned you loose when you threatened to call the police. With the duct-tape, I didn’t know how you planned to do it, but I cut you loose anyway. You ran for the refrigerator and tore open the freezer door. There it was: a gallon of chocolate marshmallow raspberry pistachio chunky chocolate swirl. I called it swill instead of swirl. Before I could say “Go for it fatso,” you had the soup spoon going like a jackhammer and your mouth and chin were smeared with ice cream. I could almost see your girth growing. You finished one gallon of fat-laden ice crap in 25 minutes.
That was it, I said “Goodbye fatty. Have fun at the trough” and headed for the door. You stuck your finger down your throat and a torrent of melted ice cream spewed out between your chocolate-stained lips. “Oh God, now it’s bulimia?” I yelled. This was exactly the moment I realized that I loved you. Together, we could beat this fat lard-ass thing. With your consent, I locked you in the bedroom. It had a bathroom attached. I fed you healthy meals 2 times a day. In three months you had your old body back again—after we had the sagging skin tucked. When we had sex now, I had no trouble funding your vagina. Life was perfect.
Then, I came home early one day and there was a huge fat guy on the couch feeding you M&Ms through a funnel. I called you lots of names, but I think the best was “fudge sucker.” I packed my bags and left. I will never call anybody sweetheart ever again, and it’s all your fault, you blubber-breathed scale buster. You brain dead butt wind blower.
Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu).
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