Sarcasmus (sar’kaz’-mus): Use of mockery, verbal taunts, or bitter irony.
I couldn’t help it. I had no control over it. I had lost all but one of my friends. He was a complete idiot. I didn’t want him for a friend. He made me uncomfortable. He complimented me over and over for everything from my teeth to my butt.
My problem was that I could not help insulting people. I contracted it 5 years ago on a trip to New York City, where insults are rampant. Like, you might ask how to get to the Empire State Building, and the person you ask might answer “What, do I look like a GPS, asshole—take a friggin’ Uber shit for brains.” This happened over and over until I became infected with “Insultic Syndrome.” When I got home, I couldn’t stop insulting people. I told my wife she looked like an “overinflated blimp.” Then I told her “she was so ugly, she could make a baby cry.” Then I told my mother that “she couldn’t raise a kid right even if Dr. Spock was her husband.” I told my sister that I was “tired of her goose-stepping, honking out praise for Trump.” She became violent, hitting me on the head with a flower vase, leaving a gash that needed 105 stitches. That didn’t stop me. I told my boss that he smelled like he “just got back from hell.” He fired me on the spot. But, I went on heedless of the consequences, I had to insult—the complete opposite of my friend Bill’s compulsion to praise. I had gone New York—the insult capital of the world. Bill had gone to San Fransisco, the compliment capital of the world. He had contracted “Praisinosis” while leaving his heart there.
When we got together, I would insult him ruthlessly and he would compliment me without limit. I would say, “Kiss my ass loser.” And he would respond, “You remind me of Plato.” I would say to him “You’re like a fart as big as the moon.” And he would say, “You’re the cream in my coffee.”
The beat goes on. Bill and I decided to move in together. I started an internet business called “FU Man.” I write insults for people who want to hurt somebody, but aren’t mean enough to come up with a good insult on their own. Bill has been contracted by a greeting card company to write sappy text for anniversary, valentine, and condolence cards. We are doing well—although Bill is a f*cking idiot, we get along well.
Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu)
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