Sarcasmus (sar’kaz’-mus): Use of mockery, verbal taunts, or bitter irony.
I love you more than a carrot up my ass. I love you more than snake shit. I love you less than God and Country. I love you more than a peanut butter and sardine sandwich, but less than my bicycle Lily. She’s built to last. She is 35 years old and she’s hard as a rock. You’re 25 and you’re soft as a slug. Your hair looks like a wet mop peppered with grit from a garage floor. Your nose looks like a sawed-off hot dog. Your hands look like giant fly swatters with fingers. Why do you keep showing up?
I was really letting it rip. I was standing naked in front of my motel room’s dressing mirror. I was talking to myself. As usual, I berated myself. Every once in a while, I would throw something positive in for variety’s sake, but 99% of what I said was nasty, brutish and short—like Hobbes the big-time asshole philosopher said. In my “Odes on a Motel Mirror,” I hit all three notes: my insults are nasty, my demeanor is brutish, and I am barely five feet tall. I have a custom t-shirt that says “I’m Nasty, Brutish, and Short” on it for the whole world to see.
Suddenly, there was pounding on my motel room’s door. My so-called girlfriend Dirty Laura (aka Di) yelled, “Let me in Shorty, you nasty brute.” It was time for our monthly tryst. It went the same ay every month. I’d begin by insulting Di with a recent quote from my podcast “You Suck!” This month I used “You’re no better than jock itch.” It was nasty. Then, Di would wash my mouth out with soap for a full five minutes. After that, I would run around the room foaming at the mouth with soap suds—like a rabid dog. Di would yell “Bad dog!” and I would try to hump her leg. She would push me away and yell “Lay down on the bed you filthy mutt! Roll over! Beg!” Then, we would have sex while we repeatedly yelled out two passages from Paul’s Epistles: “Who will render to every man according to his deeds? As it is written, There is none righteous, no, not one!” Di She is the daughter of a Methodist preacher and insisted on integrating religion into our sexual activities. After all was said and done, Di left and went home. I stood in front of the mirror again, alone. I continued berating my self until I went to bed at 11:00.
I am ready for a change. I need to something about my self-image. Accordingly, I’m enrolling in the Trump Self-Esteem Academy. The brochure promises that after two weeks of “zooming with confident Don” I will become a “total narcissist.”
The Daily Trope 