Hello, misbehaving children. I am the mighty Krampus and I am here to disperse justice with my rusty chains this magical Christmas season. While all the good boys and girls will be festooned with gifts aplenty, I am here to make sure all the naughty children receive their due diligence in the form of birchings and an inevitable, one-way trip to the very pits of hell.
And who are these so-deserved wretches who scream to be eternally punished for their blatant and thoughtless actions? It is you, whoever said, â€œTwilight is such an awesome bookâ€¦â€ Bitch, please! You havenâ€™t a clue as to what youâ€™re talking about. Not only is the story ripe with abysmal grammar, lackluster dialogue and a homogeneous plot line, it preys on the hopes and dreams of all the pathetically desperate girls out there who wish nightly that some gaunt, pasty-faced abject loner will somehow find a modicum of pleasure in their sole company. Fah! Let me tell you now, that man does not existâ€¦ and if he did, why would he waste his time with your dumpy, awkward ass?
No, little girls of ill repute, there are no vampires or steroid-laden werewolves in your futures. There are only the bowels of hell. Repent now! Realize that Stephanie Meyer is only preying upon your insecurities and Disney-laden childhood fantasies. Itâ€™s all hogwash. She does not know men at all. No vampire who swore to protect you would ever abandon you when he was needed most, especially to commit undead seppuku in Italy. And shouldnâ€™t the glittery skin be a sign? Itâ€™s obvious the man frequents far too many strip clubs. Open your eyes, harlots!
Pat Benetar said it best: “Hell… hell is for children.” Repent now, before you fall prey my grim basket. Pray then, itâ€™s not too late.