He’s fancy. Half the kids in the LA-area high school where I work go around rocking Golden State gear, and mostly because of Steph, I don’t blame ‘em a bit.

During which I cried, you mean. Gosh, Ms. Dries. Gosh.

Your face smells like cheese.

You go ahead and “holler” whenever you need to be reminded of your place, Cletus. (Your place is on the receiving end of a glory hole, but with your eye socket.) Die in a fire.

Fuck you and fuck your thesaurus and fuck your weak-ass alliteration and and fuck your mother. People like me have been kicking your ass since birth, and we will continue to do so until they dump your chlamydia-rotted corpse into a grave, unmourned and unloved.

Buttchug some hemlock, you twat-eared poseur. Your self-righteous stance as the wise elder statesman with so much maturity, experience and taste would sell better if you weren’t obviously gumming a lump of pickled whale semen. Take your troglodytic dick-beaters and steer the browser on your flip phone to another…

You're fuckshit.

The non-sequitur ad hominen unoriginal joke attack as a response to threat? And I’m the teenager? Fight me.

I enjoy Petros and Money because they puncture the rampant fanboyism of sports radio. And your homophobia is really tacky. Also, your use of “we” is hilarious. Ain't nobody in that basement but you, champ.

Dad?

You’re stupid and uptight. Bet you love Dan Patrick’s show, right? Ass.

Who in LA is better, troll? Rome? Cowherd? Your mom? C’mon. It's a little yelly, but it's smart and irreverent. Unlike you.

You’re stupid. Sports are fun. PMS is fun and smart. And you’re stupid.

Why Jim Cooke make sad panda?

Nah.

Dad?

You are articulate and insightful.

Presented without comment:

No, you're wrong. Racism is uncool.

Smells like patchouli, right?