There’s a certain lack o’ grace etched across your mug – the mark of the beast is stamped oan yer foreheid - it speaks volumes mair than yer mouth ever could. Yer slack jaw and vacant eyes express all the requisite mechanics for sudden and inexplicable violence. That designated muscle between yer ears merely supports the club footed attributes of obviously modified monkey genes. It disnae take an x-ray machine tae establish that yer no one o’ us.
Yer stock hard man posturing – yer chopped dull vocals – indicate that you’re a member o’ some lesser race of feral rave primates finely tuned to tonic vino and soapbar. It’s a distinct and tragic condition – yer hard of thinking – yer mind is underdeveloped – yer imagination is stunted. A hundred thousand years of human evolution have passed ye by. Yer stuck in the jungle wi the intractable discipline of vicious regulation – yer a bampot from the numpty tribe. Whatever the cause of yer cursed disposition, it’s an inalienable fact that yer no one o’ us.