An open letter to the devil himself.

Dear Vagina full of sand,

I would hastily cast my reservations and religious beliefs aside for the opportunity to falcon punch you in the face with both of my fists and one of my legs. You don't just rub me the wrong way, you are a novelty sized cheese grater to the entire system of human relations, furiously tearing strips from it like a cat on heat does the shins of it's owners.

Perez Hilton. I mourn your existence.

The problem is, you're everywhere. You are a dyslexic troll, the spam sperm that somehow survived it's journey from a 2bit gossip email to a fully fledged wasteland of sparkles and sin. You reside in a demountable sector of the internet founded on lies, tasteless quips relating to death and crude abbreviations, yet for reasons unfathomable and at the same time, completely understandable, you are fucking everywhere and people can't live without you. Teenage girls form their opinions on trivial matters by scanning your coarse brand of celebrity critique while grown men and women preach your reverse gospel around office water-coolers on an international scale. They take this information on board as important and relevant and spread it throughout the real world like a modern day plague that feasts on it's hosts brain cells. The pink colour scheme of your stronghold is not dissimilar to that of a freshly ripped, reoccurring scab.

Unfortunately you're launchpad is the least of your concerns at this point in time. Sure, there are millions of publications, online and print, that do what you do, albeit with more tact, and the general public's fascination with celebrity is a guaranteed constant because the grass is always greener, especially when the grass on the other side is dead or struggling. However, the difference between you and the majority is that you possess a rare quality allowing the capitalization from and humiliation of the deceased whilst somehow retaining clout as a source of information. All the cute captions and witty commentaries in the world can't save you from the fact that you promote death for web traffic disguised as condolences. You're the grim reaper in a turquoise jumpsuit and an Apple laptop is your chariot.

Look how this sack of shit gets down:



These were all posted within hours of Brittany Murphy's unfortunate passing this morning. The word 'dies' in capital letters, the accusations against her husband and the unnecessary comparisons to other celebrities whose drug addictions have actually been proven are all the signs of a man with no soul. The same man who was more than happy to throw child molestation and Britney Spears' name in amongst the announcement of Michael Jackson's death and then had the audacity to turn around months later and accuse others of capitalizing from his demise.
You are not only a piece of shit, but moreso an entire industrial district full of infected colons manufacturing the most potent fecal matter known to man at least 10 times a day.

In celebration of your official loss of all ties to the human race, i've constructed my own Perez Hilton style post that i hope you see before your own demise, which i will approach in a similar fashion.

PEREZ PREFERS WHITE!
WTF!? We're not sure what's going on here, but it looks like Perez had a little run in with a big trouser snake! He was spotted leaving this grey curtain yesterday having just been blasted by a supposed 3 litres of pure semen! Whether or not his cheeky smile is a front to hide the disappointment of having to walk around as a baby batter canvas is yet to be found, but what we do know is that this isn't the best look for the aspiring actor/musician/celebrity blogger.

By the way P-rez, loving the blue hair! You look like a pregnancy test!

I hope you get punched in the face again, significantly harder and with more surface area covered than last time.

Regards,
Me.

R.I.P Brittany Murphy, there is no Perez Hilton where you are now.