I am astonishing.
I am telling you this because you may not have noticed;
I am, after all, far more perceptive than you.
I am also more handsome
and more comfortable in group situations.
My hands are better than your hands.
Your hands look like the hands of a child,
not the kind of hands that could behead a king
or calm a bull whose rampage has already claimed three lives.
Those are the kind of hands mine are.
They are really good hands.
When I say words, they sound right,
whereas you mispronounce everything.
What is an orangutan-g? Is he drinking an ex-presso?
You make me sick.
Even my sick is better than yours.
Your sick is pale yellow and milky,
like banana Nesquik, whereas mine,
mine is robust and chunky,
like country vegetable soup.
When I throw up on myself,
it looks so good.
And when I fall over
because I have stubbed my toe on the corner of the sofa,
I do it with the impeccable poise
of an olympic gymnast.
People hold up scorecards with high numbers on
and nod approvingly.
They would if they had access to scorecards.
I am so much better than you that it baffles me
how you could be considered a viable alternative
to me.
Why would anyone talk to you
when I am available?
It cannot be that they find your humility charming.
I am more humble than you.
I am the most humble man that ever lived.