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"Re: The Acid Tears of Doom" You, sir, are a repellant moron with the IQ of half a dead slug... the back half of a dead slug. Furthermore, you smell like 1000 to the 230th power dead polecats being stored in a poorly maintained charnel house next to a severely backed-up sewage treatment facility. Your opinion of my poetry means about as much to me as George W. Bush's opinions about statistical probability mean to an Oxford mathematics professor. I am so very sorry, sir, to hear that you were gang-raped as a child by your whole family. Maybe if you'd just used a condom when you got your grandmother pregnant, that could have been avoided. Too bad about the abortion she had. I know you had to eat it, being such a poor family; I hope it at least tasted okay.

I could be a dead octopus and have more personality than you, my dear chap. Now kindly go crawl back up your father's anus and do something constructive with your time.

"The Acid Tears of Doom" Tristan Arts, the otherkin poet, writes poetry at a 3rd grade level and accepts criticism with all the ethusiasm of a stoned hooker. This morbidly obese "poet" is about as dense as his poetry-- both of which tend to collapse inward upon themselves due to truly staggering accumulations of trans fats and deep-fried bullshit. I would rather eat a tapeworm salad and drink Riunite out of my own bloodied rectum than spend another instant in contact with this farsical "poetry." Tristan Arts should be run through with a harpoon and harvested for the copious amounts of heating oil currently roiling around inside his grotesque human body. We can do this with impugnity, because--by his own admission--he does not possess a human soul.