You scum.

You low, corrosive lump of fecal horror, you maniac bastardly turd. I would rather drink stale urine from Norman Fowler's arse-pit than remain one moment more in your defiling company. You're filth, you're cack, you're the ooze of a burst boil; I abominate you, you towering mound of corrupted slime. Your every utterance is like the slithering hiss of a fat maggot in the putrid guts of a decomposing rat; your face is fouler than the unwiped inner ring of Satan's rectum.