What the leg did you just legging say about me, you little foot? I’ll have you know I graduated top of my class in Narf's Whorehouse, and I’ve been involved in numerous secret raids on your dad's pants drawer, and I have over 300 confirmed pictures. I am trained in shitposting, and I’m the top thigh in the entire Afghanifrican Unarmed Militia. You are nothing to me but just another toe. I will disgruntle you with words the likes of which has never been seen before on this Earth, mark my legging words. You think you can get away with saying that shin to me over the Internet? Think again, legger. As we speak I am contacting my secret network of /b/ros across the universe and your e-mail address is being traced right now so you better prepare for the storm, kneecap. The storm that wipes out the pathetic little thing you call your life. You’re legging dead, toenail. I can be anywhere, anytime, and I can bother you in over seven hundred ways, and that’s just with my bare hands. Not only am I extensively trained in disturbing the peace, but I have access to the entire arsenal of the Afghanifrican Armed Militia, and I will use it to its full extent to wipe your miserable ankle off the face of the continent, you little shin. If only you could have known what unholy retribution your little “clever” comment was about to bring down upon you, maybe you would have held your legging tongue. But you couldn’t, you didn’t, and now you’re paying the price, you achilles tendon. I will shitpost all over you and you will drown in it. You’re legging dead, toenail.
