Thorough Put-Downs

what a fuck.

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Listen to me, you mewling, puking, grass-green, little mooncalf, you feckless, pointless, thoughtless vacancy on the face of the deep, you gobbet of sputum from a drooling imbecile, you scraping from a foul, stinking pustule, you squeaking mulberry! I reject you utterly. I pluck your beard. I micturate on your web site. I dismiss your mullet with the wave of my hand. I grind your buttrock beneath my triumphant heel. Go thou, and darken our door no more.

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Jim, you rheumy-eyed, blunt-nosed, thick-headed, greasy-locked, jug-eared offspring of a scrofulous pi-dog, you ill-clothed, big-bosomed, slack-jawed, nit-brained sad excuse for a homunculus, you putty-coloured superfluity. I spit in your eye. I pull your nose. I spout defiance to your punk-rock fusion and all that it contains or implies. Slink back under your slimy rock and never soil our cyber-portal with your fetid presence again.

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Mon petit buttrocker, it is evident you are a man (and I use the word advisedly) of singular talent, lost in a world of pluralists. I advise you to seek out the other members of your clan. This will lead to joyful shouts of recognition as they rush to enfold you in their arms. This experience shall be your bliss, as when an infant is lowered into a warm bath and instantly, gratefully, voids his bladder.

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you impudent, impenitent, improvident coxcomb, you sad-sack, vulgerian counterfeit. You're an ill-mannered, illiterate, ill-begotten forgery, you botch from the first, you byblow of a rutting ratcatcher who collected your mother's pelt with his cleft stick. You're a lickspittle, lackluster, beetle-browed nonesuch, a buffoon hoisted on a stick, an ungnawed rib lacking in meat. I abhor your ilk. I defy you and your shallow tittle-tattle. I set my boot upon your stones.

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...you muddy cuff on the trousers of humanity, you snag in the fabric of life, you high-pitched titter during the pause in the final movement, you leftover bars from a madman's oratorio, you swan dropping on the tow path.

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...although you apparently mispride yourself on the thickness of your skull, I know you for the sham you are, you corgi in a collier's jacket. You vomit on the carpet and wish us to mishear your pitiful emetic woofing as the tubercular hack of the black lung victim. We are wise to you, sir. You are nothing but a Saville Row soccer hooligan, a false tooth, a soggy twist of lemon lacking bite. In short, you are a poser, a periwig on a balded head, a slack water pollywog and a self-induced perversion. You have nothing to say to us. Hie thee hence.

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...you inadequate catamite, you sluggish whirligig, you leaking curragh, you tired leaf from a ten-times rejected farce.

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... you have all the enduring qualities of a tin pot mended by a quadraplegic tinker reduced to plying his trade with his teeth. You are a dull knife hacking at a burnt loaf, a raw turnip mashed under the wheels of a manure cart, a tall drink of the purest bilgewater. If you were a knot, you would come undone when meant to hold and tangle irretrievably when meant to come undone. You have all the charm of a distempered camel, the beauty of a automobile collision, the incisive wit of a syphilitic simpleton, and the easy grace of a gouty libertine dancing the quadrille. Far worse than all these, you are a crashing bore.

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...you addled egg, you miniature snuff box, you simpering clod, you refugee from a dust bin. You have words aplenty but you miss the tune, you mismade dullard, you smirking enormity, you barrow full of scrap paper. You are a flack, a stumbler, a repetitive clattering of broken crockery, a dry and crumby, failed and fallen muffin of a man.

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You are required to insert chopsticks well up your nostrils to determine if you are alive or only ticking. You are required to place fingers well down your throat to determine if you ate or only chewed. Your very hair is listless. Your eye is clouded. Your voice blends with the wallpaper, but ill. Your only accomplishment is to clash with the decor. This you take to be the pinnacle of existance. Where you go, the emptiness takes on a fugitive quality. Where you have been you are not.

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Mr. Cibber may have been a one-note genius, but in his realm no one could touch him.

I heard Frank Sinatra quoted referring to Ella Fitzgerald : "She is the worst singer I have ever heard." A very few weeks later they did a TV special together.

Back to general putdowns: Can anybody remember the text of the Joan Rivers diatribe that ends, '....and you're not even interesting enough to make me puke!', or something along those lines? And who was she talking to/about at the time?

He was such an obnoxious tosser even the notoriously gullible NME of the mid 70s saw through him.

"Well, I appreciate your directness, Daryll and I will try to be as direct and honest with you as I possibly can be. In the short time I've known you, you have demonstrated every undesirable quality of the male personality, and even discovered a few new ones. You are physically repulsive, intellectually retarded. You're morally reprehensible, vulgar, insensitive, selfish, stupid. You have no taste, a lousy sense of humor, and you smell. You're not even interesting enough to make me sick."

From The Witches of Eastwick, and it was Cher (talking to Jack Nicholson), not Joan Rivers as I had been led to believe. It's an absolute ripper.

the New Yorker review of Speed 2 concluded by asking
"and why Jason Patric? What is Jason Patric but Keanu without the fire, passion and intellect"

"Shark Sandwich: Shit Sandwich"

The most thorough put-down is surely still "Stop showing off in front of your friends"?

eight years late but ... lou reed was the one who inducted Frank Zappa into the rock 'n roll Hall of Fame (and told Zappa's widow that he admired her husband's music). how much of that was being polite to a widow and/or a sign of sympathy to someone who was being dissed by the RNR HoF, i leave it to others to figure out.

While this thread is revived, I guess I ought to toss in this one last ensample of the vituperation of Laureate Cibber:

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Why, you're all such lackpenny whoremonger sons of curs that I doubt you could
scrape up the wherewithal between the lot of you to buy yourselves a good
cudgeling, you bunch of down-at-the-heel bumscratchers and horny-handed
piss-dribblers.

If you were men enough to father children they would surely turn out to be a
gaggle of limping shyfighters, sacremental wine bibbers, carking derelicts, and
gross-witted tatterdemalions such as yourselves, you delusive nose-pullers, you
ragtag gang of lurkers, footpads, huffers, chaffers, mummers, jailbait nightowls,
lowly gogglers, stolid thugs and failed remittance men.

You run around here making pluperfect arses of yourselves, booming like so many
depleted tuns under the blows of a broom handle. You jingle like a Salvation Army
tambourine. You prinking gourds. You lavender-scented geordies. You caterwauling
mongrels. You timorous, lollygagging guttersnipes and pinchbeck witlings.

You drink yourselves into a stupor like parboiled owls and prance and traipse
like the nonagenarian dodderers you aspire to be, you chuckleheaded lackwits,
you vacillating guzzlers, you errand boys for hoopskirted nailbiters. I wouldn't
trust you gin-soaked toadeaters with my dog's droppings, you lickspittle
nebulosities, you lumpish phlegm ejectors and pissant costermongers, you
jackdaw, pillow-hugging limp-trousered hip thrusters.

The way you bustle about, you'd think you ungainly nightjars and gallows birds
were as upright as apothecaries and as lugubrious as deacons. But I know better,
you planarian ninnyhammers, you officious laughingstocks, you flannel-lipped
bullroarers.

I only stay around here because I am something of a contumacious crackpot and
a notorious bandbox myself. But you, Aimless, you are the prize, you attitudinal
fellahin and thoroughgoing oaf. Compared to you, Rex, that calico bag of viscid
matter, is a fine prince of a fellow.

blackadder fan imo

daniel o'connell to thread

perhaps one day this will replace the zing thread

surely this is the left-behind forebear