Happy Birthday You Dead Prick

Slithering out from Tartarus in a pool of bile, it was on this day two centuries ago that you were expelled from your mother’s loins. Better to have had your infant skull shattered against the bureau than suffer you to live amongst decent men; but this was not to be. I often wonder at the cause of your irredeemable degradation. Was the womb too hostile, a poisonous mire to choke and derange your tiny unformed brain; or was it an angry, reckless seed that was planted to produce such excremental fruit? What deprived you of faith in your fellow man and drove you ever deeper into the imaginings of your pixilated mind? Were you beaten to sleep nights following a tepid supper of offal and thorns? Perhaps poverty soured your soul and delusions of genius isolated you to the point that the world was made to seem utterly inhospitable to all you desired. Surely you would put the blame for your sins on circumstance, just as you always held your many benefactors responsible for your failures; the truth is that most of the miseries suffered by you and those around you were the result of your many infirmities of character, or of voluntary faults in your conduct. Truly you were never able to comport yourself in a manner befitting someone imbued by nature with such a poetical gift, without which I do not believe you possess one redeeming attribute. Never have I encountered a man who’s gentlemanly demeanor (when not in a fit of intoxication) so belied the depraved inner workings of his soul; nor one with such a greasy tongued ability to excuse his reprehensible behavior and conceal his true motivations. Perpetually possessed by envy, satyriasis, and inebriation, it is only by some miracle that any beauty could live in you at. That a man of such little quality as yourself should be endowed by the creator with such uncommon talent is a sin by God against man.

I take comfort in one thing, however. While you lived, you suffered in squalor and ignominy. I pray that the paranoid despair that reigned in you throughout the tenure of our acquaintance grew ever more intolerable until your last gasp.

And now you lie dead, your corrupted flesh a perfect complement to your spiritual decay.

So enjoy oblivion you gleeking perfidious dung-witted dogs-pizzle. I piss upon your memory and pray often that Lucifer’s barbed and turgid member has made a murky porridge of your rear passage.

I hope your birthday is shit,

On my "Memoir Of The Author"...

When Edgar Allan Poe died in 1849 I took it upon myself to pen a memoir which, upon its publication, was the cause of much controversy. Many friends of the deceased poet emerged to accuse me of painting a less than accurate portrait of my subject. In a sense this is true; though my memoir was by no means flattering, I omitted much that would surely have condemned the man to the annals of depravity. Had malice been working through my pen I would have brought to light dark aspects of the mans character that his literary genius simply could not excuse; his most prosaic sonnet would be prohibited in any decent household. I made no effort to conceal the fact that Poe was a man of low moral character; that he was an irredeemable drunkard is widely known. I detailed many scandalous events in his tumultuous life, but kept from public knowledge many others. This was done primarily for the sake of Poe's dear aunt Maria Clemm, the mother of his young wife. Were she to read of the unspeakable acts performed by her son in law to which I am unfortunately aware it would have broken her heart. My compassion was tested when Mrs. Clemm and several of Poe's friends viciously attacked me, saying that my biography was a spleenful, libelous effort to destroy my most bitter enemy's reputation posthumously. I very nearly prepared for publication every sorditude that I had previously concealed; had my friend Mr. Leland not intervened I would have shocked the world with Poe's atrocities, and poor Mrs. Clemm would not have gone to her grave with some hope that she might see her sweet 'Eddie' in Paradise.
My own reputation has been irreparably diminished by this affair. If I am remembered at all I am misunderstood to be a vengeful character assassin who exploited my position as Poe's literary executor to ruin his reputation because I was jealous of his literary ability. I am either forgotten or forsaken, and all as a result of my association with the degenerate Edgar Allan Poe. I was not his friend, nor he mine, but my appreciation for his genius endeared him to me somehow. I first knew him as a professional associate in 1841, and he was a casual acquaintance for a while thereafter; but before long he made it clear that he was my bitter enemy. His bilious attacks on myself and on my work, made worse by the horrifying behavior to which I was witness, make it impossible for me to reconcile the fact that he is known and loved while I, a pious patriot who worked tirelessly for the betterment of American letters, am reviled for my spite and envy. It is for this reason that I now determine to expose the villain Poe for the loathsome wretch that he was. Though my documentation for much of what I plan to relate has long been destroyed, be assured that every word of my forthcoming expose of Poe shall be free from falsehood. My benevolent nature makes this work distasteful to me; I only endure it for the sake of my own good name, and so that the truth will finally be known about that scoundrel Edgar Poe.