Want a stupid copypasta?

i guess

Four ruffians break into my house. "What the devil?" As I grab my powdered wig and Kentucky rifle. Blow a golf ball sized hole through the first man, he's dead on the spot. Draw my pistol on the second man, miss him entirely because it's smoothbore and nails the neighbors dog. I have to resort to the cannon mounted at the top of the stairs loaded with grape shot, "Tally ho lads" the grape shot shreds two men in the blast, the sound and extra shrapnel set off car alarms. Fix bayonet and charge the last terrified rapscallion. He Bleeds out waiting on the police to arrive since triangular bayonet wounds are impossible to stitch up.
Just as the founding fathers intended.

I am done. I am officially done with the Inkwell Isle bureaucracy.
I just spent 48 hours straight staring at a ceramic rim and a straw. My thumbs are raw. My vision is vibrating in 24 frames per second. I close my eyes and I see parriable pink butterflies. I hear the ghostly whistle of a train that isn't there.
"It’s just a boss rush," they said. "It’s a tribute to 1930s animation," they said. They didn’t mention that Grim Matchstick is a war criminal. They didn't tell me that Dr. Kahl’s Robot was designed by the devil himself to harvest my sanity. I have been turned into a hot dog, a plane, and a ghost, but mostly I have been turned into a loser.
I walked into the Devil’s Casino thinking I was a high roller, but King Dice looked me in my porcelain eyes and told me I wasn't even worth the chipped paint on my handle. I’ve dashed so many times my soul has physically left my body. I’m not playing for the soul contracts anymore; I’m playing because if I hear that "A KNOCKOUT!" bell one more time, I might actually transcend into the hand-drawn afterlife.
A GREAT SLAM AND THEN SOME! A BRAVE RED CUP WHO NEVER GIVES UP!
Don't deal with the Devil. Deal with my medical bills.