Fred Phelps, of the gay hating Westboro Baptist Church, is near death, and though some people are taking the moral high ground and not using this as an opportunity to say awful things about Mr. Phelps, I’m not one of them.
I hope, if there is a Hell, Phelps suffers its flames like no other before him has. He is a walking pile of smoldering shit, a leaching parasite that death is removing from our midst far, far later than it should have. His likeness should be placed on pro-abortion advertisements which read: “If Ever A Person Needed To Be Aborted From His Mother’s Womb, It Was Phelps. His Life Was An Abortive Insult To Human Decency.” I’ve no interest in any moral high ground when it comes to expressing my feelings in regards to this festering tub of stale puke. I hope that his death is a painfully slow one, and that he remain conscious and aware throughout it. If anyone ever deserved crucifixion and a three-day cross dangle prior to expiring, it’s Phelps. I pity the poor maggots and worms that will eventually dine on the rancid, poisoned meat which clings to his rotted bones, surely no more potent a pesticide could ever exist. Goodbye, Phelps. It is proof no God exists that such a monster as you could ever have lived.