Bully me you I exemplified archetypal scapegoat

Bully me you, I exemplified archetypal scapegoat... who suffered cuts by a thousand knives. Even as old (dish) married (spooning) curmudgeon, who receives social security disability linkedin with social anxiety) chose the fork less traveled aye pucker with sunken cheeks, (especially without dentures) and raspily suction toothless mouth drawing reminiscent guffaws affecting attempt impersonating plumber (think suctioning and unclogging toilet) please support your local bummer back in the day one long haired pencil neck geeks palled around with another hirsute nerd - Roger Kummerer, (who both of us graduated Methacton High School class of 1977), and yours truly readily admitting, alluding, and attesting without shadow of doubt representing the dumber than rocks of said beastie boys bandits, donning particolored pachyderm gabardine garb getup trumpeting, especially as Mummer on each New Year's Day with bare ass tuchus excellently imitating courtesy said orifice (as chief motormouth) sound of combo motorboat hummer. Ah... the joys of amazingly aging gracefully happily recalling never being beat into bloody pulp dully imagining dimming sense and sensibility before (appearing gratefully dead) lifeless body dumped into gully, nevertheless all the while fully maintaining conscious, and forcefully summoning forth latent powers gleefully choking living daylights masterfully delivering just desserts upon Tom Viglione, whose plaintive laments truthfully resonate as blessed music to ears unaccustomed hearing pitifully sounding long overdue comeuppance forever disbelieving wrongfully perpetrated injustice witnessed impossible mission fueling an ordinarily meek lad only in his dreams, he envisions zestfully. Pugnacious thuggish hooligans... although decades passed (into the black hole sink of space/time continuum) long since elapsed, whereby hoodlums jockeyed to rain upon the head of yours truly, who weathered figurative brickbats by remaining analogous to a deaf-mute person one after another verbal blow threatening introverted diminutive boy who, no surprise did eventually, albeit (stuntedly) grow (as an aside resembled anorexic Santa Claus ho... ho... ho...) still wracked, impacted, affected..., this punster, he haint Joe King, nor the Riddler, but upholds valuable humor less or mo' feebly, lamely, and quirkily aspires toward po' whit tree linkedin with infusing, (no matter ex post facto) freeing mine unsung hero, and perchance if I threw a judicious punch (rearranging the face of thugs) subsequently winning the respect towards those beastie boys, who would know better next time, when they come back to town than to tangle (mane lee) with the likes of me.