I Ought To Kick Your Ass
As far as I'm concerned, you've committed several acts worthy of ass-kickery these past few months. I'm not going to specifically recall them now, because the very process of bringing the memories up in my mind would send me into a state of rage even greater than the one I am presently in, which in turn would almost certainly amplify the quantity and velocity of the foot-to-ass relationship that is about to occur here.
That is, my foot, and your ass. It's not my ass that needs kicking, here.
It's not as if this is anything surprising; surely you must have known, even on some subconscious level, that your behavior and actions would one day lead your ass to be kicked. And I've told you -- quite repeatedly, I think you'd agree -- of my low tolerance for the sort of behavior and actions you've so brazenly demonstrated. In fact, most people would likely side with me when they realized just how patient I've been with you. If it were up to me, your ass would have been in a state of kicktitude long ago. But I've held off. For your sake. For society's sake.
After all, we don't live in a world where asses simply get kicked every time someone feels it appropriate to do, even if the owner of that particular ass may have deserved the kicking. We're not cavemen, here. I don't club my dinner and drag it back to my cave to eat. I buy it at the supermarket for $3 a pound and store it in my freezer until the time is right to properly cook it. If I desire, I may season it with various spices and marinades as it cooks. That's just the kind of person I am.
I don't see why we're delaying the inevitable. Yes, I realize that I began with a shade of ambiguity concerning whether or not the actual foot-ass contact would be made, but just getting this far has convinced me that it is now something that must be done. We simply can't continue on our present course -- that of you continually pursuing behavior conducive to ass-kickings, and me allowing my disgust with you to fester inside of myself, eventually finding outlet in inappropriate places. The trash can. The telephone. The Philipino boy who lives next door.
Or how about this: did you know I kicked my dog's ass yesterday? That's right. Sheena. That dog. The one who loyally allows me to pet her head when I feel lonely or angry, or who urinates on my floor when I have nothing better to do than clean it up anyway. I was walking behind her to the kitchen, and your face suddenly floated through my mind, like the apparition of a ghost who died of severe trauma to the ass. Without thinking, my lip curled into a snarl, and my foot shot out as if propelled by an explosion of gunpowder. I realized my error in a flash, but it was too late, for the sheer momentum of my foot carried it squarely to Sheena's ass even as I tried to retract it. That's the thing about ass-kickings: they're powerful creations, forces of nature unto themselves. Once set in motion, an ass-kicking cannot easily be undone. And as far as I'm concerned, you set this particular motion in action long ago.
You won't be able to simply dodge the ass-kicking either, as you might have already been planning to do. This isn't a visit to the in-laws or jury duty we're talking about; this is another man's appendage deliberately set on a collision course that is certain to end squarely at your rectum. You may shift your ass around in the air, wildly shaking it hither and thither as if you have discovered some hot new dance that you are hoping to use for purposes of attracting the opposite sex for fornication. "The Ass Kick", you may call it, winking lasciviously at your chosen strumpet of the evening as you are so wont to do. She may even smile back, turning her collagen-injected lips into a gross approximation of what an expression of happiness might look like on someone who still has over 45% of their original facial tissue intact.
But that smile will quickly turn into a gaping mass of surprise when she sees a blur flash by, feels the wind of it on her face. "Is this some sort of new superhero?" she'll wonder, looking wildly about the room to see if there is a crime being committed. "Is 'The Blur' about to save me from being date-raped, or impregnated with the genes of an inferior male specimen?" And indeed, if her definition of superheroes includes a powerful leg with a large foot attached to it, sent to dole out posterior punishments to all the unrighteous, she would be exactly right. You, of course, would have no time for such speculations, because the kickery would have already commenced.
I can see the wild look in your eye now as you consider a last-ditch gambit to save the integrity of your ass. A quick plane ticket, perhaps, or the construction of an elaborate ass shield to deflect my blows. Such fanciful notions will only increase the kicking by orders of magnitude you and your ass can not possibly begin to fathom. You should swallow your medicine like a man; by which I mean, your ass should not swallow my foot, but rather be pummeled by it. You may have committed near-countless transgressions to bring us to this, but I know you're not gay.