Greta Thunberg needs to get fucked. Imagine being in Alabama with this preachy prissy mumble munchkin. You pull up to the Candlewood suites in a fucking Dodge Challenger with aftermarket headers and parts that get you 11 miles per gallon. One rev of the engine and she’s already getting inexplicably moist in her room from the sound of your massive fuel-guzzling V8 roadboat.
You get out and take a minibike running on a lawnmower engine through the parking lot and into the lobby of the hotel because FUCK walking, we didn’t invent internal combustion to scuttle around with our dicks on our hands. Moonwalk down the hallway to the elevator while turning every thermostat you see on full blast and spraying CFC-saturated aerosol air fresheners everywhere. Check your phone in the elevator and hit up your broker app really quick to buy a thousand more shares of Exxon, BP, and Shell stocks while shorting anything that has to do with solar and wind because solar panels look fucking gay and windmills are for dipshits. Reach Greta’s floor, backflip into her door, breaking that shit down and sending splinters flying everywhere setting off fucking car alarms and barking dogs. Her primal Scandinavian woman survival instinct kicks in and she immediately presents herself to you from all the viking raping and pillaging burned into her Nordic DNA.
You put a plastic non-biodegradable bag from Walmart over her muppet face, set a cooked rack of barbecue ribs on the small of her back, and go to town, throwing the cleaned rib bones at the back of her stupid cantaloupe head in between thrusts. After blowing your load and covering the room in non-vegan protein, you wipe your monolithic dong on her priceless handmade native American uber-sustainable fairtrade honestly sourced hippie sweater. Jump out the fucking window into a formula 1 race car and cover the hotel in black rubber as you burnout and blaze off into another American night.