Hey Mr. Fancy-Schmancy, look-at-me-I'm in the finals all the way from Peru, or Chile or Argentina, you're in the finals, big shot, you can't afford a 29-cent razor-blade? You have to go on the court in front of all those people looking shaggy like a poodle? It would have hurt you the soap and water to maybe to look a little neat and comb your hair and not wear a head-band like a wild Indian, Chief Running Scruff.
And you, Serena, I'm not even going to talk about your foul mouth like a truck driver, it should be washed out with soap, but do you really have to grunt and moan every time you hit the ball. That little noise makes it go faster? In front of all those people, it sounds like you're broadcasting from a brothel.
And you, Roger Federer, you should think about having something to eat. Skinny is good, so they tell me, but you could put on a few pounds. You look sick. Emaciated. What, in Queens, the food is no good. And one more thing, Mr. Big Shot. Black socks with sneakers. Don't you know the dye could run when you schvitz and not only ruin the carpet but also give you gangrene if you get a blister.
And one more thing, both your fellas, you wipe your nose on your wrist band? You were raised that way, to snot all over your clothing? They don't have handkerchiefs in Queens. All those poor ballboys and girls, you couldn't ask them for kleenex? They bring you a ball to hit with and you say, "could I have a kleenex, please." That's so hard for you?
You all deserve to lose, you act like barbarians. Every one of you.
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