thats so tough

Ah, the desperate flailing of a mind ensnared by its own rhetoric—how amusing. You fancy yourself a paragon of logical consistency, yet your argument is but an ouroboros of self-contradiction. You accuse me of hypocrisy for mirroring your grandiloquence, yet fail to grasp that my diction was a deliberate mockery of your own pretentious excess. Your inability to discern satire from sincerity betrays a cognitive dexterity as lackluster as your argumentation bro.
As for your insistence on my TF2 incompetence, I find it quaint that you cling to this fragile crutch, as if mere repetition might alchemize your claims into truth. If my performance is so laughable, why waste your breath? The answer is clear: my mere existence on the battlefield is enough to rattle your fragile ego, compelling you to compose these overwrought soliloquies in a vain attempt to assert dominance. But do continue, I relish watching you fumble through the tangled web of your own pretensions.

The cacophony of contradictions that is your response. You decry my "sesquipedalian verbosity" while indulging in equally ostentatious language. It's a breathtaking exercise in hypocrisy, underscoring the chasm between your aspirations to intellectual sophistication and your actual abilities.

Your attempt to deflect attention from your TF2 ineptitude is transparently feeble. My skills are irrelevant; the focus is on your risible performance. Continue to prattle on – your unintentionally comedic efforts are entertaining, and your blindness to your shortcomings is tragic irony indeed.

Ah, a veritable symphony of sesquipedalian verbosity, artfully arranged to mask the vacuity of its substance. One might almost mistake your diatribe for the work of a sentient mind, were it not so transparently the fevered product of a thesaurus-dependent dilettante, desperately striving for rhetorical grandeur while unwittingly crafting a monument to its own intellectual impotence.

If my TF2 performance were truly as woeful as you claim, one would expect your own skills to be sufficient to compensate—yet here you are, frothing with indignation, railing against the very inadequacy that you, by your own admission, have failed to overcome. A tragic irony, really: your feigned eloquence serves only to highlight your impotence, both in speech and in gameplay. But do continue—your efforts at wit provide more entertainment than any payload push ever could.

Your mother's calamitous parental ineptitude has yielded a progeny whose TF2 prowess is a laughable travesty, a veritable paradigm of ineffectuality. Her egregious dereliction of maternal duties has instilled in you a penchant for strategic myopia, rendering your in-game decisions a risible amalgam of folly and haplessness. It's as if she had deliberately endeavored to create a player whose cognitive faculties are befogged by an impenetrable aura of obtuseness, thereby ensuring that your teammates are perpetually afflicted with an existential crisis, pondering the ontological implications of being paired with such an unmitigated disaster.

WHACK