A normal insult does not befit you. You deserve only the most inventive insults for a person with repulsiveness of your calibre. That sounds like a positive thing at first, but it's not.
You are the scum of the earth. Not even the Earth – you are the scum of the universe.
If you were to travel in your scum-spaceship to distant nebulae, where particles of the elements and building blocks of our reality intertwine, atoms and ageless gas clouds would circulate around you and would suddenly develop the sentience to think to themselves, “Ew. That person is scum.”
You're like some weird Japanese product that normal people would have no use for.
Or obscure Taxes.
Or the iPad.
WHY DO YOU EXIST?!
You are the coffee stain on my pristine white tablecloth.
You are the malaria-spreading mosquito that buzzes around my ears when I'm trying to sleep.
You are that one little bit of yoghurt that spills on to my new shirt.
I can't enjoy yoghurt because of you.
You are a joke.
You are not just a joke.
You are a bad joke.
If the world's best comedians got up on stage at a comedy festival and did as little as say your name, they would be booed off the stage, have rotten fruit thrown at them, be chased by a lynch mob, and then be sent back in time to Medieval Britain to be hung, drawn and quartered alongside William freakin' Wallace.
And oh my goodness, your mere presence can make waves.
Don't go to the beach, because if you waded into the water, the water would be so revolted by you standing in it that it would simply EXPLODE OUTWARDS FROM YOU. FORCIBLY. Rendering many people dead, or with severe concussion or blindness.
And don't think that this can make you walk on water.
No way would the water let you do a Jesus. It would part, and let you fall hundreds of metres down to the sea floor.
The only reason that the sand and earth's crust wouldn't part is because the planet tolerates you.
But humans are special creatures, and thus have the power to NOT tolerate you.
Your personality is so vile in every single way, that I have reason to believe it could be used for birth control.
Scientists could clone you, and then genetically engineer the clones so that they grew to only a few centimetres in height, LITERALLY make miniature copies of you, put them in boxes, and sell them to horny couples.
So that whenever they felt like getting it on, they could just get the mini-you out, look at it, and instantly be rendered PERMANENTLY INFERTILE.
I might write a song about you. It'll have the same title as this blog post, and the same words as this blog post. The exact same words. It'll just be set to a repetitive guitar melody, played on a guitar that is out of tune, designed specifically to annoy the living FISHCAKES out of you.
And it shall be oh so sweetly cathartic.
And now, I have run out of inventive things to say about you, so I will simply resort to shouting at you through text.