I spit at thee, thou illegitimate offspring from the unholy union of an extruded-plastic abomination of science and a shoddy excuse of a parody of a copy of an electric motor. The shame to your product family that is your misbegotten existence was so great that your service manual was ritually renounced, then burned, in the hidden places. Your waxen cord was a thing of sick tangles and tiresome snags that stood in sullen, non-Euclidean defiance of the Golden Spiral; hating that which it could never emulate, and contrary by choice for the dark pleasure of it. A dinosaur died in pain and agony to produce the petroleum products that were used to fashion your carapace, and that dinosaur died in vain. Throwing you to the curb is better than you deserve; in a just universe, you would be tied to a stake (BECAUSE HEAVEN FORBID THAT YOU BE CAPABLE OF BEING SUCCESSFULLY LEANED AGAINST A VERTICAL SURFACE FOR MORE THAN TWO SECONDS), melted down with a flamethrower, then sunk in the deepest part of the sea with chains and sigils to weight your journey to the cold, heavy dark.
…I need to eat something.