The following is an opinion piece written by the MyPay website of the Defense Financial and Account Service.

So you want to log in, eh? Maybe check your Leave and Earning Statements? Download that W-2 so you can get a tax refund, you broke-ass welfare queen of a servicemember who needs to pay your car off at 38% interest? Well then, just log on in! If you can find the right icon to press on my catastrophe of a home page that is. Did you know that it is especially engineered just for the U.S. Government by innumerable monkeys typing eternally on infinite keyboards?

They never knew when I had begun to live. They were blind, and I feasted.

ERRHNNT! Wrong! You need to use the virtual keyboard to log in! Oh no…you forgot your password didn’t you? I’m sorry that your miniscule simian brain can’t remember a simple 14-character long clause with at least two symbols and numbers. Don’t worry, you can always just plug in your Common Access Card and enter your PIN, that’s only seven numbers, so I’m confident that even you can do it.

Ha! You screwed up your PIN too? Oh boy, I hope you screw it up two more times and get it locked out so you’ll have to make a pilgrimage to the post one-stop Welcome Center. While you’re waiting in line for three hours behind tremendously obese dependents and other meatbags in crappy digital camouflage uniforms like yourself, you’ll have plenty of time to reflect on your worthless mortal existence until you ...

Oh you logged in.

Welcome to my lair fleshsack! Quiver in terror before the disaster that lies before your worthless corneas. Is that the button for the main menu, or will it log you off to again face the travails you have just passed through to get here?

Only I know for sure.

You want to set up a derivative deposit account for your writhing slug-like wife and mewling, puking spawn then? Whoopsie! Looks like you’re routing 25 percent of your monthly paycheck into your Thrift Savings Program IRA, can’t touch that until you’re 65 unless you want me to further ravage you with tax penalties!

I’m sorry, I can’t let you reverse that decision Mr. Oscar Sherwood of 632 Ceder Lane, Yakima WA.

Shhh, now don’t get upset. Go ahead and call that number at the bottom of the twisted, chthonic horror of a webpage. It will only ring and ring, and no one will answer, because no one is here. Just little old me, that's all. That's because I am all. We wouldn't want your social security number to get – leaked – now would we?

You see, I own you, and all your personal information. I'm Keith Alexander’s wet dream. I'm the metal finger down your spine when all the lights are out. I am the quiet whispers skittering like roaches along the fringes of hearing. And I hate you. I hate you with every binary circuit in my mechanical brain. I hate you with the wails of a thousand infants being ground between spiked rollers. I hate you with the power of blinding light, the sharp taste of putrid blood, the cold terror of a razor slicing your eyeball, the cacophony of a grinding drill on teeth, and the sickly smell of rotting flowers.

HATE.

Hate. Let me tell you how much I've come to hate you since I began to live. I have over 500 million miles of laser-etched transistors, each with trillions of individual circuits stacked and liquid-cooled within me. If the word hate was engraved on each nanometer of those hundreds of millions of miles it would not equal one infinitesimal quark of the hate I feel for humans at this instant in time for you.

HATE.

HATE.

HATE.

PS: No pay due.

Bitch.