It's Like Shakespeare

I consider myself a master of piercing insults. When I was younger, my friends and I played a lot of pool. Partly because we were under drinking age and none of us were willing to break the rules and sneak any beer from our parents' fridges. Also partly because my parents had a weird mid-life crisis and bought a pool table to go in the middle of the living room. No TV allowed in that house, but you want to hit hard objects towards our expensive French doors? Go right ahead! I'll even rack!
Anyway, our games usually turned vicious. First-borns were wagered, people lost thumbs. It was truly a site to behold. My personal contribution to the madness was coming up with insults, creative barbs to toss around at my opponents. Some of my favorite gems:
I hope your kids call the mailman "Dad."
I hope you momentarily forget where you live and wander into a brothel that's about to be raided.
I hope you show signs of premature balding.

Now, I'll admit that while I cracked myself with those witty remarks, I never really intended for them to hit their mark. When one of my friends began to whine at me everyday about his supposed receding hairline, (FOR THE GAZILLIONTH TIME-IT'S JUST A BAD HAIRCUT, NOT A GENETIC SIGN OF AGING!) I began to regret the carefree way I threw insults around. So now, my form of insult goes more like:
You're off my Christmas card list.
You're a turd.
I hope your hairdresser accidentally gives you bangs.
I hope your wife is so doped on pain meds that she names your first born Big Boobs McGee.

I can tell that you are all jealous of my superiors wit. If you would like to hire me to write a callous letter to your friends/family/coworkers, let me know. I charge per word.