Summary: It's the 1830s. America and England have a lot of not nice things to say to each other. Historical nonsense.
Dear Pompous Ass,
I hate you.
Dear Moronic Idiot,
It's arse. And is that the best you can do, you bloody uncouth fool?
I hate you as well,
Why are you so mean? Is it because of that stick up your ass?
Not as much as I hate you,
I find your existence to be offensive. That would be why.
Don't even start that,
Two can play that game, you conceited prick.
I'll start whatever I want,
But a boorish, tobacco-spitting nation such as you can't play it well. Especially when you use my insults.
You've always been that way,
You want to bet on that? Who won that Revolution, again?
You were never able to handle it,
I'll concede to that. Perhaps you can play a little, you slavery-supporting bastard.
Why would I ever want to?
That's a low blow, you dirty cheat. I do not support it!
Because I'm awesome,
What happened to playing the game? It seems that you can't handle it.
I find that hard to believe,
Go drown in the Atlantic.
You're just jealous,
Go trip under a wagon. Isn't that what your people live in?
At least my people don't interbreed.
You're in denial,
I'm not even going to dignify that with a proper response.
Keep telling yourself that,
That's because you can't think of one. But then again, you've always been unimaginative.
You're still in denial,
P.S. Dickens isn't that great.
Take that back! The mindless drivel you call your literature can't even compare!
For God's sake, don't repeat yourself,
Defensive, aren't we?
The truth can bear repeating,
This conversation is over.
Please stop talking to me,
Fine! Mighty defensive, I see. Whatever you say. I'm done here.
I still hate you,
The feeling is mutual,
Even less love than before,