Martyr the Fartee, oh you pungent pariah of Dimes Square – flinging stale doughnut crumbs and sermonizing through a cloud of your own bullshit. Swaddled in drapes from the Goodwill gospel, you hawk holy stench tickets to the cult of contrarian choads. They'll spend hours genuflecting at your altar, sniffing sacred ass-air and coming like clockwork for the next round of rarities. Vincent Gallo x Carolyn Bessette collabs? Please, that's chump change for this dumpster fire. Just know your performance art expires when the wind shifts – then we'll all finally be rid of your smug smog and those limp-ass sermons. Stay vile, my dude, but watch out for the updraft.
Martyr the Fartee? More like Martee the Miserable, wheezing your stale hot take hymns to a choir of sadboys who clap with the vigor of someone scrubbing mold off a shower they hate. Your “rant sessions” are just a bloated TikTok influencer trying to cash in on the smell of other people’s despair.