In a forest of quim you wander: dickless, feckless, and petulant.
Your brain has compensated for your lack of testicles by making every sentence you speak utter balls.
And when, at the end of your sour and foetid life, your soul emerges from its decayed and withered husk, St. Peter will look at you in disgust, cram your soul into a tin can, and chain you to the rock at the end of purgatory where you will spend eternity amongst half-borns and aborted imbeciles.