Your momma looks like a ninja turtle.

I particularly like the absence of “Teenage Mutant” here. Don’t forget that she’s old and run-of-the-mill as well.





Your teeth are throwing gang signs.

To an unfortunate young man who had to cancel the barbecue.





Your momma looks like a walrus.

Have you looked at one of these things recently? The ratio of insult to letters here is high.





You look like you smell like the inside of a Hollister store.

You know just what this guy looked like. You know how much gel he had in his hair and whether his jeans had gratuitous stitching and sequins on the back pockets. This is a true masterpiece.





You know hunters and gatherers? Back in the day? Yeah, you would have been a gatherer.

Said so nonchalantly to a colleague of mine that I nearly shot chai tea out my nose. The key was that it started as a sincere question and ended in existential despair and a debate about misogyny altogether.





Your butt stank.

The audacity and simplicity here does a lot to impart real insecurity on the roastee. That kid went straight to bathroom after this comment.





Below we have the “Directed at Your Humble Narrator” division:





You look like you make your own mayonnaise.

It’s hurtful because . . . well . . Guys, it’s honestly like a million times tastier.





Look we all have room for improvement. I’m working on my thesis; you’re trying to become a good teacher.

This student clearly understands the psyche of his victim. Insult my clothes or my looks all you want. It will roll off me like water off a duck’s back. But come for my calling? Even though he undercut it with the mention of his thesis (I must be doing something right), this one stung.





When Mr. C gets mad it’s like the hulk. When you get mad it’s like Voldemort.

I wasn’t totally sure this was an insult. I get it—I’m evil and not so ripped. Is that such a bad thing?





You’ve really let yourself go.

Told me to by a student that might have honestly had no interest in insulting me. Which of course makes it infinitely worse. Just a glance at my shoes tracing its way up into eye contact and a straight delivery. That kid is lucky I’d already written her rec letters.