There is a story, told by our elders, about a hare, which is basically a rabbit, and a tortoise, which is a fancy word for turtle. One day, this douchebag rabbit, also known as a hare, started poking fun at this turtle, which many called a tortoise.
"Tortoise," said the hare, wanting to sound fancy, "You are unbearably slow. I have seen stoned heroin junkies move with more rapidity than you."
The hare hopped around in circles, delighted with his own cutting wit, and to show off how much faster he was.
The tortoise looked up from a bit of clover he was munching on, swallowed his mouthful, and opened his mouth to speak.
"Hare," began the slow talking tortoise, "I would not be so quick to insult, if I were you. I have seen better focus in a New York City crackhead."
"I say sir!" said the hare, again putting on airs, "I take exception to that remark!"
The tortoise shrugged, and went back to clover munching.
The hare continued, "This sleight upon my honor shall not stand. I challenge you to a race--to the death!"
"That isn't a thing," replied the the tortoise, his mouth full of clover.
"I beg your pardon?" said the hare, "did your mother never teach you to never speak with your mouth full?"
The tortoise swallowed his bite and repeated, "That isn't a thing."
"What's not a thing?" asked the hare.
"A race to the death," replied the tortoise, "is not a thing."
"And what would you know about races?" inquired the hare.
"Enough to know that a race to the death is nothing more than a figment of your fur-addled imagination."
"That shows how little you know," said the rabbit, who was also considered a hare, "indeed, we are all in a race to the death, whether we want to be or not."
The tortoise pondered this statement before replying, "So in this race, which I take is a metaphor for life, who is the winner?"
"Why, the being who dies first, of course."
Again, the tortoise pondered the hare's meaning, and replied, "Who would want to win that?"
"Who said anyone wanted to win?" said the hare, who was still hopping and pirouetting around the tortoise.
"Is that not the point of a race?" said the tortoise as he watched the hare do his dance.
"Again, you show how little you know," said the hare. "The point of a race, my hard-shelled friend, is to be the last loser."
"Which I take to mean the same thing as the first winner."
"Have you clover in your ears?" inquired the hare, "or are you as dull as you are slow?"
With that, the turtle, also known as a tortoise, reached in his shell, pulled out a revolver, and shot the hare, which was another name for a rabbit.
"Congratulations," said the tortoise, as he stood over the hare's bloodied corpse, "you win."