No matter if this series is ironic or sincere, you need to have a specific kind of fucked-up-ness (like the "Euphoric Brothers") to develop, publish, charge 5 bucks for the bare minimum viable "product" of a mascot horror game where neither the mascots nor the settings don't make sense at all in the grand scheme of things (It's a Kindergarten, but the architect really must have loved them sterile SCP-ass laboratories) and where every facet of the game is a rush job, like the models. A brain blender of a game, uninspired and braindead. Bizarre, only for the MatPats of the world to grossly consume it's bare intestines for other content.

TL;DR
When the Josh be Jumboin, numba 2

In every single waking hour of the days that make up the gregorian calendar, I think to myself about how much I absolutely detest the woefully pathetic image of your existence.

If every atom within every universe inside every multiverse on the planes of reality within every timeline were accounted for, their paltry numbers wouldn't be enough to fill a single angstrom of the colossal monument that is my hatred for the knowledge that your presence is within any of my six senses. A single syllable of your title brings about a swift malevolent annihilation of which the likes no one has ever seen or heard of before in reality or in legend.

For you, mild resentment.