Given that the career of Nick Kyrgios represents a bigger waste of talent than a late-period Robert De Niro comedy, you might think he would choose the objects of his scorn with care.
And yet the man with just two major quarter-finals to his name – the last of those over four years ago – decided this week to malign one with 15 titles, deriding Novak Djokovic as a poseur with a "cringeworthy" victory celebration and a "sick obsession with wanting to be liked".
Say what you like about Kyrgios, but he tends to punch up rather than down. That is, when he is not flouncing away from Rome's Foro Italico, as he did yesterday, apparently describing an official as a "f—— retard", and being disqualified from the tournament after throwing a chair on to the court during his match against Casper Ruud.
The truculent Australian revels in a caricature as a renegade, as the agent provocateur his sport desperately needs. This has always seemed as tragic-comic as David Brent likening himself to Sir Ian Botham as one of life's lovable mavericks. For what exactly is Kyrgios rebelling against?
He grew up in middle-class comfort in Canberra, a city that would make the set of Desperate Housewives look edgy. And on whose behalf is he waging this anti-establishment crusade, other than his own?
It is his dubious skill, in all his on-court tantrums, to come across as the answer to a question nobody was asking.
Still, Kyrgios does at least furnish tennis with some low-rent vaudeville. Few could dispute, either, that his latest broadsides against Djokovic touched a nerve.
There has been a sense, ever since the world No.1 had a hand in the toppling of ATP chief executive Chris Kermode in March, that his power should be reined in. As such, Kyrgios' depiction of a figure craving the same love shown to Roger Federer is not too wide of the mark.
Indeed, one plausible explanation for the Serb's dip in form since the Australian Open is that he has been too busy positioning himself as the game's next elder statesman.
Kyrgios was also correct to call out Djokovic's awful "Wonderbra" antics after each win, in which he performs a strange shovelling motion from the chest to all four sides of the court – one that he has likened to the sharing of divine energy.
Then again, it is not as if he has a monopoly on toe-curling histrionics. The coda to Kyrgios' second-round match in Rome involved him incurring a game penalty for swearing, kicking the playing surface and finally totalling a blameless fold-up chair.
The other problem is that Kyrgios has no authority, moral or otherwise, to lecture Djokovic. He has won 34 matches at the slams, against his antagonist's 265. True, age has played its part, but Djokovic picked up five of his majors before his 25th birthday, which Kyrgios celebrates next year.
This did not stop the younger man – who, curiously, has a 2-0 head-to-head record – from boasting: "I've played him twice and, I'm sorry, if you cannot beat me, you cannot be the greatest of all time. If you look at my day-to-day routine, at how much I train, it's zero compared to him."
It is one of Kyrgios' many quirks that he somehow considers his indolence a badge of honour. This creates a safety net, a way for him to blather about how brilliant he would be if he could even be halfway bothered.
For too long, tennis has swallowed this notion of tortured genius. Kyrgios seldom appears a prime candidate for Mensa membership.
Take a couple of gems from this week's outburst. "If I was Andy's coach, he would have won more slams, for sure," he says of his close friend Andy Murray, ignoring his steadfast resistance to any regular coaching himself, not to mention his penchant for trying tweeners at vital points in best-of-five-set contests.
Or what about this observation of Djokovic? "He wants to be Federer. I just can't stand him." Trouble is, Kyrgios' logic about attention-seeking rather falls down when so many of his own fits of pique seem designed towards precisely that end.
Kyrgios would have found allies for his anti-Djokovic posture, not that many of them are likely to declare their hand. There is unease that Djokovic has been grandstanding, that he threw his weight around excessively to unseat Kermode.
In a sport of frequent backbiting, the former ATP kingpin was among the few uniformly popular people, who enriched tennis' coffers immeasurably. It was galling, then, to see him usurped at the hands of a player who has yet to show he can run a single tournament, let alone a tour. In 2013, his Serbia Open was dropped from the calendar, having failed to attract enough leading players or major sponsors.
Djokovic was also noticeably uncomfortable when pressed in Rome about his leadership of the players' council, arguing that the stories of his undue influence on the sport's direction were just media concoctions.
If there are legitimate grievances about Djokovic's role in tennis, however, Kyrgios is hardly best-qualified to raise them.
Whether in ability, sportsmanship, class, or in what they have done for the sport, there is a chasm between the two. Djokovic might not be to everyone's taste, but he deserves better than to be mocked by a mewling malcontent with ideas far above his station.