Category Archives: Letter

When I’m On My Period

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downloadWhen I’m on my period I get cramps so bad that it feels like a clown is twisting my guts up like a balloon animal.

When I’m on my period it feels like there is so much pressure on my uterus, like more pressure than that band fun. is under to make a follow up album to their magnum opus Some Nights.

When I’m on my period I’m just like “Gary, get out of my room. You’re not even my real dad and I can see you hair plugs”

When I’m on my period I just want to give my bufu boss a piece of my mind. Cuz like, I work my fucking fingers to the bone at the Old Navy and I get like zero cred. I work so hard, I swear. Like on Wednesday I must have folded 50 pairs of Sweater Pants™ and then he had the audacity to yell at me while I was trying to take a nap in the stock room. Like, are you serious? I work so fucking hard. I don’t need to take this from your cheesy ass. The Old Navy would prob be out of business if it wasn’t for me. #giveasistasomecred #wudja?

When I’m on my period I’m seriously like so fatigued that even when I give myself 5-hour energy enemas up my boo-hiney hole, I only fun-band-style1stay awake for like 2 and a half hours. UGH!

When I’m on my period all I want to listen to is that song We Are Young by that band fun. on repeat and eat Yoplait and the freshest strawberries that Whole Foods has to offer. Cuz like I saw this documentary about food processing on Netflix and now I’m like an activist or whatever and a die-hard Yogurtarian.

When I’m on my period I hate my boyfriend so much that I just want to inhale his microscopic plankton dilly like that whale shark on Planet Earf.

When I’m on my period I get such splitting headaches that it feels like a bunch of chinamen are inside my skull banging on gongs and I’m like “okay, seriously? like, if you want to bang on fucking gongs then go back to you own overpopulated, filthy country, Chun Lin. Don’t think we forgot about Pearl Harbor. Or Vietnam. Or Korea. Or the Huns. Or the Mongols. For realz don’t test me cuz I’m totz on my period and everything and I’m like not in the mood for nonsense. And the way I see it, unless you’re Jackie Chan you have no fucking business here. I’m talking specifically to you Lucy Liu. Your new show Elementary on CBS looks like a fat stack of shit covered dick. And if I have to listen to Gangnam Style I’m going to go Enola Gay all over the place.”

When I’m on my period I just want to like, go out for lattes with Kristen Stew Stew, then fingerbang her in the Starbucks bathroom, then strangle her to death with my bare hands, then chop her up into little pieces and then eat her thereby consuming her essence, thus inevitably causing Robby Pattinson to fall in love with me. Cuz that’s how much I love K Stew. Cuz like did you see Breaking Dawn? Cuz like, SOOO much better than Lincoln.

When I’m on my period I’m like “Ugh, I don’t feel like going to Pure Barre today. I’m just going to throw up all the yogurt and strawberries I ate instead.”

images (2)When I’m on my period it’s like, GUSH! Seriously. Like I’m surprised I don’t pass out from all the blood loss. It’s like The Shining but instead of the hallway filling up with vamp juice, it’s my Hello Kitty panties that I stole from The Old Navy. I even tried putting in multiple tampys, but I just ended up getting one stuck so deep in my boombox that my gyner-cologist  had to dig in there with forceps and yank that sucker out. I KNOW! Totez TMI, but whatevs because I’m all like “It’s my body and if I wanna clog it with excess tampys and then shout about it from the rooftops then I’m gonna do just that because last time I checked, I was a privileged white girl in AMERICA, not some starving African with fly-head and crazy belly having their heads chopped off by KONY 2012.”

When I’m on my period I just have like the zaniest cravings. Like I won’t be satisfied until I get ‘zactly what I need. Like last month, I just had to have an audio recording of Michael Buffer saying “Let’s Get Ready To Rumble” on loop while I shotgunned Dr. Pepper 10′s in my garage. I’m all like, seriously DP? Not for women? Why don’t you just munch on this hemoglobin-filled muff-hole until it looks like you put on fiery red  lipstick and then go ahead and kiss my privileged white female ass, you fucking snaggletoothed vibrating dildie. I’m a gawldern independent woman and I’ll be damned if I’m gonna let all the hard work that B’ Day, Sasha Fierce and the rest of the Destiny’s Children put in to this movement go to waste just cuz some sexist fucks at the Dr. Pepper corporation decided that they wanted to be cleft-lipped faggots and make a misogynist advertising campaign!

When I’m on my period I can get pretty worked up about soft drinks or whatever.

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What’s the Deal with Jupiter?

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I know I’m not the only one wondering, what’s the fucking deal with Jupiter?

It’s so big and I’m all like “are you made out of rock or something? C’mon dog you’re probably heavy as shit. You’re making all the other planets look bad with you’re obesity. Like, you’re supposed to be REPRESENTING our solar system out there. And I don’t want to stir up shit or whatever – buuuuuuut I heard those buttfucking queef huffers from Alpha Centauri saying this-n-that bout your chunky buns. And I don’t know about you, Jupiter, but I’m not gonna sit around and let those bumpkin-ass, binary-star-system-having, Alpha Centaurian dick-legged bungholes talk about our solar system like that. Tighten it up, bro. You ever heard of Michelle Obama? You gotta eat your greens, guy. Do a lunge or two. Republican or Democrat, I think everybody can agree you husky. Just tighten it up.”

And what’s going on with that red big spot? I was thinking it might be malignant but Doc Lipshwitz said it was a storm or something and I’m all like “damn Jupiter, how long is that storm gonna last? Get your shit together. Nobody is going to want to live on you if you got a big red storm brewin’ all the live long day.

I’ll tell you what you need to do: Go see your doctor and get you some Valtrex. Once daily Valtrex will clear that unsightly red sore up in a week or so. Tell your doctor if your immune system isn’t normal because of bone marrow or kidney transplant. It’s about suppression, Jupiter.”

You know what, you look like that planet off of Star Wars and I’m like ”Show a little originality. Have you seen Saturn? With the rings and shit? So cool. Everybody in the Solar System thinks so. We’re all like ”Damn son, nice rings. Looks like you’re hula hooping or some tight shit like that.”

Why don’t you do something like that? Get yourself a gimmick, Ju-ju. Mars has that face, Earth has monkeys and turtles, Neptune has a badass trident, Pluto is all like ”Fuck y’all. I don’t even want to be a planet anymore. I’m outtie-5,000″, and Uranus has a great sense of humor. What do you got? Besides a giant Herpes cold-storm flaring up. You got jack shit. Get a gimmick, kid.

Maybe you could grow your sideburns out like an old timey guy. Go 18th Century all over everybody’s asses. How do you think D.D. Lewis keeps winning so many Grammy’s? He goes 18th Century on everybody’s ass on the reg. I heard for his role of Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Slayer he was growing out the hair on his inner thighs so it’s like sideburns for his dick. Abe Lincoln dick-sideburns freeing slaves and taking names. Emancipating his dick from not havin’ kickass ‘burns. You know he is gonna win all the Grammy’s for that shit.”

And what’s up with all those moons? Seriously. I’m all like “You gay? All them moons make you look gay or something. And there’s nothing wrong with that. My friend Scooter is gay as all get out but we are buds to the max. Best buds. To the max. You know how gay guys know all about how girls like to be kissed and fingered and stuff? Well, me and Scooter are such best buds to the max that he lets me practice all my moves on him and he provides productive criticism thus revealing the secrets of the sacred feminine. Like he even taught me how to do it “Siskel and Ebert Style”- two thumbs up. He said that makes chicks go primal and I believe him. Cuz he’s gay.

All I’m saying, Big Jup, is be real. We’re not here to be Judge Judy, casting stones all which-a-way. It ain’t gonna go down like that. Just fess up. We know you’re gay. Everybody knows. If you want to take that herpes infested red dick of yours and shove it inside Mercury until you blow a gaseous wad inside his shit-pipe, then be my guest. But I don’t appreciate you lying to us about it. What you don’t think you can trust us? Dang Jup, that’s cold as my Nana’s vulva. She’s dead now but even during life she had poor circulation so you that swedish-made vulva was chillatenous. And after all we been through, what with my Nana just dying and all, now you’re telling me you don’t even trust me? Well you know what Jup, YOU’RE NOT EVEN WORTH IT.

Don’t choke on your own dick.

Signed,

P. Dick ‘n’ Sons

Letter to Adam Sandler

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Dear Adam a.k.a The Sand Man

I love The Honukkah Song! It’s seriously like one of my top 3 favorite songs. It goes, in no particular order, The Honukkah Song, Linger by The Cranberries, and Fuckin’ In The Butt by David Allen Coe. But seriously, Honukkah Song is the nipples. Like, the part where you start naming all the famous people that are Jewish? Love it. LOVE IT. How’d you think of that anyways? You’re so creative and funny. You must come up with so much wacky stuff. That’s probably why you are a famous movie star and everything. I mean, I’m not technically Jewish or whatever but you seriously make it look like so much fun. So jeal. Thanks for everything.

Love,

Pud D.

A Letter from Camp

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Dear Mumsy,

Camp Gooseneck is as wonderful as I could have ever imagined! How silly I feel that I was so nervous before. You were right, this is turning out to be the best two weeks of my life so far!

My counselor’s name is Chadwick and he is a righteous cool dood. He has curly hair and wears plaid pants and plays Sister Hazel songs on his acoustic. He says he doesn’t like to wear shirts because they stifle his nips. He says his nipples need to breathe or else they get dry and when they get dry they get cracked and when they get cracked they get chapped. He says if he showed up for lifeguard duty with chapped nappies, it would beget a pussy drought dryer than the Dust Bowl of the Dirty Thirties. I don’t know what that means, but I believe it. And Mumsy I must admit, his nipple breathing techniques seem to be working. They are the healthiest in the whole wide camp. With the circumference of a Sacagawea golden dollar, they are truly a sight to be seen. They are THE wonder of Cabin Apache.

Some nights Chadwick lets us sneak out and play pranks on those cuntdicks in Cabin Sioux. “Everybody knows that the Sioux are a bunch of sackless dickheads, who wouldn’t know a piece of pussy from a pile of hamburger meat if it smacked them on the chodeshaft.” That’s what Chadwick says. I don’t know what it means, but I believe it. Anywho, one night we painted our faces all camouflage-like and snuck down to their cabin and pissed all over their clothes and in their shoes and duct-taped this one codpiece named Jacob to his bed and put a plastic bag over his face until his eyes rolled back in his head and his breathing stopped while Tommy whispered “Don’t you ever let me catch you even looking at Cynthia Mossberg again, you pot-marked tampon string!” It was CLASSIC!

I made all my bunkmates friendship bracelets in Arts’n’Crafts as a symbol of our being bros and all.  We also made a blood oath that we would die for each other. We all pricked our fingers and rubbed our blood all together. Nothing brings a group of young men closer than rubbing their open sores together. Black Bobby wasn’t allowed to take part in the blood oath though, because Clarke said that if we caught any of Black Bobby’s sickle cells in our bloodstream, we would all turn black and we collectively decided that we’d prefer to be white. Nothing against black folks, you understand, it was just a personal decision. You know, you always hear that there is this hidden cost to being African-American. Whether it is the statistically lower pay or the higher rates of heart disease, HIV/AIDs, and diabetes or just the subtle everyday racism of the white hegemony. The only way to make it as a black in this country is to sell crack rock or have a wicked jump shot. I think I’d rather just stay white, thank you very much.

Last week, me and this girl named Sharon from Cabin Cherokee went on a canoe ride around the lake. It was a blast! We parked our canoe behind the big branch that hangs over the edge of the lake and she took off her bikini bottoms and showed me the little brown hairs she had sprouted on her hoo-hoo cooch that everyone in camp was talking about. She pulled out a baggie from her satchel and emptied it into a spoon. She dropped some lake water in and then used a match to heat up the bottom of the spoon. She sterilized her needle in the lake, after finding the biggest vein in my arm, and gave me a shot that she said “would make me forget about when Daddy would rub his zipper up and down my spine.” I didn’t know what that meant, but I believed it. We sat in that canoe for what seemed like hours, sipping from her canteen, listening to Break On Through by the Doors, and slobbering on ourselves. I don’t want to speak too soon, but Mumsy, I think Sharon might be the ONE.

There is a large creature that lives in the woods behind the ropes course. At night we hear his blood thirsty howls and the cries of children he has trapped in his forest cave. Camp lore says that he devours the souls of campers and  drains out all their blood and innards into a large gourd. Then he takes their bones and grinds them into a fine powder. Once the blood gourd has been brought to a steady boil over an open fire, he mixes in the bone meal and a pinch of brown sugar. Let that simmer for about 15 to 20 minutes, just long enough for the flavors to really coalesce. Then let it cool for about 5 minutes to seal in the taste, and you are left with with what the counselors call Gooseneck Bloodmeal.

Chadwick says as long as they give the monster 3 campers from every camp session, his appetite is quelled long enough to prevent him from attacking the whole camp. It’s for the greater good he says. Campers should feel honored to be selected for the sacrifice. For the greater good.  It is through the spilling of their virginal blood that the monster is satisfied and lets us play capture the flag and go canoeing and have talent shows. For the greater good. Baxter Culpepper, from Cabin Chickasaw, went missing several days ago. The other campers and I have begun to speculate that he has been selected. Probably all that is left of him by now is a pile of hair and teeth. For the greater good.

But that was days ago. The creature is hungry again.His howls have been louder the past several nights. It’s about time for a new selection to be made. Oh! Mumsy, you will never guess what just happened. As I am writing you this very letter, a group of counselors in dark hooded robes have burst into my cabin. They are currently binding my feet and hands. I will admit, it does make writing this letter a bit more difficult. Now they have put a burlap sack over my head. I apologize if my handwriting is suffering, it is difficult to see with the sack and all. Now they are dragging me by my feet through the woods and chanting ominously. I must give credit where credit is due, it is sort a catchy little number. Well, the creatures howls are now upon me, so I must be going. For the greater good!

Give Papa and little Susanne my love! Ta-ta!

Love,

Pudding Dickenson

P.S. could you send me some of those toffies I like so dearly?

I Got Picked for ROAD RULES!

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Jackpot! ChaCHING! Who’s got two middle fingers aimed your direction and is gonna be the next MTV reality star? I’m gonna hit the open road in that Winnebago with the cow skull on the grill and 5 total strangers between the age of 18 and 24: A slut, a religious fanatic, a gay guy, a douchey homophobic jock-strap with gelled hair, and a minority.

My role in the gang will be the recovering drug addict ex-convict that struggles with his tempestuous past. See, my dad used to beat me. My girlfriend used to beat me. My aunt Tess used to burn me with cigarette butts. I was molested by my SCUBA instructor. I used to have a speech impediment. I had tuberculosis. So I started smoking grass. Monkey grass. I smoked so much monkey grass that my Gram-gram kicked me to the curb. I was living in the sewers, eating nothing but half eaten hotdogs and old shoelaces. I was blowing all the cash that I earned from drawing caricatures of tourists at the boardwalk on that stankity-ass sticky-icky monkey weed from Lowe’s Home Improvement. One time I smoked so much monkey grass that the whole left side on my body went paralyzed for like 3 months. I could only talk out of the side of my mouth like Greta Van Susteren and I just laid under a grate in the sewer hoping somebody would drop some hotdog or lose a flip flop. I once starred on the internet porn site “GooseneckCocks.cum” under the pseudonym Solomon Soysausage, in order to make enough money to feed my addiction. I also killed my whole family with gardening sheers I stole from Lowe’s while re-upping on that sweet ape cheeba. But then I sent in my audition tape, got selected, and now I’m ready to turn over a new leaf.

Obviously I’m going to cause lots of drama in the Winni, so that I’ll get lots of screen time and be famous as fuck. I’m going to double stuff cream pie the Slut with the Douchey Jock. She will get pregnant and we won’t know who be dat baby daddy, so we will go halfsies on an abortion, much to the dismay of the religious zealot. To make it up to him, I’m gonna ask if I can say Grace at supper, then use it as an excuse to thank God for allowing abortions. Then I’m going to tell the minority “I’m not racist, some of my best friends are black.” And I’m not going to talk to the gay guy whatsoever. Cuz I don’t want to get cooties. Midway through the season, I’m going to shatter my sobriety by going on a hardcore monkey grass binge until the left side of my body goes completely paralyzed. My castmates will have to push me around in a wheelchair and wipe the drool from my chin.

Once I’m in Road Rulez, I’m going to bungee jump my absolute tits off. I can see it now, there I am dangling by my ankles from an elastic rope, high off adrenaline and monkey junk, with my tits some 4o feet below at the bottom of the Grand Canyon. They’ll probably let me bungee jump off the Goodyear Blimp into a volcano. I’m going to be SO NERVOUS! Cuz I’m afraid of heights and lava. Those are probably like my two biggest fears. My third biggest fear is either Lowe’s running out of monkey dope, or my aunt Tess coming back to life, pulling the garden sheers from her forehead, and chasing me down and burning my butthole with the ashes from a tobacco pipe.

After the season is over and I’m a notorious Road Rules personality, I can just do Real World vs. Road Rule challenges until the end of my days. I’ll do physical challenges like hitting some Real World fuck-stick with a foam noodle and they’ll fall into a swimming pool full of eels. Since that is just a seasonal gig, I can invest my time and money into the technology to upload my consciousness onto the internet. Like TRON. I’m going to wear florescent spandex suits that  make my gooseneck cock look stout as a Guinness Draft.

Concerning the Annual PTA Luau Luncheon

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Dear Don,

Sharon and I just wanted to thank you and Vicki for coming over to our annual PTA Luau Luncheon last Sunday. Your support for the education of the children in this community is much appreciated, of course. However, there is an issue I feel I must address. My wife and I certainly consider ourselves “with it.” We’re no squares. We’re hip to the jive. We’re fresh to death. We call 4-1-1. I smoked a little weed in college with my frat bros and Sharon experimented with her sexuality back in her college days. Still, we considered your behavior a bit unsettling. We offer an array of tropical alcoholic beverages at the luncheon with the assumption that they will be consumed in moderation. Many of our guests agree that your excessive drinking was offensive. We also heard from several parents that you were crushing up and snorting lines of ecstasy on our living room coffee table, as well as smoking doobies in the aviary. This is simply unacceptable. The final straw was when I had to generously loan you a pair of slacks because you soiled your own. The second final straw was when you and  your wife had noisy violent intercourse in Anthony’s tree house within earshot of the everyone at the luncheon. Therefore, we regret to inform you that, because of this behavior, you will be placed in probationary status on the PTA board. Please refer to your PTA handbook or contact me if you have any further questions.

Sincerly,

Dr. Vincent Upchuck

P.S. I would appreciate if you would return my borrowed slacks. They are Izod (very expensive). Also, Sharon and I have decided it would be best to tear down and rebuild Anthony’s tree house because of its recent contamination. I expect that you will contribute to the construction costs.

Dear Dr. Upchuck,

Vicki and I had a wonderful time at the PTA Luau Luncheon that you and your wife graciously hosted. You throw one heck of a shindig. Our enjoyment was certainly influenced by the ecstasy we railed off your coffee table, and although the tropical drinks were not as stout as Vicki and I would have preferred, coupled with the sexcstacy, they did the trick. I whole-heartedly apologize if you found our behavior offensive. We didn’t realize that you and the rest of the parents at the luncheon had pussies for asses. Like, instead of buttholes you just have a vagina that you poop out of. As for my pending probationary status, you and the PTA board can eat mine and Vicki’s dick. And on the topic of Anthony’s treehouse, I will not be contributing to construction costs. It seems like the whole endeavor will be a waste of time. Vince, quit lying to yourself, that corn-holing little queen would rather have a sewing machine than a treehouse. You should learn to accept him for who he is.

Sincerely,

Don Ertwhiszt

P.S. I’ll have Clarissa drop those slacks by your office on Thursday.

Dear Don,

I was under the assumption that we would be able to handle this issue like mature adults, but apparently not. Your response to the incident at the Luau and the PTA decision is appalling and unforgivable, but I would defend to the death your right to say it. That’s because I’m an American. My parents were Americans. My Grandparents. My Great-Great-Great Grandfather served with General Washington when he forced the British to surrender at Appomattox Courthouse. The same can’t be said about your first generation Jew-gasing Kraut ass.  And for the record, Anthony is not gay, he is just eccentric because he is artistic. Ms. Horne has selected a few of his watercolor still-lifes to enter into the state art showcase. We are very proud of his creative and sensitive qualities and I assure you, he is not gay. Just because he’s not as sexually active as your huge 4th grade slut daughter, Alisha, who all the parents know got fingered on the jungle gym by 6th graders, does not make him a homosexual.

Sincerely,

Dr. Vincent Upchuck

Dear Dr. Butt-Pussy,

It’s funny that you bring up that rumor about the 6th graders, because I heard from the other parents that Anthony got fingered on the jungle gym too. In the butt. Because he’s gay. I won’t deny that Alisha is very sexually active. It’s a side effect of her being popular and smoking hot and and always getting invited to go to the movies and pool parties with 6th graders. Unlike Anthony. The only action he has seen since he got in the 4th grade is me and Vicki buttering the skids in his tree house. He’s welcome, by the way. And I’ve seen his still-lifes, they look like bear shit.

Sincerely,

Don Ertwhiszt

The New Old Me

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Sharon,

I’m going to be Frank. I’m better at being Earnest when I can be Frank. But I just don’t want to seem like a Dick because of how Frank I am. So hopefully, you’ll read this, realize how Earnest and Frank I am being, while simultaneously not trying to act like the Dick I have been, then maybe you Will meet me for a cup of Joe. That’s the least you could Grant me. I know we’ve been going through some real booshit lately and I know I’ve Ben aloof. Aloof as shit. So aloof that I lost touch with who I was. So aloof that I lost touch with who YOU were. But I just wanted you to know that the old me, the me you fell in love with, is back. And I’m here to stay, baby. It’s like the new me got so preoccupied with working and paying the bills and getting the oil changed and eating edamame and taking Darren to Taekwondo practice that I forgot what was really important. Us, Sharon. That’s all there is. You, me, and that precious little Kenyan boy in there that took 3 years of clawing and scratching to adopt. Yous guys are everything to me. And the new old me sees that now, something that the new me wasn’t capable of. That new me is all in the past now Sharon. That’s the old new me. You know, the old new me lost his sense of adventure and spontaneousness. You saw it. I saw it. Darren was even beginning to ask questions. “Diddy,” he’d say “why don’t you hit on Krista’s mom anymore at Taekwondo? She’s beginning to think that you don’ t really like her or see a future with her. You can’t just do that stuff, Dad. You can’t just give someone, especially my sparring partner’s Mom, the best late afternoon fuck sesh of their life and then act like that person doesn’t exist. You didn’t raise me that way. And I know Grandpa didn’t raise you that way. Now get in there, and show Mrs. Thompson that you are the person that she thinks you are. Or don’t, and prove us all right. Me. Krista. Mom. Mrs. Thompson. We all see that you have changed and are not the same man. So, do what you want, just know that we are not going to be here to help you and console you when the bottom drops out, bucko. Know that shit.” Well, no more of that corduroy wearing pencil-pusher, Sharon, I swear. I’m the new and improved new old me again and for good this time. You remember, the me that always had weed and change for a dollar. The me that always tried to finger you once they turn the lights down in the movie theater. The me that shaves Mickey Mouse into his curly-pubes. The me that always carries a gun, just in case things get Harry. I’m back babe. I’m the new old me, again. Now fire up the Hyundai Sonata, we’re going to CiCi’s.

Love,

Frank, Earnest, Dick, Will, Joe, Grant, Ben, and Harry

Skype Me On My B-Day!

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HeY gUrL hEy! HaVeN’t SeEn YoU iN FO-EVAAAA! MuSt HaVe A sKyPe SeSh AsAp. I can NOT w8 2 talk 2 U. I was thinking, my B-dAy is coming up, and it would be gr8 if we could do it then, because the only gift this little Hello Kitty asian school-girl could ever want would be to see your presh punnam (well, and a pair of new Steve Madden’s and for the gyno-saur to be a little more gentle with my delicates next time I go in for a pappysmudge.) Don’t worry about those last two though, I’ll just ask my g-mizzle for those. She may not make it to my next birthday, so I’m gonna make her load me up on presents this year. It’s not that she’s that old or sickly or anything. It’s just she just got mixed up with Mikhail and the Russians over some money down at the races. Dad says any day now they are going to bust in and cut off her hands and sell the rest of her old organs on the Russian African-American market and then feed her leftovers to the g33se at the park. That’s why those things are so mean, they’ve got a taste for human blood. Like Vampires, but less homoerotic. Girl, you know I’m Team Jacob.

Oh giiiirl, you are going to shit on your Dad’s dickhole when I tell you what Liz told me yesterday. So, ya know how Bobby was like soo in love with Allison and was basically on his hands and knees asking her to let him see that baby cavern? Well apparently, last weekend, at Sharon’s sweet sixteen, they hooked up. I KNOW! Like hooked up hooked up. And Allison says that his thing is tiny. Ugggh! Like it just rests there on top of his ballbag. Like a little acorn. But get this, after the fuck sesh, Allison let it spill that she has diabetes, so to get even, Bobby kidnapped her, fed her Godiva’s and denied her her insulin until she died! I KNOW! Like died died. HILARIOUS! That is so Bobby. On a sad note, the funeral is on Friday and I have absolutely nothing to wear. Ugh. Maybe I could Skype you in. I know Allison’s brother, Todd, would love to talk to you. LOLZ. JK, I know you don’t date black guys.

Annnnywayz, can’t wait to see your sexy face on my B’Day! Tell Shawn that he better be taking care of my girl over there or I’m gonna have to come beat him up. LMAO! Just kidding, he’s a man, he would totes kick my ass. Y’all be safe and have fun killin’ Iraqi’s! Mwah! Lovez!!!!!

Your BFFF,

Sharon

P.S. Your dad is fucking Stewart’s Mom and Stewart is super pissed. You’d think, by now, he’d have dealt with the fact that his Mom is the town trolley and has gotten stuffed more times than a catcher’s mit. Like, she is like a form of public transportation but she also resembles an article of baseball equipment, you know? I know, we are terrible! But seriously, fuck Stewart. After the shit he pulled with Teagan after prom last year, he deserves to listen to his mom get pounded by your Dad’s thick, black, dick-meat. Ya know? I mean, I don’t like Teagan or whatever, she is a fat piece of shit, but I don’t think anybody should have to go through what Stew put her through. Seriously. Mayonnaise is meant to go on sandwiches and nowhere else. Stew had that whole “grab-bag” mayo handjob fetish thing going on that he learned from his slut cunt-ex Emily. I heard that she has a labia like the large triangular side fins of a manta-ray.