Dear Mankind,
I’m afraid we must redefine the nature of our relationship. I regret to inform you that I will no longer be able to accept your cash donations in exchange for opportunities to blow me on television. While this was a pleasurable and beneficial arrangement, you loose lipped cajolers have been portraying me in an unflattering light and my agent says it’s bad for business. Sadly, I have never encountered anyone more adept at misinterpreting the facts than you pitifully nearsighted bastards and it hurts me in my heart, but that inglorious clown faced whore you make me out to be is lowering my klout. Apparently, some douche bag sporting the stigmata and a new pair of Gurkee’s charged a Milgauss on my Am-Ex card and then broke the neck of his saltine “companion” who tried to stash it in her twat while he was in the can reading WWJD Magazine and taking a dump. Unfortunately for her, she was not bat winged enough to pass a Rolex off as a camel toe and got a taste of the pimp hand for her efforts. Granted this could have all been avoided by not leaving a $6000 timepiece unattended in the company of a woman with a peg leg and open sores; any fool knows that, but the fact remains that no self respecting social media aficionado would be caught dead retweeting the tainted words of a charlatan. My bank even froze my accounts on suspicion of identity theft resulting in an incident that left me red faced with shame when my card was declined at Spago’s during my parent’s anniversary dinner. My old man had to pick up the tab prompting him to scold to me in front of everyone; wagging his finger in my face and saying “Son, you’ve got to get your affairs in order.” Then he slapped a waitress on the ass demanding that she hold his staff while he tried to make the manager comp the whole meal claiming that he had nearly choked to death on a hair in his salad. The long and short of it is this; you kids are making me look bad and I didn’t sign up for this shit. I guess it’s true what they say, the road to hell is paved with good intentions. Additionally, I am not a doctor. I can’t fix your meth teeth and if pus laden genital scabs were a concern maybe y’all shoulda kept your collective dick in your pants. Please, fucking please stop with the pleas for mercy. I’m not your bitch and you’re gonna need to clean up your own messes. I do, however, have a direct line to the eye in the sky, flamboyant drama queen that he is, keeping me privy to what is hip and I even have a signed lithograph of @Banksy_Graffiti’s ‘Consumer Jesus’ being delivered to my vacation home in the tropics. Most of my friends consider this genre of art to be passe but word has it his work is extremely collectible. Anyway, I packed your shit into some boxes and left them in the garage. There’s some left over fish in the fridge and a loaf of french bread in the oven if you’re hungry. By the time you get this I’ll have walked halfway to Bermuda. Don’t try to call me or I’ll be forced to get a restraining order.
Yours in Christ,
J
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Trust The Devil You Know 