Rot in hell.
Yes, you, landlord. Rot for eternity. With no sex, no guns, and no weed.
You are an ass. When I foolishly signed the lease, I truly believed that you would “fix the place up just fine.” Little did I know what that really meant from your diseased perspective. Listen, Mr. Colostomy Bag, a leaking shower and a sideways toilet do not count as home improvement. And laying uneven concrete pavement, while very nearly admirable, does not make the industrial savagery of the rest of the back yard look any better.
Yes, I admit that when it rains, I do get 3 or 4 “backyard pools” spread about the concrete. But so? Even your pet maggots wouldn’t swim in them.
And couldn’t you find somewhere else to store your warped, mildewy wood? Here’s a deal: I’ll help you cram the boards into any given two of your orifices. Your choice. Or how about your workshop? It’s not like you need room in there to do actual work. Hell, you might create more nooks & crannies in which to hide the FUCKING MARIJUANA you store in my laundry cabinet. Oh, by the way, that stuff is illegal. Get rid of it. AND STOP SMOKING IT IN THE SIDEYARD OF MY HOME. It’s my yard now, dungheap. Use your own.
Oh, that’s not feasible, you say? You mean you don’t want your suffering, sainted wife finding out how exactly you spend your (her) money while she actually works for a living, earning it? Tough shit. Those festering spawn you call your children are bound to stumble upon your 100% Columbian any day now. Especially since YOU LET THEM RUN AROUND MY FUCKING PLACE while I’m at work. Hell, they’ve probably discovered it by now anyway. It’s not like you’re conscious enough to watch over them while they sputter.
Are you a shitty father? Are you a shitty husband? Hell yes and fuck yes.
You say your wife doesn’t “understand” you. that she doesn’t satisfy your needs. Maybe it’s because she’s tired from making all the money your family needs to feed and clothe itself. Maybe it’s because she’s a grown-up. That happens to people when they become YOUR age, shit biscuit. They stop obsessing over childish things. Try it sometime – growing up. You won’t need to demolish the reality of your deeply rooted unworthiness any more. You won’t need to denigrate every one else’s accomplishments. You won’t need to toke up buds at gun shows to prove how “cool” you hope to someday be. You can [difficult concept] work all day. Making lamps out of rusty buckets and palm fronds. Oh, incidentally, that’s not considered art. Not when you do it. It’s considered tacky.
So your wife doesn’t understand you. Bullshit – she understands you all too well. God knows why she puts up with you. She makes all the money, for Christ’s sake. She holds all the adult social contacts. Maybe she sticks around for the kids. God, I hope so – I’d hate to see those two boys grow up thinking that you are the ideal human. Holy flea shit on rye. Pop quiz, why are you such a fuckhead?
Oh yeah. Even if your angelic wife DOESN’T satisfy your adolescent “needs,” that’s no reason you should hit on every woman that you meet. Some of those people are my friends, goddammit. They know you’re an asshole. The “Phrenology Towel” with all the naked women tacked to your wall may have tipped them off, you moron. Here’s a hint, bongo – my sister is married. She doesn’t want to see your “Nuts & Bolts.” And no, my lesbian friends are definitely NOT interested in a 3-way. They’re not into men, Sherlock. Neither are they into boys, so go fantasize about someone else – like that wrestling lady and the Olsen twins. Jerk. Redneck. Pede.
Listen, putz, you’ve got two things going for you: Jack and shit. And Jack left town. Here’s your rent check, you shitheel.
