I will be off celebrating (aka playing Santa like a mofo and throwin' down in this biotch) and will not be back until Monday with another ifriend for dat a** (not sure why I'm all Snoop D-)-double g with it today, it's a phase I go through from time to time: Gangsta Ma is what I like to call it.).
On that note, today's Thursday Thank You is gonna be all gangsta, sent special to a neighborhood
I shoved it in a bottle, lit it on fire, and threw it at his house so I'll have to just type what it said here for you.*
It wasn't handwritten anyway (I know, I'm sorry), but, in an effort to keep myself
So here it is, thank you and you're welcome.
Dear Creepy Kid,
I think even you have to admit that I have been more than nice to you since we moved here. I mean, you have a reputation. Not just you, but your entire family, and (in case you didn't know) it proceeds you by quite a distance. So, when you wandered into my yard our first summer here wearing just shorts, combat boots, and a beebee gun and attempted to assassinate me, I smiled and offered you a lemonade. And then, when you were kind enough to teach my kindergartener and my 3 year old the word bitch by shouting, "I HATE YOU BITCHES!" down the street at them,* I forgave you and chalked it up to the fact that your parents are drunk, stoners who obviously don't have very high standards for your behavior. I shook my head, gave you the stink eye, and moved on, after telling my children what a nasty mouth loser you would grow up to be, of course. And, let's not forget the hatchet incident. The list goes on and on, and still, when my sweet, forgiving, naive-to-a-fault son invited you over to play Wii one day, I opened my door to you, gagged a little at your ripe smell, let you in and offered you snacks (and they were the good, individually wrapped kind, too). I didn't even wrestle you outta your disgustingly muddy boots; just let you Wii it up in them all over my living room floor. Never mind that I'm still not convinced you didn't steal the five spot I had lying on the counter. Point is, I've given you the benefit of the doubt time and time again. I didn't bum rush you and smash your annoying little plaything into a million pieces when you pulled it on me in my own yard. And, I didn't push you down and threaten to scrub the sh#* offa your filthy little tongue the day you taught my children how to curse like a sailor. It's not like I didn't want to. Because I totally did, but instead I let it slide. You know, because your parents suck and I felt kinda sorry for you and crap. But, guess what Mr. Nasty. Them days are ova. You've gone too far. You have pushed the things-dumb-mom-will-take-from-unfortunate-children envelope too far. Hate to go all street on you, but telling my kid Santa ain't real is just plain evil. Don't hate on his happiness just because Santa's never bothered to come your way. Maybe you'd have a little more luck with that if you weren't running around like some sorta wood imp shooting at random strangers and calling their children bitches. Just sayin'. Your life may be devoid of magic (and the puff the magic dragon type you have goin' on at your house doesn't count), but that doesn't mean that his is, and you had no right to try to ruin it with your mean words and your potty mouth. Take your hatchet, and your beebee gun, and your oversized boots, and your strange smelling hair and STEP OFF!. Keep your ugly to yourself, kid and give me back my five bucks! Don't let me catch you on the street. Santa may not be the truth, but I am, and I'll show you what it's like to be on a naughty list that matters. Break yourself, fool!
*Kidding! Totally kidding. I didn't actually light the bottle, I just left it on the door step as sort of a warning. Gangsta.
Merry Christmas, yo!
%5B4%5D.jpg "Merry Effing Xmas(2)")
