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Dear Mr. “Gmoney,”

I think I’d respond to you much more favorably if you’d included an “ESQ” behind your name. I feel the addition of ESQ to your name would give your name a true punch, it would go the proverbial distance, and ask, nay, DEMAND respect. Gmoney, ESQ sounds a lot more powerful than the pedestrian “Gmoney” you used to sign your comment.

I wanted to apologize for suggesting that I might, “sell my dog, Auggie, for animal testing” after he successfully ate – then vomited up – the fecal matter of my other dog under the table on the white carpet my dining room while I was large, pregnant, and queasy. You’re very right – I am both a shitty human being and was blaming my dog for my own failings.

Would it appease you if I, instead of suggesting I’d sell him for product testing, I suggested I might, as an alternative, make a pair of moccasins out of his hide? I feel that is a more fruitful, comfortable and appropriate idea.

Do let me know. I’ll be anxiously checking my spam filter.

Yours Always,

Your Aunt Becky


Dear Packs of Hot Dogs in my Fridge,

I share the semi-unpopular opinion that, there are no finer words in the English language than, “encased meats,” my friends. Except, perhaps, “Hooray Beer.” Or boner. But that’s only one word.

I’ve been warned, a time or two, that I am, in fact eating:

a) bits of fetal pig

b) lips

c) assholes.

I’m not entirely sure if the latter two are actually supposed to be bits of pig lips and/or assholes – I should probably ask for clarification about that.

It’s irrelevant, I suppose, as I will happily nosh upon crushed bits of tiny unborn pigs. We all know that suffering tastes like awesome.

Hungrily Yours,



Dear My Son,

I know that I, in a moment of sheer stupidity, said, “woah, these colored bubbles will make your poo turn colors!” I hadn’t been addressing you, and was not, in fact, suggesting that you should take it upon yourself to drink aforementioned bubbles. While¬† I understand that I hadn’t made it clear that “one should not drink colored bubbles, even if one’s poo may turn technicolor,” I would have hoped you’d have not assumed that my words were a green-light for drinking bubbles.

But since I was not more clear, I sincerely hope that you enjoy your colorful poo.

Next time, try Crunch Berries. They may make your mouth feel as though you’ve been chewing glass, but they taste like heaven.




Dear Thyroid,

I understand that you’ve been upset with me lately and for that I do apologize. I’d like to point out that, at no time, did I:

a) threaten to sell you to the gypsies

b) threaten to send you to Lady Gaga to become her newest hairpiece

c) threaten to plaster you with ads for Viagra.

Which makes me concerned that you’ve misunderstood the arrangement we’ve got – you function, and I continue to let you be groped by the pretty lady doctor every four to six months. I thought we had a deal.

Unless the “thing” growing on you is a tumor full of hair and teeth, I’m not happy with your behavior. Not. Happy. Thyroid.

Don’t make me send you to live with Marilyn Manson.




Dear My Nigerian Relatives,

Words cannot express how happy I am to learn that you, of all people, have died and left me a substantial fortune. I’d always dreamed that blogging would be the reason I’d procure a yacht, and here you are, practically handing me millions of pounds, if only I return your email with my bank account number, my social security code, my mother’s maiden name, and my favorite sleeping position.

Since I have gotten no less than 30 of these emails in the last two weeks, I’ve begun to purchase luxury items on credit – like a snow-cone maker and a blinged-out Pimp Cup. As my creditors have been calling, demanding I pay for my “Meat on a Stick” machine, I sincerely hope that you are already on your way to transfer that money into my account. I’m pretty sure that my pony on roller-skates will soon grow weary of living in my (rather small) backyard. Or maybe she’s just mad that I spray-painted her pink.


Not to be rude, but thanks for dying – I’m finally going to realize my dream of turning my basement into a ball pit after I Velcro my bedroom wall so that I can stick to it. That, my dear Nigerian Family Member, is worth, in my biased opinion, more than life. Unless it’s mine. Because I’m worth about $3.28. So thanks for being dead!


Sorry you’re dead,

Aunt Becky

*sitting in the garage, drinking a diet Coke, taking a break from making the exterior of my home look as though recluses live here. CREEPY ones, I mean, not just boring old me.*

Aunt Becky: “I have no idea what I won in the [Band Back Together] auction.”

The Guy On My Couch: *nods*

Aunt Becky: “I know I got outbid on a bracelet I wanted.”

The Guy On The Couch: *nods*

Aunt Becky: “People are hardcore about auctions. That’s why I’m afraid of eBay. *shudders*”

The Guy On My Couch: “You’d get waaaaay too into it – I can see you with a garage full of your winnings.”

Aunt Becky: “Hehehe. Yeah.”

The Guy On The Couch: “You’d totally get a Storage Locker and end up defaulting and have your shit go up on Storage Wars*.”

Aunt Becky: “No. Fucking. Way.”

The Guy On The Couch: “Where would you put it?”

Aunt Becky: “Anywhere but there. I’m terrified of Storage Lockers. You know the ones over by the McDonald’s? I get the heebie jeebies whenever I go by it.”

The Guy On The Couch: “Hahahaha. Really?”

Aunt Becky: “Yeah. I’m always afraid there’s a dead body in there. I mean, WHAT ELSE WOULD YOU PUT IN A STORAGE LOCKER?”

The Guy On The Couch: “Crap from your dorm room?”

Aunt Becky: ” Ugh *shudders* no. Dead bodies.”

The Guy On The Couch: “I bet it’s safe to say that there’s a dead body in a storage locker somewhere around here.”

Aunt Becky (eyes widen): “Do you think it’s stuffed?”

The Guy On My Couch: (thinks)

Aunt Becky: “You know, all taxidermied and shit? Like people do to animals?”

The Guy On My Couch: “I’m sure there’s one out there SOMEWHERE. Prolly not as close as a regular dead body, though.”

Aunt Becky: “I’m gonna put in my will that I want to be taxidermied, dusted, and moved from children’s houses on a rotation schedule. Four to five months, I sit in each of my kid’s house. In the living room – potentially in the big picture windows, occasionally moving to the table for “dinner.””

The Guy On My Couch: “….”

Aunt Becky: “I’m getting back at them for making me birth them – shit, have you SEEN the size of their heads?”

The Guy On My Couch: *shakes his own large head* “Yeah, yeah I have.”

Aunt Becky: “Payback. And those twerps best not be throwing me into a storage locker. At least, not all year long.”

The Guy On My Couch: “You’re going to have a painfully long last will and testament, aren’t you?”

Aunt Becky: “We’ll be measuring it in miles, not sheets of paper.”

The Guy On My Couch: “Just don’t tell the kids – or they’ll be sure to stuff you in a locker they default on.”

Aunt Becky: “I’m adding it to my list, thanks.”

*surprisingly interesting show, by the by.

When I started high school, before Jesus was born, high school was done in split shifts. The underclassmen (read: me and my trouble-making friends) started at 9AM rather than 7:30AM, which, I have to say as a non-morning person, was pretty damn sweet. Soon enough, my high school decided that was bullshit and built a second high school about a half a mile from the first.

We’d get stuck in classes in both buildings, which meant we had to hustle to get from place to place. And by “hustle,” I mean, “smoke pot out of soda cans” as we ambled our way too and from the North building.

We had one road to cross to get there, a thoroughfare that wound throughout campus, that had a nice crosswalk painted on it. One of our deans, who happened to be both the football coach and a major douchebag, would occasionally patrol the area, giving PM’s (detentions) to those of us who walked out of the lines. We also had Mr. Shields*, a prehistoric relic that seemed to arise from the very dust of the earth.

Mr. Shields, well, he had a golf cart, and he liked to ride it around the parking lots of the school, busting people for parking in the wrong area, always on the lookout for those of us who cut class to go joyriding and eat tacos**. He communicated to the other deans and Parapros (paraprofessionals? I don’t actually know anything other than their name made them sound like dinosaurs.)(*puts on Nature Show Voice and whispers* “Beware of the roaming Parapros – they’re hungry and getting ready to write PM’s”) via a fairly elaborate system of walkee-talkies. Keep in mind, this was when cell phones weighed as much as a small bus.

(not actually Mr. Shields)


Being hippies and anti-establishment meant that my parents didn’t give much of a shit if I got in trouble – only if I was STUPID about it. Like on Senior Ditch Day – I didn’t even TRY to get my boyfriend’s cleaning lady to call me in – I just didn’t show up. This pissed off my mother – not that I ditched class, but that I hadn’t bothered TRYING to cover it up.

She’d taught me many years before how to forge her signature so I could avoid these very same situations. I’d often go into the office, note written in purple crayon, begging out of school so I could “see the doctor.” The office staff must’ve thought I was the world’s sickest teen OR the world’s biggest hypochondriac.

Generally, these “doctor’s appointments” involved a lot of tacos and/or Jim Beam drunk straight from the bottle in the parking lot behind the Taco Bell.

Tonight, I must go back. No, not to Taco Bell. After a particularly vicious battle with food poisoning, I sadly swore it off for life.

I’ve been back, upon occasion, to my high school. My son, Ben, (not to be mistaken for The Guy On My Couch, Ben) he plays a ridiculous amount of instruments and my high school has a pretty kick-ass stage – we even get like famous people there sometimes, doing, erms, FAMOUS PEOPLE THINGS.

But the North Building, the scene of so many of my days as a Prankster, has since been turned into a Junior High.

The Junior High that my son will attend next year.

(I don’t know how the fuck my kid got so old)

Tonight, I get to go back and “take a tour” of my old stomping grounds. This is gonna be the kind of tour that I can’t say things like, “Wow, I puked up Jim Beam in that corner!” or “We used to smoke pot there – see? You can’t be seen from any of the windows.”

No, I have to go in and nod and smile and pretend to be a normal parent around other parents.


Someone pass the vodka.

*his actual name

**raises hands

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