Dear Becky,
Have you seen my keys? I cannot find them anywhere. I checked by the coffee maker, the washing machine—everywhere. I’m not sure why I’m having such a difficult time locating them, but it may be an indirect result of your substance abuse problem.
This shit is going to be positively off the chain! I don’t know about you, but I have been looking forward to this office party all damn day! I mean, thank God it’s Tuesday, am I right? Because that is how we get down around this here office, you pussified monkey fuckers!
When you said “bless you” to me earlier today in the break room after I sneezed into the microwave, I felt that this did not convey a sufficiently genuine concern for my health. Your delivery was devoid of affect and was reflective of a dissociative reflex rather than a true imploration unto my future wellbeing, and in light of this lackluster blessing, I feel that your cock-faced, dickhead sentiments would have been better left unsaid.
I’m pretty sure that if I shaved off my eyebrows and wore a black leather trench coat, people would think that I’m from the future.
I base this assertion on the fact that the last time I shaved my eyebrows and walked around downtown in a leopard-print leotard, people assumed that I was a newcomer to their town. Furthermore, everyone made damn sure to get out of my way.
I am presently in hour 3 of my 5 Hour Energy, which means that I am hard at work on a new method of reading people’s minds by staring intently into their left ear canal. This is a tricky business that requires much concentration and a proximity to your subject that has made many people sitting next to me on the bus very uncomfortable.
Because when I drop a dose of 5 Hour Energy, it is game-fucking-on, my friend.
Look, it’s just a simple fact: I drive much better after slamming a fifth of Jack Daniels.
No, I’m not superman—I just have a very high tolerance for alcohol that will undoubtedly impress all of you lightweight pussies who like to call it quits after finishing a mere 13 ½ beers and half a bottle of Smirnoff. I’m not trying to say that you all are limp-dicked ass-eaters or anything, it’s just that I am still perfectly capable of operating a motor vehicle after polishing off a fifth of Jack as part of my at-home, pre-game Friday night regimen.
I am looking very forward to this, our first date. I’ve made reservations at the Olive Garden, and I think you will be pleasantly surprised to find that I actually match the image from my Match.com profile! I know so many guys tend to post pictures from 10 years and 35 pounds ago, but rest assured, I still look exactly as I did in this, my most recent photograph.
I am here to set the record straight and repudiate the rampant media mischaracterizations regarding UFO abductions. Because I was recently abducted by a UFO, and I can tell you from firsthand experience that being abducted by a UFO is a mostly pleasurable experience.
I have been abducted by UFOs several times over the course of my life, and apart from the anal rape, I would absolutely recommend an alien abduction to anyone looking for a relaxing, spiritual experience.
Jodi Arias is innocent, and I believe that she was railroaded by a corrupt justice system and convicted under false pretenses.
Because Jodi is a beautiful, innocent, beautiful young woman with no history of violence or malice toward anyone. It is therefore unthinkable that she could have committed the acts for which she has been (wrongly) accused and (unjustly) convicted.
You hear that? That’s the sound of one hand clapping, motherfucker! I guess I’ve just proven another one of your theories wrong.
Correction: I’ve just proven two of your theories wrong!
Theory number one: I cannot clap with just one hand.
Theory number two: I cannot walk around for one whole day with my left hand Super Glued to my dick.