Midget Repellant Fridays!

Dear Kevin Costner,

Maybe it’s because I suffered a near-death coma when I attempted to watch the steaming pile of corn covered shit that was Water World.
Maybe it’s because you attempted to play Wyatt Earp, but ended up looking like an accountant dressed up as a gay cowboy for the Halloween office party. (we all know that Kurt Russell IS Wyatt Earp, so I don’t even know what you were trying to do.)
Maybe it’s because you gave yourself a happy ending at a spa that clearly did not offer that service.
Maybe it’s because you got caught with a hamster up your ass.
Oh wait, that wasn’t you? okay, I take it back……
Maybe it’s because you have YET to be caught with a hamster up your ass and poor Richard Gere has been getting all the flack.
Maybe it’s because you look like the type of person who has rotting corpses in his closet that you dress and feed like dollies.
Or maybe it’s because the mere sight of you gives me a tummy ache which then results into runny poo poos for the rest of the week

It could be either one or all of those things, the point is: RETIRE.
SOON.
Or say a racial slur so that you can be banished from public sight.

Thou dost repeleth me.
Vomitus.

Love, Me.



Dear Usher,

Did you get that paper bag I sent you for Christmas?

Can you please put it over your face now?

I forgot to put the directions with the gift. Sorry about that.

Love, me.




Dear Rosie and Donald,

Hmmmmm, Lemme see. Whose side shall I take?

The big mouth, “big boned,” self righteous, would be working for UPS had she not threatened to sit on the producer at VH1, krispy kreme and “clam” eatin’ lesbot, who can dish it out but can’t take it?
OR….
the no chin havin’, 3-haired comb over, I build tacky gold buildings with my name on the toilet seat covers, inappropriate daughter lovin’, rich pompous asswipe?

Newflash: You’re both idiots with small penises. Please, shut your pieholes or have a chili dog eating contest. (My money's on Rosie).

Love, Me.


Dear Aaron Carter,

Even when you were the little slightly cute preteen, ride my brother’s coat tails, sing about chicks you would not even know how to mount “popstar,” there was something about you that made me want to take a bat to your head.….you know….just to see what happens. But Mother Nature has stepped up to the plate and delivered the bat to your head for me, in the form of puberty. Not only do you look like Mr. Furley on a heroin binge with a bad dye job, but you also have a snot-like, greasy sheen than can only be achieved by having a Brandon Davis buckkake shower. Pleasant.

And why is it that every time I see you, I start smelling smegma pie warming in the oven? The urge to put a bat to your head has been replaced by pure, unadulterated terror with a dash of nausea. Your very image causes me to recoil in terror and wash my mouth with Scope. If you’re lookin’ all Geritol in your teens, I can only imagine this is what you have to look forward to in your twenties:


At least you still have those cute highlights in your hair.

Have a great day!

Love, Me.





It should be noted that I'm not really stressin' over the fuglies up there because California is receiving a gift from overseas:


The Beckhams Are Coming! The Beckhams Are Coming!
Too bad the bobblehead wife has to come....

HAVE A GREAT WEEKEND EVERYONE!!