Dear Ashley,

I'm writing you this email because I think our relationship has run its course. I know you'll probably tell everyone that you dumped me, because you're a liar. But everyone knows that already, so they won't believe you. You couldn't even pass your exams without cheating; I should have known you'd cheat on me too, slut. I called the nursery school program, and they agreed to let you in after they assessed your maturity level. It might be hard for you to believe, but one thing I can tell you for sure: you really need to work on your skills in bed. I mean, you're just plain bad at sex. I’ve seen kids blowing kazzoos better than you can blow a dick. And another thing: take a freakin shower! You smell so bad that the garbage collectors wonder what the smell is when they come down the street. Maybe part of the problem is that you drink so much. You can't actually call gin-flakes or beerios breakfast.

Sorry, but you're not even worth keeping as a friend. Give me back my keys, I don't want you coming around here anymore. I've met stamp collectors who are more interesting than you. Stay away from me or I'll beat you with a frozen salmon.

See you in hell,

Scott

Damn. Its that time again. I can tell because I start burping up little gaseous reminders of the overcooked turkey, undercooked pies and a rude awakening smell of deviled eggs and beer.

I would start by wishing to resolve the usual, loose weight, work out more, spend more time with the kids, dog and wife. Perhaps even go as far as being a better employee at work. But seriously, who are we kidding.

Loose weight. Hmmm, well lets think. In today’s day and age there are more people who are considered over weight than those who aren’t. So… I would say that being over weight is average, and thus I am already what I wanted to be. (Good for me)

As for the working out. There are two reasons this would never work. One, and this is really the most important reason, it’s a lot like work. I mean seriously. All joking aside. And I feel horrible the next day. If I were to die driving to the gym I think I would have to shoot myself. I mean dieing on your way to torture yourself. Then I find out that I didn’t meet the minimum requirements for heaven so I get an express ticket to hell. Fuck. Talk about your suck jobs! Lastly after torturing myself for an hour or so and collecting all the sweat in my shorts damn near drowning my balls, showering with a bunch of old guys who still think that they look good cause six of the old chicks at the home think so, is not my idea of a good time.

Spending more time with the kids. Are you kidding me! Have you seen the youth of today?!? What makes you think my kids are any different. Why the hell would I want to spend more time with them. I know that some people (who usually don’t have kids of their own, so they like to tell those of us who do have them how we are supposed to raise them because they know best. Little fuckers) they think that by spending more time with them, then they would be better people. I am supposed to compete with “myspace”, MTV’s real life and little johnny down the street who thinks my daughter is F-I-N-E! O.k. enough on that. I am getting mad and I am wanting to go beat the kids in their sleep.

As for the dog and wife. Well if the dog would give me a little less sexual attention and the wife a little more. I would be perfect in this department. The dog thinks my leg is the sexiest thing walking. I see him getting a chub watching me stretch it in the morning. His eyes following my legs every move, then when the time is right. Bamn!! Fucker leg rapes me. I guess its only fair. I do the same shit to the wife.

Lastly, work… It doesn’t matter if I work harder or not. I get paid the same. The routine will suck every last bit of motivation from you like it was a fat kid sucking the filling of an oversized twinky. So instead I think I will continue to do what I usually do at work. Just enough production to get by and a lot of fucking with fellow co-workers. Sometimes it seems that its all I have.

So a new years resolution. Yea, I have one. I won’t ever shave my ass again, I promise to make less promises that I don’t intend to keep, I will quit trying to see how many marsh-mellows I can fit in my mouth at a time. (its sorta a fetish of mine. 14 is my record by the way. The big ones not the little fuckers) and I will never ever (at least this year) play with the jets in the hot tub again when I think I am alone. Fuck that hurt!

Thanks

HAPPY NEW YEARS!