Tuesday, April 24, 2007
The Landlord
I'm sure glad I own my own house; I wouldn't want to deal with a drunk, nasty landlord like this...
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
Billy Ivan's Open Letters to Trojan, Part 5
09-27-06
Dear Trojan…
She’s being very, very nice. I do not know what to say. I’m scared. I’m puzzled. I’m… still pissed off at you, but at least she’s acting human.
More later…
*****
10-03-06
Dear Trojan… I’ve been in Chicago for 3 days… with her. You were off the hook in the Windy City. She was wonderful. We ate, (I) drank, ate, (I) drank, saw cool things, went to a Cubs game, ate… (I) even got to scotch whiskey with a 70-year old Presbyterian minister (from Scotland) in a kilt at the top of the University Club for three hours on Saturday night…
He wore the kilt. Not me.
Point is, we had one of the best weekends my memory will allow me to locate.
But now we’re home, and she hates me. And I still hate you. And I want to move to Chicago.
*****
10-06-06
Dear Trojan…
So, where should I send the remaining condoms from the ill-fated pack that I purchased to help make sure my wife wouldn’t turn into a bloated Mommy Deaest?
Seriously.
I’d just throw them away, but I’m afraid an unsuspecting homeless person might find them and further ruin his life by trusting you sonsabitches with what’s left of his manhood.
A prompt reply would be appreciated. I want these things out of my house.
*****
10-16-06
Dear Trojan…
She tosses and turns and tosses and turns and bounces and wiggles and exhales (loudly) and squeaks and screams in her pillow and bangs the bed with her fists and throws the covers and cries and then laughs maniacally and then falls asleep for a few minutes and then comes back for more. Sounds pretty awesome, doesn’t it?
Nope.
She can’t effing sleep! And guess what that means, Trojan?
That’s right… Daddy can’t sleep either. Unless, of course, he’s at a stoplight on the way in to work this morning.
The police officer understood my predicament and did not issue me a ticket… But I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you.
So tired…
Dear Trojan…
She’s being very, very nice. I do not know what to say. I’m scared. I’m puzzled. I’m… still pissed off at you, but at least she’s acting human.
More later…
*****
10-03-06
Dear Trojan… I’ve been in Chicago for 3 days… with her. You were off the hook in the Windy City. She was wonderful. We ate, (I) drank, ate, (I) drank, saw cool things, went to a Cubs game, ate… (I) even got to scotch whiskey with a 70-year old Presbyterian minister (from Scotland) in a kilt at the top of the University Club for three hours on Saturday night…
He wore the kilt. Not me.
Point is, we had one of the best weekends my memory will allow me to locate.
But now we’re home, and she hates me. And I still hate you. And I want to move to Chicago.
*****
10-06-06
Dear Trojan…
So, where should I send the remaining condoms from the ill-fated pack that I purchased to help make sure my wife wouldn’t turn into a bloated Mommy Deaest?
Seriously.
I’d just throw them away, but I’m afraid an unsuspecting homeless person might find them and further ruin his life by trusting you sonsabitches with what’s left of his manhood.
A prompt reply would be appreciated. I want these things out of my house.
*****
10-16-06
Dear Trojan…
She tosses and turns and tosses and turns and bounces and wiggles and exhales (loudly) and squeaks and screams in her pillow and bangs the bed with her fists and throws the covers and cries and then laughs maniacally and then falls asleep for a few minutes and then comes back for more. Sounds pretty awesome, doesn’t it?
Nope.
She can’t effing sleep! And guess what that means, Trojan?
That’s right… Daddy can’t sleep either. Unless, of course, he’s at a stoplight on the way in to work this morning.
The police officer understood my predicament and did not issue me a ticket… But I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you.
So tired…
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
Thursday, April 05, 2007
Billy Ivey's Open Letters to Trojan, Part 4
09-15-06
Dear Trojan…
OK, OK… That was a little harsh. It is a miracle. I mean look! It’s only been 10 weeks and the little bastard already has hands. That’s cool! But that’s not the point. If you lived here you’d understand. We made a very intentional, mature and confident decision based on our trust in YOU… and you failed.
And because of your failure, I get to live with Beelzebub for the next five months and 13 days. That’s all I’m sayin’.
She knows it. Just ask her.
But be careful in your approach. She’s kind of pissed off, too. Have I mentioned that she threw up in the refrigerator?
Yeah. Walk softly and carry a big friggin’ stick, there, Skippy.
*****
09-21-06
Dear Trojan…
She’s feeling better during the daytime. She even claims “energy” between the hours of 8 am and about 5:30 pm.
I get home from work at six.
And that’s precisely the time of day she remembers that you suck, and everything becomes my fault… again.
When she broke the dish last night, I got slapped because I put it on the wrong side of the correct cabinet the night before. She used to give me sex because I put them up at all. But that’s where you pricks came in (i.e., Benjamin and Merrie Cannon).
Thanks for nothing.
*****
09-23-06
Dear Trojan…
Mornin’ dickheads.
I get to change all diapers. All of ‘em. I got called on my cell phone last night so I could rush home to change a Pamper… “Hurry! Ben just wet his diaper!”
A wet diaper. Pee, not poop. Baby-boy urine. That’s all.
But, if I’m within 2 miles of a diaper in need of discard, I’m the go-to guy.
And, thanks to you no-good crapbags, there’ll soon be more diapers to change! But for now let’s focus on the problem at hand… and on hands and clothes and beds and floors and…
*****
09-25-06
Dear Trojan…
She gags, Trojan.
And I mean gaaaaags. These aren’t the “brushing your teeth and accidentally go too far back on your tongue” kind of gags. These are doubled-over, lurching, back-breaking, turn so red you get purple and almost fall down, body heave kind of gags. It’s like Amityville Horror every time somebody takes a leak!
You should see these gags.
Oh, and I pray that you will, Trojan. “May your wives be impregnated and your houses full of kicking, screaming, peeing, pooping bundles of ‘joy’.”
Dear Trojan…
OK, OK… That was a little harsh. It is a miracle. I mean look! It’s only been 10 weeks and the little bastard already has hands. That’s cool! But that’s not the point. If you lived here you’d understand. We made a very intentional, mature and confident decision based on our trust in YOU… and you failed.
And because of your failure, I get to live with Beelzebub for the next five months and 13 days. That’s all I’m sayin’.
She knows it. Just ask her.
But be careful in your approach. She’s kind of pissed off, too. Have I mentioned that she threw up in the refrigerator?
Yeah. Walk softly and carry a big friggin’ stick, there, Skippy.
*****
09-21-06
Dear Trojan…
She’s feeling better during the daytime. She even claims “energy” between the hours of 8 am and about 5:30 pm.
I get home from work at six.
And that’s precisely the time of day she remembers that you suck, and everything becomes my fault… again.
When she broke the dish last night, I got slapped because I put it on the wrong side of the correct cabinet the night before. She used to give me sex because I put them up at all. But that’s where you pricks came in (i.e., Benjamin and Merrie Cannon).
Thanks for nothing.
*****
09-23-06
Dear Trojan…
Mornin’ dickheads.
I get to change all diapers. All of ‘em. I got called on my cell phone last night so I could rush home to change a Pamper… “Hurry! Ben just wet his diaper!”
A wet diaper. Pee, not poop. Baby-boy urine. That’s all.
But, if I’m within 2 miles of a diaper in need of discard, I’m the go-to guy.
And, thanks to you no-good crapbags, there’ll soon be more diapers to change! But for now let’s focus on the problem at hand… and on hands and clothes and beds and floors and…
*****
09-25-06
Dear Trojan…
She gags, Trojan.
And I mean gaaaaags. These aren’t the “brushing your teeth and accidentally go too far back on your tongue” kind of gags. These are doubled-over, lurching, back-breaking, turn so red you get purple and almost fall down, body heave kind of gags. It’s like Amityville Horror every time somebody takes a leak!
You should see these gags.
Oh, and I pray that you will, Trojan. “May your wives be impregnated and your houses full of kicking, screaming, peeing, pooping bundles of ‘joy’.”
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
