A Letter to Make My Brother’s Time in Basic Training Hell

As many of you probably don’t know, my older brother decided to be a hero for once and join the Army. It’s his dream to find and capture Osama Bin Laden. My family and I don’t have it in us to tell him that Bin Laden is already dead. How exactly do you tell someone that the person he wants to find has been dead for almost two years? Where is your goddamn internet meme for that one, Internet? Do I have to do everything on here?

OK, so I'm not that good at making memes. Sorry.

OK, so I’m not that good at making memes. Sorry.

But that’s all beside the point. My brother is now in basic training, and he had even sent us a letter detailing his life in boot camp. In summary: it blows. Other than the normal shittyness that preparing your mind and body to become a trained combat soldier, he managed to split his head open… on a flat screen TV. Holy shit. Before I go any further, I would like to point out that I love my brother and I support him and all of the stupid things he does, but Jesus Christ in a clown wig, a TV?! How do you even do something like that during basic training? Was it thrown at him because he was acting like an idiot?

So after the headache I received from reading his letter had subsided, it was time for me to write one back to him. But there is one big rule: I cannot write anything that would give his commanding officers ammunition to make his life a living hell. You see, in basic training, the CO’s use any display of individuality against the recruits. If you wear a t-shirt with a logo on it on your first day, they will make that day suck for you. Or, if someone sends you a letter or a package, the CO’s will open it and use whatever is in the letter/ package to make your life harder. That means that you can only send packages with necessities (toothbrush, deodorant, underwear), and that your letters cannot contain any information that could be embarrassing. That doesn’t fly with me, because just about everything I write is embarrassing to at least one member of my family.

Plus, I am also that kind of dick that is told not to do something, but then does it out of pure defiance of authority. It’s my personality quirk that makes me a loveable character. However, I really don’t want to make my brother’s life that much more awful while he’s there (he has to come back sometime), and I really don’t feel like getting my ass kicked by him. So instead, I wrote a delightfully shitbox crazy letter to him and decided to post it here instead. This way, I’m still saying terrible things that could get him in trouble, but unless his CO’s are fans of my blog (which is hopeful but not likely) he won’t be tortured for it. Here is the letter:

(I would like you all to know that everything in the letter below is completely fabricated. Each sentence is an outright lie that should only be laughed at and then dismissed, not taken for fact. Nothing in this letter is true. You wouldn’t believe the problems I’ve had with that in the past.)

Dear brother, Justy-wustykins,

How’s that weird rash on your groin? I hope you remembered to bring your ointment. And how’s basic training? I hope you’ve managed to keep your crying to a minimum of once a day, and if not you’ve at least found a quiet secluded place where you and all the other criers can go to weep like children and not be found. I only hope you don’t ruin the hiding spot for the others, because you are such a loud crier. I do have to admit, though, I am impressed that you didn’t go to the infirmary after cutting your head open (on a fucking TV, really?). I can only imagine the wailing your vocal cords managed to produce after that. I’m going to assume that your CO’s had to pull you by your ankles out from under your bed. I hope my little Justy-wustykins is feeling better from it though.

As for the training itself, how’s that going? Have they taught you how to fire a gun without dropping it and shrieking like a little girl? And while we’re on the subject of your feverish lady shrieks, how are your night terrors? I hope they aren’t so frequent that your bunkmates want to smother you with your pillow. Just remember: before you go to bed think of happy things, and never, ever picture a porcelain bear holding a knife or a murder of ravens removing your internal organs through a gash in your stomach. Also try not to imagine the billions and billions of germs that are on every surface you touch every day. They give you your worst night terrors, and despite the fact that this is a silly phobia, those germs are real and they are out to get you. They’re even in your bed!

As for things here, life is pretty normal. I managed to trick the native population of a small island off the coast of the Philippines that I was a god. I then had them construct a 50 foot long laying statue of me and then had them bury it for my reincarnation. So far, that’s the fifth time I’ve pulled off that stunt, and each time, they actually go through with it! Hopefully, centuries from now, archeologists all across the world will find these buried statues and wonder who was this mythical Wolf King, Minigan Blackwood, and how did he get so many different cultures to worship him.

In unrelated news, Mom and dad and everyone else are doing fine. Just living their ordinary, boring lives.

Before I go, I want tell you something that I know I don’t say often, if ever. I’m proud of you. I’m proud of how you’ve taken up this cause for our nation, I’m proud of your willingness to sacrifice your comfort to help defeat our vile enemies and return our nation to its former glory. And the training you are putting yourself through for our cause will be crucial in tearing down their godless regime. Just think about it. Every trick you learn, every weapon you know how to operate, every maneuver you memorize will ultimately be another tool for us to destroy the lumbering giant of a civilization. Our enemy will never see such an attack coming.  This plan is brilliance in its most true, weaponized form. Your work in the US army is also our God’s work. Praise be to his name.

Anyway, That’s all the news I have for you now, Justy-wustykins. I hope this letter found you not in a piss soaked, muddy, weeping heap of an excuse for a man, but I know deep down that the odds are not in my favor for that one.

Praise Allah.



Your brother, Minigan Muhammad Blackwood: Wolf King

P.S. Along with this letter you should have received a package. In it is various dildos from your extensive collection. I know how much you must miss them. And don’t worry- your favorite, Mr. Squeakers, was the first one I added to the box. You’re welcome.

Alright folks, I have one more thing to share with you this week. Last week, my friend Jeremiah and I submitted a video to Cracked.com’s Shot Clock Video Challenge. The rules were that the video had to be no longer than 30 seconds long, shot on a smart phone, and reference one of the teams in this year’s March Madness tournament. Unfortunately, we did not make it into the final four, which means that our video wouldn’t be featured on Cracked for a chance to win a Canon T3I video camera to shoot videos with. I still want to share my video with the world, however, so my blog will have to do. Here it is, 20 seconds of pure hilarity:


Things That I Am Not Thankful For This Thanksgiving

Well, guys, we’re almost three weeks into November. Do you know that that means? Well, yes, there has been a major turkey genocide over the past few months that the media refuses to talk about, but that’s not what I’m talking about here.

Where’s their memorial, America?

Mass turkey murder is, however, related to what I want to talk about this week, because what I’m going to ramble about pertains to Thanksgiving. More specifically, I’m going against what everyone on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, and probably every other blog site is writing about, and instead write about the things that I am not thankful for this year. Why? Because complaining is, like, the third best thing the internet does, right after showing us people’s privates and running jokes into the ground.

So, yeah, here’s what I’m not thankful for:

My stupid mortal body

If you’ve been reading my blog for a while, you already know that, objectively, I am hot as hell. When I take off my shirt, people confuse me with a perfectly crafted Greek statue. Each of my eight abs are gifts crafted with love and then given to humanity by a God who wants nothing but the best for our species. My ass has its own aura- that’s how good I look naked.

I have an aura here; you just can’t see it because you aren’t worthy.

Having said all that, I am not going to look this way forever. I know that, and I absolutely hate it. I have every intention to prevent my body from turning into a ball of fat for as long as possible, but even with that determination, my body will still fail in other ways. For instance, I have to go to the chiropractor every week to deal with my shoulder issues. I also have to rehab my wrist at the gym sometimes because I injured it at work 3 years ago. Oh, and this week my ankle hurts, so I can’t run. Fuck, how am I supposed to keep my heavenly physique if my stupid body keeps getting sore because I’m lying on the couch weird? If my cells regenerated forever, I wouldn’t have to worry about that. But no, I have to age like the averages and the uglies. That’s fucking bullshit.


OK, I’m not specifically not thankful for Jello itself; I love that shit. No, I’m not thankful for Jello because they changed their packaging for their single serve cups. They’ve gone from six in a package to four. Not cool, Jello-Corp. Not cool at all. I went to you over Snack Pack because of the 6 pack deal, and now you’re going to switch that up on me?! Look Jello, if you’re going to do that shit, then I’m going with Snack Pack. Snack Packs are cheaper than your brand and they’ve been endorsed by Billy Madison. All you’ve got is higher prices and Bill Cosby jokes. Get over yourself and go back to the 6 pack. I don’t give a goddamn about what state the economy is in. Just do it.



I mean the sandals. No one should wear them. And from the yells on the internet, everyone in the world agrees with me. But then why are they still in business? I’m sure that the prison industry isn’t big enough to keep those rubber sandals afloat. Who else is buying them? Because if you believe the opinions online, every single person on the planet hates crocks twice. Their like the Nickelback of shoes. Everyone hates them, but they refuse to disappear into the sands of time. So I guess that means that I also not thankful for the people who wear crocs, either ironically or not, for keeping that company in business. If you want to wear them, then wait a decade or two for them to be associated with prisoners, just like saggy pants, and then hop on the thug train. As for everyone else, let’s just ignore those people’s existence.


I’ve mentioned before how awful some commercials are, and I think we all know that they suck. But for the most part we ignore them, so how bad can they be. Well, I’m beginning to think that Ad companies are making shitty commercials on purpose so that we marvel at how awful they are. Touché,  commercials, touché. But I still hate you, especially when you make me pay attention, and especially when you’re shitty. The only reason I don’t smash my TV whenever I see a commercial I don’t like is because I like TV and how will I know what TV is the best.


This year I’ve started paying the electric bill, so I’m now sure that electricity is overrated. It’s really just a luxury. I mean, if the Amish can thrive without power, so can I. Of course, that doesn’t include cellphones, or TV, or my computer, or washers and dryers, or electric lights… Hell, see how addicted we are? This is what I mean. I hate that it’s my crutch. If I just had the power to control lightning, maybe I could do something about it.

My dog’s icy nose

Let me get this out of the way- I love my dog. She’s awesome. Sure she’s rambunctious and she just loves to sit on people, but that’s part of her lovability. I am absolutely thankful for her this year. What I am not thankful for, however, is her nose. It’s always cold. And I don’t mean “normal wet dog nose cold,” I mean “frigid artic lake cold.” She touches me with it while I’m trying to sleep, and it wakes the shit out of me. And she doesn’t touch me on my arm or my hand, where the shock wouldn’t be all that extreme, but on my face an armpits. That bitch. I feed her, give her water, take her for walks when it’s nice out and I don’t have anything better to do, and she repays me by giving me repeated blasts of icy coldness to my armpits. It’s like she does it just so that I’ll move away from her and then she can have most of the bed. Oh my God, that’s exactly why she does it! That brilliant bitch. OK, well the fact that she is so amazingly manipulative is just another reason I am thankful for her, but I’m still not thankful for her freezing ass nose. Or her farts. Her farts are awful. Trust me.

My loving friends and family

They always need something. “Minigan, could you please pay the electric bill?” My mom would say. “Minigan, we need to hang out sometime when I’m not busy.” Jimmy will text to me. “Minigan, we miss you. Please come back home, or at least call us back.” Every single damn friend and family member will say to me through their pathetic tears on my voicemail. Get a grip, people. This wolf hunts alone, and all you are doing is trying to cage me with your love and affection. I can’t stand it! Give me some space! All you do is smother me with those cards that flood my mailbox around my birthday, and by storming me in my hospital room every little time I get shot by a gang member. I’m just happy being by myself and never talking to anyone I currently and depend on for companionship ever again. I just want to disappear into the crowd and become someone totally new so that all of you in my support system will never see me again. Is that so much to ask for?

Happiness and other good feelings

This isn’t the first image for “happiness” on Google’s image search, but it is by far my favorite. Just look at all those happy Asians!

Happiness is a dick. There, I said it. We’ve all known it for years, but no one wants to deal with the consequences of saying it. Happiness is a dick and it sucks. It’s a dick that sucks itself, in fact. It’s just such an overrated and self-satisfying emotion. And those happy assholes are determined to make you happy too. “Oh, I’m in such a good mood! Here, let me help you lift that heavy thing.” A happy person will say while simultaneously sucking their own metaphorical cock. I don’t need you to improve my mood, you bastards. I am perfectly fine being the crotchety young man that I am. How dare you try to change that. I will slash your tires and then have sex with your girlfriend. I will see to it that she becomes pregnant and that you have to raise the baby. I will suck the happiness out of the rest of your life. Do you really want to fucking help me now?

People who don’t read this blog

If you don’t read this blog, then fuck you. I’m amazing. I pull letters out of the depths of space and forge them into words in the immortal fires and lightning storms that occur inside my brain. Each sentence is a gift from me to humanity, and if you cannot realize that, I hate you. I hope bad things happen to you, like you embarrassing yourself at your high school reunion. And I hope bad things keep happening to you until you start reading my blog. Then I’ll forgive you. And for those of you that do read my blog, I am thankful for you. You guys are awesome and cannot do a single thing wrong in my book. You could probably have sex it a dead monkey and I’ll not think any less of you. But you should probably spread the word of my blog even further, that way I won’t be wishing so many bad things to happen to people. I think you can count it as an act of charity or something.

Duck Face

For those of you who are lucky enough to not know, duck face is a look that stupid girls make when they’re taking pictures of themselves in the bathroom. If you see a picture on Facebook of a girl doing this, you can go ahead and assume that her daddy didn’t love her. If you see a guy doing it, find that guy and throw rocks at him. I just plain don’t understand this phenomenon. How did it start? Did it come from some far off and weird land, like Japan? Why do girls think they look cute doing it? Are we going to evolve into a species where the males choose the females over how good of a duck face they can make? Is that not the most terrifying scenario anyone has ever come up with?

To the women who make duck faces unintentionally when they take pictures, I’m not making (a lot of) fun at you here. I just want you to know that, just like crocs and Nickelback, the internet hates duck face, and I am no different. But you probably won’t understand what people see when they see your duck face pictures. Afterall, why would you keep doing it if you know it looks stupid? So to help you, I’ve taken pictures of myself doing duck face as everyone on the internet sees it:

Do you see? Do you see how stupid this looks?!

In what magical, logic-free world is this supposed to attractive?

Seriously, how did a trend like this start? Who was the first person to take their picture like this and think, “I think this is a good look for me.”

Women on the Internet, please stop posting pictures of yourselves like this. For the love of God, taking pics like this is offensive levels of retarded. Just stop.

To everyone else, have a Happy No Thanksgiving.

Peace Casserole

To be read at my Funeral/ Wake/ Memorial Service/ Execution

Is it just me, or are tombstones the most metal way to celebrate someone’s death?

To my Friends/ Loved ones/ Coworkers/ Esteemed enemies/ Fellow inmates/ my douchebag of a brother, as I hope you have realized, I am currently dead. That’s why my corpse is somewhere in this room and this Friend/ family member/ coworker/ prison guard/ random filthy hobo [being payed for reading this with booze] is reading this to you all. [note to the reader: do not read what’s in the brackets. Those are notes specifically for you. However, you must read everything else in this letter. Every word. I want to let you know that my spirit is in this room, watching you and making sure you do this right. If you don’t, I’ll haunt the shit out of you.]

By now, it should have become abundantly clear that I have failed at my attempt at immortality. To the families of the people whose souls I tried to steal: My bad. I totally thought that would work. If you are expecting any kind of repercussion for me, I would like to point out that I’m dead, and that I had successfully avoided such repercussions. So, in your face, grieving families.[do the Jersey Shore Fist pump here. DO IT! I swear to God that if you don’t do the fist pump, I’ll be the most annoying ghost to ever haunt you.]

I know that you must be going through a hard time with all of this. The weight of the pure sorrow and despair in your hearts must make every heartbeat an unbearable sting. You’re currently standing at the edge of a precipice in time; everything behind you is bright and filled with happy memories of me, like that time you caught me trying to suck the soul out of a person with a vacuum cleaner hose. Yet, everything ahead of you in your life is a swirling vortex of crushing depression, simultaneously making you feel like your heart could explode and collapse in upon itself at any moment. And all these feelings come from the fact that I am no longer around to give you laughs/ unwavering loyalty/ amazing, totally true stories (I swear I released the Kraken!)/ an enemy to fight against/ someone to lead prison riots/ someone to go to Slayer concerts with you because your friends hate you. But you must fight on! Just because I’m gone, it doesn’t mean you have to put a hold on your currently obsolete lives! You need to fight! You need to be strong! You… probably need to clone me. I’m not going to bullshit you; I cannot imagine what life will be like without me there, because I was your whole world, so I can only assume that all of you will probably commit suicide out of sheer boredom. So, yeah. Clone me. You have my body (or what’s left of it) right here. Just take a chunk of my ear, or maybe a patch of my skin, ship it off to some crazy Euro-science wizard place like Hogwarts or CERN and bake yourselves up a fresh clone of me. Hell, make multiple clones of me. That way each of you can have your own private Minigan Blackwood to make memories with. This is an awesome idea. Do it. [Note to reader: Granted, if my clones should ever meet, there is no way we wouldn’t team up to take over the world, but don’t tell them that. For real, speak none of what I just wrote here. If you do, I will leave ghost-poops in your bed.]

You know you want this to happen for real.

On the off chance none of you want dozens of Minigans scampering about like long haired, chocolate and booze fueled gremlins, then I hope that all of you find a way to fill the void that I left in your hearts by selfishly dying and not taking any of you with me. And please, do not harbor any hard feelings towards the dozens of innocent/ probably evil people I took with me. They will spend eternity in either Heaven or Hell without me, as I fully plan on staying here on Earth, haunting the person reading this if he/she doesn’t read exactly what I’ve written down here. [Note to reader: Why did you even choose to read this. How did you not know where this was headed? Do you even know me?] If you want, I can visit all of you in your dreams, like Freddy Kruger, except less facial deformities and scarring and 100% more nude. All of you are welcome. Of course, there will be a fee for me to do this, so once I figure out how transactions between the living and the dead work [Note to reader: virgin sacrifice maybe?] I will start up the dream invading.
But in all honesty, the dream invading sounds pretty dumb, right? Doesn’t it make the cloning idea better? I personally think that is a more realistic option. I don’t even know if I’m able to hijack people’s dreams. I know that I can possess people [Note to Reader: Like I’ll do to you if you don’t read everything I tell you and if you read the things I tell you not to read. Like this.], but infiltrating dreams? I seriously doubt I can do that. That doesn’t mean that I won’t try to hijack people’s dreams, mind you, it just means that I don’t think it will be in my haunting wheelhouse. And let’s be honest here: it’s not likely that those clones will be totally like me. They will have to have some different personality traits. Afterall, it won’t have the same memories or sense of humor that I have. Trust me on this. I tried it and it was a complete fiasco. It was too busy calling me “demented and immoral” to realize how ferociously funny I am. That’s why I had to kill him. With this knife. [Note to Reader: show them the knife. You know which one.]
I know that sounds like a bit of a downer, the clone not being exactly like me, but trust me, it will work out better for you guys. First of all, cloning technology is much more efficient and easier now (whenever this is) than when I originally cloned myself in 2010. Also, I’ve been sending copies of my brain waves that map memories and personality traits to CERN so that the scientists can create a more accurate clone of me. They aren’t perfect, of course, but they are certainly close enough for my standards. [Note to Reader: Certainly close enough for me to possess them and have a new soul host.] So wipe away your tears! Leave this church/ cemetery/ morgue/ prison and leave the lump of meat that was once me behind you! For once you send in a piece of my DNA (along with a $30,000 cloning fee) I will be with you again. And this time I’ll never leave you, because this time I will have unlocked the secret of immortality. Be joyous because my second coming is close at hand! [Note to reader: You’ll want to make sure that they do go ahead and make a clone of me. If you don’t, I’ll possess your body instead. Get on that.]

What are you all waiting for? Cut off pieces of my flesh and mail them to CERN.

Also, Peace.

Minigan Douglas Blackwood: Currently Deceased Doctor of Awesome

A very mean spirited Christmas

Happy New Year, everybody!

I hate to start my first post of the New Year on a negative note, but do you know the one thing I hate about this time year?

Is it the cold and overall shitty weather?

OK, do you know the 2 things I hate about this time of year? Shitty weather and the lack of Christmas Spirit. Everywhere I look I see people tearing down Christmas lights and throwing pine trees, mounds of fruitcake and other unwanted gifts into the trash. Plus, I keep getting disgusted looks thrown at me whenever I try to sing Christmas carols at people. Yes, I do end up throwing my colorful array of curse words into the lyrics, but that only enhances the songs.

Anyway, to quell this humbuggery, I’m going to write a post about my Christmas, and what is likely to become a yearly yuletide battle between my brother and myself.

Every year, my brother decides to fuck me by making my gift either really difficult to open or, like last year, giving me a list of clues that lead me around the house and onto the roof before I ultimately find my gift. Despite being one of the cleverest and therefore best, Christmas gift ideas ever. Therefore, I had to at least try to one up him this year. This post is going to detail how I did just that.

I used an entire roll of wrapping paper on his gift. It was 40 square feet, which means I wrapped his gift 40 times. Throughout the layers, I posted notes insulting him along the way. All in all, it took me several hours over 6 days to complete it.

Here were my supplies:

Pictured: wrapping paper, tape, paper cutter, scissors, sharpie, DVD of "It's Always Sunny In Philadelphia," notes of insults, jamz, and hate.

Here is the finished project:

in all it's glory

And here are the notes:

Level 2-

Merry Christmas, Douchebag!

As I assume you noticed, your gift is still wrapped, even though you just pulled off the wrapping paper. There is an explanation for this. You suck as a person. Also, I wrapped your gift several times. I also hoped you noticed that I taped up the corners nice and tight for you so that it’s even harder for you to unwrap. And before you get any dumb ideas, don’t even bother trying to cut your way through the paper because 1. I’ll take the gift back 2. You may damage the gift and 3. I’ve hidden everything that I could think of that you could use to cut through the paper. Yes, you’re in this for the long haul. I guess you shouldn’t have made me climb up onto the roof for my gift last year, Huh?

Enjoy, ass skank!

Level 8-

I’m assuming you’ve been bitching this entire time so far. If you haven’t then this must be a personal record, you whiney prick.

Level 11-

Congratulations! You’ve reached the end. See, that wasn’t so bad after all. Here’s your gift. You’ve earned it…

Level 12-

Just kidding! HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!

Level 13-

HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA! What a dumbass! HA HA HA HA HA!

Level 14-

But seriously, I used an entire roll of wrapping paper on your gift, so you still got a ways to go.

Level 20-

Well a gift card to Cabela’s was supposed to go here, but I couldn’t find one in a grocery store, and the one I ordered online took too long to arrive for me to have it wrapped this deep. I might have it on me though. Ask me for it.

Level 21-

There, now you have part 1 of my gift to you, or, at the very least, an explanation as to why you don’t have part 1 of your gift. So, stop your goddamn complaining. And while we’re at it, by accepting the gift certificate to Cabela’s(or the promise of a Cabela’s gift card in your future), you promise to not shoot me with the gun you ultimately buy with it.

Level 26-

I was going to write these notes in quatrains like you did for the scavenger hunt last year, but I decided I didn’t want to waste any of my creativity on you.

Level 27-

Alright, I’ll do just one:

My name is Justin and I’m a smelly taint
I’m as loved as asbestos walls and lead paint
About me no one gives a fuck
But that’s because I really suck

You’re welcome.

Level 31-

I’m gonna go ahead and guess that you’ve said, “I hate you so bad,” at least 10 times to me so far. Well, I hate you too, you slimy twat. That’s the whole reason why I did this.

Level 37-

Sure, wrapping your gift this many times took up a lot of time that I would rather have used for sex, writing, or hunting man for sport, but wasting your time like this makes all of my time used well worth it.

Level 40-

OK, you’ve really reached the end this time. Was all of this necessary? No. Was your gift worth this much trouble? Probably not. But at least I wasted everyone’s time. Merry Christmas, cock fondler.

On the DVD-

P.S. I rubbed my balls on your gift.

And here is a video of my brother reading the first note. I would have recorded him reading them all, but I was way too busy laughing manically and unwrapping my own presents.

And here is a disorienting video of my brother and I wearing animatronic Christmas hats that our aunt got us:

What’s fun about these hats is that they’re incredibly annoying (my hat has the voice of an elf that has taken some meth. But not only that, if you stop it at the right moment, lit looks like my head has a huge boner.

This picture was taken close to the climax of the audio clip, if you know what I mean.

OK, well, that’s all I got for now. I will have something new year related next week, because I’ve decided that this year I’m going to do everything a week behind everyone else. Ha ha ha! I”m gonna have that market cornered!


Obituary of Sadie Moser

Sadie Moser was born on April 1, 1994 in Humber Pennsylvania and passed on Friday, June 10, 2011 at 12:55 PM. She was a two time divorcee: Once to a teddy bear and once to a neighborhood dog. She was the loyal pet and failed watchdog of the Moser family. She spent her years working happily at keeping the yard free of unwanted critters. She was preceded in death by the four Parakeets, Jack, Johnny, Sky, and Lime,  Toonses the cat, the unnamed duckling, Miguel the rabbit, 2 mice, several hamsters and frogs, and at least 2 dozen gerbils. She was survived by Randy, Susan,  Justin, Becky, Doug, and Amy Moser, as well as her cousins Zero, Leela, Carlos, and Jamie . She also survived by the neighbors of  Susan, Doug, and Amy Moser, who would routinely brought Sadie back to the Moser house whenever she would wander away. Sadie will be cremated and her remains will stay with the family, attending the normal family events like Christmas and Thanksgiving until someone (probably Doug) accidentally knocks over the urn and they have vacuum her up. The Moser family would like for Sadie to know that she was the perfect dog for them, that she’ll be dearly missed, and that the Moser household will never feel or smell the same again.

My Fucked up Family and Why I Love Them for It

Out of all of my family members that I have (aunts, uncles and cousins included) I have realized that, out of all of my blog posts, I have only mentioned my older brother.  I don’t know why I have only mentioned him and no one else, but I am going to go ahead as assume it’s because he is an asshole. It’s like the MTV/VH1 reality TV philosophy: the worst people make things the most entertaining. But here is the problem: most of the members of my family are bad people. Not so bad as in they commit hate crimes or beat up children, but are more of a renewing source of entertainment for myself. This, therefore also makes me a bad person, in that I use people’s stupidity or dickery for entertainment. But then again, who does not do that? Anyway, today I am going to relay a story to you about my family, and how fucked up (and therefore entertaining) they are.

As I said, I am relaying this story- that is, I was not there for it, and am only telling you what I was told.

A couple of weeks ago, my mother’s cousin’s son died in Afganistan. No, that was not the funny part.  My mom and her sisters were close to their cousin, and they wanted to do something to help Jean (their cousin) cope with her loss (Still not the funny part). They all traveled to Washington D.C. for the funeral which I head was very nice and incredibly sad. Well Thursday night, my family went to P.F. Changs for dinner, and when they were about to leave, my older sister, Becky, said that she needed to go to the bathroom. I swear that this next part is all true:

As my family walked out of the restaurant, my mom gets a phone call from Amy (my younger sister) who is distraught. She tells my mom that she is in jail because her and her friend beat up another girl for trying to steal money from another friend. At first, my mom thought that the person on the phone sounded like Becky, but she checked her phone and realized that the call was coming from Amy’s number. Amy then started to freak out and then hung up the phone, leaving my mom in Washington D.C. with a child in jail in Columbus. My mom more or less had a break down. Which would be reasonable; think about it. If you just spent the day trying to console your cousin over the loss of her son, and all of a sudden you get a call from your youngest child (who has gotten into trouble before) saying that she is in jail for ghetto-stomping some bitch, wouldn’t you freak out?

Well, that is what my mom did. She sat on the curb, trying to figure out how in the hell she was going to help Amy out. She sent Amy (who was supposed to go to a wedding that Saturday) a text message that asked if she was still going to be out of jail by Saturday so that she could still go to it. But then, Becky and my cousins came out of the restaurant with big grins on their faces. Becky asked my aunt what’s wrong with my mom, and she told her. Then, my sister began to laugh her ass off. My mom then of course realized what had happened. I then can only assume that my mom slapped the shit out of her.

Becky went into the restroom with my cousins, and while they were in there, Becky came up with a great idea. She used an app on her phone that makes it look like she is calling from a different number. She set in on Amy’s number and called my mom, frantically lying to her.

Of course Becky did all of this without any of Amy’s knowledge, so when she got the text message, Amy was understandably confused, and sent a text message back to my mom asking what she was talking about, to which my mom replied, “Talk to your sister.”

I heard about this on Sunday, after all this shit did, in fact, go down. Needless to say, I laughed at it. I also sent a text message to Becky pointing out how much of a bitch she is, but that is something that I do regularly.

This is only one of the instances that my sister has lied to someone with hilarious results. One day when I was just learning how to drive, she was taking me to the mall when she said, “Doug, did you know that the stop signs with a white line around the edge are optional?” she then ran straight through one, without any hesitation. I, being someone who only had his learner’s permit, took what she said as true, especially because she had just driven through a goddamn stop sign, and embedded that information deep into my memory. But after a few seconds, Becky then said, “You know I’m joking, right? All stop signs have that line.” Damn. She got me, and I was totally unprepared for it. Ever since then, I have had the desire to purposefully run a stop sign so that I could get pulled over and say to the cop, “I’m sorr officer, but I was told when I had my learner’s permit that the stop signs with the white line are optional.” I am pretty sure the cop would get a good laugh. I am also pretty sure that I would still get a ticket, so I have never tried it.

I guess what this comes down to is what I have learned from Becky:

  1. No stop sign is optional; they all have that line.
  2. Never believe a word Becky says unless someone trust worthy (or Wikipedia) agrees.
  3. Everyone is out to get you.
  4. Never trust technology; it’s always in the wrong hands.
  5. Bitches can be funny

OK, that’s all for now.


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