Belated Greeting

Well, one shot led to 15, and the next thing I know, I think I’m single again.

‘Twas the season to be snobby. Maybe it’s the eggnog, but something about the holidays inspires even the most illiterate of friends and family to pick up the pen and summarize the past year in a misspelled, fluffy form of written correspondence. The following epistle is one I wish I had received—posh new homes, lavish trips to Europe, and kids’ private schools be damned.

‘Twas the season to be snobby. Maybe it’s the eggnog, but something about the holidays inspires even the most illiterate of friends and family to pick up the pen and summarize the past year in a misspelled, fluffy form of written correspondence. The following epistle is one I wish I had received—posh new homes, lavish trips to Europe, and kids’ private schools be damned.

 

Dear Family and Friends:

Sorry this letter’s a tad on the late side, but I’ve been doing a lot of traveling recently—though not by my own accord. It all started at the big Journey concert last month, which I should have avoided in the first place because everybody knows if Steve fuckin’ Perry ain’t rockin’ the vox, it just ain’t Journey.

Left the wife at home with the rugrats, and partied hearty with Teddy and Statutory Bill. We called it a Congressional Session, because none of us are currently employed and name-brand vodka was out of our budgets. Well, one shot led to 15, and the next thing I know, I think I’m single again.

I asked this fine lookin’ mama if she wanted me to stuff her stocking, but it turned out she was married to the big, bulky looking cop standing next to her. Don’t remember much after that, but I woke up in the county jail with a wicked headache and apparently didn’t hide that bag of crank in the car well enough.

Turned out to be a pretty fuckin’ sweet deal in the end, though, because Uncle Sam paid for my an all-expense-paid vacation to Betty Ford in Wisconsin, on account of me being a family man and whatnot. There were tons of famous people in there, but it’s all kept on the lowdown.

Ben Affleck told me basically everything he’s done since Dazed and Confused—excluding Kevin Smith flicks not named Jersey Girl—was the result of a decade-long bender. I talked to Tara Reid for a while, too, and I’m 90 percent positive she wanted to do me, but I’m a married man.

Don’t get me wrong; I’ve had my fun on the run like everybody else, but I’d rather lick the porcelain from a Forest Park men’s room after midnight than hook up with that walking herpes bomb. You didn’t hear this from me, but I think she was there as a PR move after Taradise flopped. Fear not, y’all: Tara Reid is still a filthy tramp.

But enough about me; I guess I’d better tell you about the family. Missy still hasn’t forgiven me for that incident with the babysitter…but I knew that little bastard was trouble once he got promoted to “pool boy.” Now, maybe if we had one of those Richie Rich, dollar-shaped fuckers in the backyard, then we’d need a pool boy. But all we’ve got is a SpongeBob SquarePants inflatable, and it’s the middle of January, so what would you do? Needless to say, I’ve trimmed a little fat from the family budget, so the welfare check should spread a little further now.

Little JoRay has grown up into a beautiful, intelligent woman. She’s quite a financial wizard to boot. Why, the other day I gave her $20 for a date and she came home with more than a hundred. Apparently, she’s doing this thing called “day trading,” but it seems like false advertising because she only makes her money at night. Those crazy kids: I tell her with all the money she spends on Lubriderm and Listerine, she should day trade them, but she just laughs. Kids say the darndest things, huh?

As for Darrell Jr., well, he’s just Darrell Jr. Now, don’t get me wrong—I’ve been trying to get that kid to lift weights, play football, and party hearty since he was old enough to walk, but he hasn’t been too fuckin’ receptive. “DJ,” as he likes to be called now, is 18 years old and a total waste of sperm in my book. All my life, I thought the man lucky enough to carry on my name in this mortal world would mature to become the greatest middle linebacker State had ever seen, but now he’s talking about going to art school. If anyone reading this can tell me what happens at art school, I would like to know.

I do know that it doesn’t involve football and cheerleaders, and I’m more than slightly suspicious that DJ might blow the pink trumpet—if you catch my drift. You can imagine what a setback this is to such a paragon of masculinity as myself, but I’m trying to hope for the best. Teddy says that as bad as DJ is now, it’s nothing that a three-month cycle of Diabonol and a wild night in East St. Louis won’t fix. There’s a light at the end of the tunnel for DJ; I just hope it isn’t a rainbow strobe accompanied by “If I Could Turn Back Time.”

Bocephus is doing fine. The neighbors keep telling me to get him fixed, but I just can’t bear to do it to the old fella. At least one of us is still getting laid whenever he wants.

Rock on,

Darrell “D-Bag” Jackson, Sr. and Family

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