A secret letter I wrote to Brandon Youngblood when I was high on LSD at the Waffle House in Gainesville, GA. The one off Mundy Mill, by the liquor sto

Dearest Brandon,

I like you, hell, some days, I even respect you.

And you know, some people might not like that I'm boys with a Bandit. Some people might say, "Wait a minute, you're Fred Dick's thrall and thereby belong to the Whoresmen and thereby ain't supposed to be friends with a Bandit."

But you weren't there, man.

You weren't there in Mehico when we drew tiddies together on Toddrick's cheeks and then drew a butt on his chest and a wiener on his forehead. You weren't there for all the sleepovers when he would let me out of the kennel after sleeping hours and let me run around the yard to stretch my legs.

YOU WEREN'T THERE when Rob Williams was about to set me on fire because I threw his Pantera CD out the window but then Big John Pepper showed up on a tandem unicycle and we rode away in style.

You weren't there, man.

You couldn't possibly there.

Because when your HEAD is shoved SO FAR UP YOUR ASS that you LOOK OUT OF YOUR NECK to SEE THE GOD DAMN WORLD...

You tend to miss the bigger picture.

And the bigger picture, Brandon, is precisely this:

Fuck you dude. "Wah, I'm old and my knees don't work like they used to and also I'm a bald piece of shit."

That's my impression of you dude.

Call it the sincerest form of flatulence.

I hate you for beaming my buddy in the head five consecutive times.

I hate you for having rigid moral convictions.

I hate you for being in shape despite being basically retirement age.

I.

Hate.

You.

And now you might be saying to yourself, "Why are you coming to the defense of that big asshole? He changed his name, his look, and his friend group."

Well, where I come from, Brandon, we got three values.

Hustle.

Loyalty.

And Inhalants.

And let's just say I stick to my code

AT ALL TIMES

and I hate your fucking guts

AT ALL TIMES

and I get more vajayjay than you

AT ALL TIMES

and I got more style and pizzazz than you

AT ALL TIMES.

Hmph...

From where you're kneeling it must seem like an 18-carat run of bad luck. Truth is...

the game was rigged from the start.

Pucker.

Piss.

Fuck you.