by Pop Feral in space #54

Did you know that my entire family, myself included, is rotting in jail right now, just like the smashed fruit rotting on our porch and on the outside walls? You can blame Harold and Madge next door in #56. They're the ones what launched the fruit at us, so it stands to reason they're the ones what called the cops on us too. Plus, Harold went and built that fucking slingshot in his kitchen window, and he aimed it right at MY trailer.

It ain't fair. One of the things the cops charged me with is drunk-in-public. That ain't a crime. There shouldn't be no law against drinking in public. Why even have a karaoke machine in the first place if you don't want to attract the public? Shit, any moron can see that.

I don't wanna drink alone. I want to drink in public. I ain't George Thoroughgood. I don't drink alone YAAAAAAAAA-AAAAAAAH with nobody else. That's bullshit. When I drink, I wanna be surrounded by a crowd of fellow drunks. Believe me, it's a lot cheaper throwing a pitch for beer when you ain't the only one drinking.

On the ride to the police station, the cop called me an asshole for calling my wife a stupid bitch on the karaoke machine. Shit, I had to call her SOMETHING. After all, she started it when she screamed into the microphone that I was a huge hairy ape and a ugly limpdick motherfucker.

I don't even want to talk about my kids. All I got to say about them is, they got that tweek shit from Eddie over in space #29, or what's left of #29, anyways.

The little idiot couldn't get a ride to Buzzard's Trailertopia to score some crank. So he decided to cook it his ownself with a bunch of ingredients he got at a beauty supply and Walgreens and at a auto parts store.

Eddie only got a batch and a half done when he blew his trailer to trailer heaven. If I was one of my boys, I wouldn't even do shit that Eddie cooked. I don't trust that little weasel.

As for my dog, I don't know how Humpy's doing. I hope he's been able to get food somehow. He can get out of the yard -- we all know how many times old lady Beadle has called the forest rangers to report a bear digging in her bag of chihuahua food. And I'm sure he misses Fifi, that little stuffed toy chihuahua of his. I swear, Fifi must be the dog version of a blow-up doll to that goofball Rottweiler of mine.

It don't look like I'm going to get out on O.R. any time soon. Ditto for my wife and kids. In fact, we may all be going away for a long time, if you believe what the District Attorney has to say.

So could all of you like take turns watching my place for me? If you could find it in your heart to throw Humpy some dog food or table scraps or roadkill every once in a while until we get out and can take care of him, I'd be much obliged.

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