Oh, good Lord, what happened to that trailer in space #15? Management dropped by for the monthly unnanounced inspection, and it looked like Armageddon had happened in Buck and Buddy's living room and kitchen area.

In addition, that 13-year-old alcoholic Feral kid was actually behind the wheel of an old beater pickup truck, and Management suspects that kid is responsible for crumpling the entire driver's side of our parked van. It had to be the kid who rammed the van, because the only other vehicle that passed down the driveway when the van was parked was that imbecile Carl Bailey from space #1, and he was on an electric scooter. Management cannot fathom a little electric scooter like Carl's doing that much damage to our van.

You all know that Management is basically just a couple of holier-than-thou religious zealots consisting of a crotchety old bat speeding toward her 90th birthday and the old woman's mama's-boy son. What you may not know is that rehab reverend living in space #26 is holier-than-Management. That proselytizing goofball doesn't ever stop trying to shove Jesus down your throat with a mopstick, does he?

And what's with that ratty old ugly firetruck? At first, Management was afraid you dipshits had yet again attracted an emergency vehicle into the trailer park. Then we got close enough to see that someone must be using that ancient, decrepit firetruck as a personal vehicle.

At least the traffic into and out of the trailer park has eased up a bit. Management was concerned that one or more residents were engaging in an illegal controlled-substance sales enterprise on Tinbox Acres property. Heaven forbid.

Please, just try to keep yourselves out of trouble. Remember, the holidays are much more pleasant when spent feasting with loved ones at home, not looking at them through jailhouse plate-glass with a phone stuck to your head.

Thank you all in advance and God bless you for your cooperation.

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