We Can Only Hope You’re High

I need to ask you something, son…. why did you shit in the backyard?

Here I am, ready to try out my brand new twin injection turbo leather seated riding lawnmower, and as I’m clearing out twigs, I smell something worse than your grandma’s depends in the middle of august.

What in sam hell you been eatin’, boy?!

The strangest part was that it almost seemed to be glowing. It was brown and all, but then there was this bizarre green mist hovering over it, like some sort of fucked up poop angel! I swear to baby Jesus, if the Lord shut off the lights that shit woulda lit up the whole dang neighborhood. What the hell were you thinkin’, baaaaaaoooy?

This is the last straw. I’ve been speaking with your mother, and, well…we think it’s time you moved out. Naw don’t cry boy, you know this been cummin’ for a while. After all, you are 42. It’s time you got a job, met a nice girl, traveled. Dammit, boy, it’s time you did something besides shit in odd places. It’s time you became a man, and started pooping in a fine woman’s house, or an office cubicle. Why, just imagine the places you could leave that radioactive shit of yours! Your stank ass could go places, son. Just like your old man. They said I’d never amount to anything, and look at me now – CEO of my very own laundry detergent company.

What’s that? What do you mean you had diarrhea and had to go and the only place you could find was the big tub of raw detergent in the shed??! You rat bastard! Burn in hell!*

*The father in this story is not real, nor was his dream of owning a laundry detergent company. If you are thinking of building a laundry detergent empire, please remember this story. Never forget!