If grudge-fucking my Mr. Poopoopachu sex doll in it's eye socket is a crime, then lock me up before I sin again.

Did you make it past the title? Good for you! You’re either a sick, sick fuck, a curious, curious fuck, or a fuck that knows me well enough to want to see where I might be taking this. Your reward for being a curiously sick fuck? This post has absolutely nothing to do with grudge-fucking a sex doll in its eye socket. If you linked here from grudgefuckingmysexdollbitch.com, then you’re going to be disappointed.

It was also a shameless attempt to ride the coattails of super-poster Mr. Poopoopachu, to tag-along and leech from his mega-popularity by insinuating that in my time off of the net, I’m busy jamming my cock in his eye…Well, not his ACTUAL eye, more like a sex doll with a blown up picture of his face glued to it, duct tape wrapped around the mouth, and a sticky, sploogy hole torn in his right eye socket from repeated violent, drunken, and angry insertions. Again, with said cock. My cock.

Or, it was just a “got you back” for a comment he made back in April about one of my posts making him want to kill himself. Whichever. Viva La Poop!!!

No, the real topic here is potentially a lot more offensive, depending upon your point of view. I’ll have to tread lightly, for sure. Starting with axing the original title, “A Crime Against Literacy”, which was really a bit pretentious and boring, and could potentially be offensive to some readers. Hence, the whole “Grudge-Fucking Mr. Poop” thing.

Towards the bottom of this post you’ll find two scans of an artifact I’ll be referring to throughout. I’ll start with the story of how said artifact made its way into my hands.

From 2003 to 2006 or so, I worked part time for a pair of brothers up in Bucks County, Pa. One owned a moving business, the other owned an auction business. They went hand in hand because when we weren’t working on a moving job for one brother, the other one would hire the whole crew to do auction pick-ups from customers with large lots for sale, or setting up items for sale at the auction site itself, or occasionally working what is called a “Premise sale”, when an auction lot from one individual was so large, we would set a public sale up right on the person’s property.

During those years, I learned a lot about much of the crap that we as human beings buy, consume, use, collect, or find value in. 99% of the shit you buy is worthless once you get it into your house. No joke, all that shit you’re storing in your basements, closets, garages, attics, and god forbid, storage units you’re paying good money for, is total fucking garbage with no value to anyone else but you. Any attachment, be it sentimental, financial, or thinly veiled “practical”, is complete bullshit, and needs to be enema-ed the fuck out of your system immediately. I don’t mean this from some hippy-douchebag “you’re possessions are meaningless” angle, I mean it from a “if you haven’t used it for 6 months, then get it out of your life because it is worthless to you” kind of way. Furniture, appliances, old computers, linens, kitchenware, glass crap no one wants to throw out, VHS cassettes (seriously, burn those), even old CDs and DVDs have little value, certainly not enough to even try to sell the shit. If you want to stand by the idea of “It’s useful to SOMEBODY”, then fine, donate all your old crap to Good Will, or the Salvation Army, so that someone less fortunate than you can look at all your crap, determine that YES, it really is useless shit, and throw it out for you. At least you tried.

That is the first 99% of what you own. The other 1% is, well, collectibles, and the sturm and drang that goes with them (display cases, attractive shelves, protective materials). And the shit people collect is mind boggling. Some of the things I saw go through the sale at different times that were “collections” that brought in money were just sick. TONS of Nazi memorabilia, a strange collection of KKK items, from advertising for Klan rallies to a pretty well done oil painting of the Grand Wizard on horseback, more old tools than you could imagine, lots of toys, old jewelry, certain types of porcelain and crystal odds and ends, a pile of Persian rugs so filthy that I was literally sweeping dead bats off of then when we were retrieving them, and the occasional lot of old political memorabilia, like a Nixon hat or a lot of JFK or FDR buttons. Hatred, politics, and really old mantle fodder, that is what doesn’t seem to go out of style in the auction world.

Which leads us to the artifact in question. A few weeks ago, when talking to a long time friend who I worked with at both the auction and moving jobs, I mentioned that this month’s topic was “Small Crimes”, and that I was at a bit of a loss for what to write without potentially incriminating myself. “Well,” he said, “I just might have something for you to write about…”

Going back 10+ years, before I worked with him, my buddy was going through a large box lot of baseball cards that came down in a huge pile of crap from up north somewhere. Tucked into the side of the box was this letter, it appeared to be from a father to a son. The father was in prison. It was from several years before he found it, the $0.32 stamp places it in the mid to late 90’s.  Immediately my thoughts went to some touching attempt by a man to reach out to his kin from his rock bottom jail cell, desperate to reconnect with his family and turn his life around…I guess it is just the optimist in me. When I communicated this idea to my friend, he just laughed and said, “Oh no, you are thinking exactly the opposite….” and began to regale me with poorly assumed white interpretations of some of the more colorful language in the letter, making it sound like an affirmation of the criminal life, and how when the man gets out of prison, he would be more than happy to initiate his son into the same existence. It kind of reminded me of that Chapelle’s Show episode that detailed the creation distribution of crack cocaine through a series of letters like those old “Civil War” documentaries. It sounded like General Cornrows Wallace himself could have penned this document.

I found the idea here both appalling and appealing, and asked him if he still had the letter. A few weeks later it was in my hands for examination. And while it didn’t disappoint, I think my friend’s supremely Caucasian point of view might have misread between the lines. To be fair, it would be easy to do that, the fucking thing is a mess of one long, two page run on sentence with no caps or punctuation. Even with my own slightly more edumacated opinion on the subject, I could not completely or accurately interpret the document. One glaring thing that I believe my friend was mistaken about was taking the gratuitous use of the word “son” as denoting a father-son relationship when it might just be used as a familiar title between unrelated friends. That alone changes the entire impact of the letter in a sociological sense, but maybe frees us up to see humor in the awful grammar and punctuation.

Another issue I was seeing was just how to approach this. I found the shit pretty funny, but not everyone shares my sense of humor (Pushing a pregnant woman down a flight of stairs, anyone? Anyone?). Certainly, I didn’t want to come off as some internet bully, pointing fingers and yelling “OMG look at teh dood that kant read LMAO!!”. I also didn’t want to be labeled racist, seeing as repeated use of the word “nigga” suggests it was more than likely a black guy that wrote it.

With these issues and the letter in hand, I consulted a specialist in the field, and by specialist, I mean a black guy that I work with. He agreed that use of the word “son” definitely did not guarantee a paternal relationship. On the “bullying of the illiterate” concern, he said that the writer of the letter was indeed a stupid motherfucker, so I was safe there. On the issue of racism, his thoughts were pretty cut and dry, “If you were making this all up and assuming that this was how black people talked to each other, then that would be pretty racist. But you got it right there in your hand.”

Taking his advice into consideration, and wanting to “tread lightly” as I mentioned, I decided to simply tell the story of the piece, and offer it up, as-is, for individual interpretation. Here is a word for word reprinting of the letter, as direct as I can make it, followed by scans of the original artifact.

Son wHat up.,

Ayo peepit son I under-stand you going through your little family problems and alladat  But I normally dont write       nobody who dut dont response back know what I mean but dont stress that though as for myself Im just getting ready for New York I’ll be out there in a minute dont nobody know When Im coming home OH YEAH Im not in washing ton no more Im in this new joint with fat Dee holding it down know what I mean But any way Dont let those bitches trap your ass off out there cause it aint worht it just hold your meat loaf shit will get better in all due time BELIEVE ME SON! My wife is out there playing games running around fucking and sucking some nigga Im not stressing it I know when I come home it will be a different story nah mean So your not the only one with problems son hold your head ya nah mean yo son I know shit is type hard for you right now son shit will get better  if every thing works out when I come home I should be on for me If it dont Ill show you how to get money When you aint got you know I mean well Im going to leave you with that right now Ayo drop me a kite so a nigga like (name deleted) can know what’s the verdict YAH NAH MEAN

Signed, but name deleted

As I said, I found it humorous and highly quotable, with my friends and I now throwing lines back and forth like “Show you how to get money when you aint got” and “Just hold you meat loaf”. There is some merit in assuming the person writing is of limited intelligence or education, but other than the colorful vernacular, there isn’t much misspelled, and the printing is pretty good.

So, read, enjoy (or don’t), pass it along, and if anyone needs me, I’ll be in this new joint with fat Dee holding it down, nah mean?

Filed under: Small Crimes by The Incapable Wrecked-Um
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