Dear Zachypooh,
One hundred years, huh? You grizzled old bastard! You used to claim that you were still living, beating the odds just to spite all the dirt bags that wanted you dead. Now you’re refusing to die just to fuck with the nurses that have to change your diapers… you still got style. And I know you, they don’t realize the reason all the medications they’re trying to overdose you with haven’t done the job yet because you’re trading them to that intern in exchange for the hash pens he gets from the dispensary up the street. Dipsticks.
The big one-double-zero, jeez, the doctors and nurses at Shady Acres must pray every day for your ornery cantankerous ass to take a dirt nap. Are they prescribing anything good or is it all just sugar-based placebos? All jokes aside man, I know its been ten years since the last time you received a letter from me but its been fifteen since the last one I got from you. No worries. Did you ever get that lasik eye surgery done? You ding-a-ling, you knew damn well that all the midnight video games in the dark on that flat screen LG Hi-def TV were going to make you go blind, jackass. Meh, the world looks like shit anyways anymore so you ain’t missing nothing.
Anywho, I know you’ll enjoy the homemade brownies (wink) and oh yeah… your doctors are rather upset that you refuse to donate your body to science when you die, but you already know they’re going to harvest you for body parts for their after hours shit-show rituals. And yes, I know your will clearly states that you want a sky burial but you’ll be dead and you won’t care what happens to that raggedy cadaver so, ya know, it is what is.
In closing, as much as you hate being too old to lift your own pecker when you pee, here’s hoping you live another twenty years just to fuck with everyone’s chi… give em’ hell, you old fart!
Amused to death,
Zachypooh
