Dear Thug Life,
May I be bold? I haven’t seen ghettohide nor greasyhair of you in lo these last few months. ARE YOU OKAY??
I’m afraid, Thug Life, that you have died, mayhap the result of some illegal-substance-abuse-adventure gone awry. Perhaps you fell down the stairs, and your melon doth spill across chipp’d tile and broken glass? (Nay, for there is nothing in the melon to spill…) Or maybe, your lover, the Lady Miss Thang Donkadonkbooty was discovered in flagrante delicto by your longtime paramour Mme. Bobbyjolisasue of the white Trashlandia badlands, and in a jealous rage stabbed you repeatedly with the broken end of her Colt 45 bottle.
I know not!
I only know that during this season of pleasantly cool evenings and warm windy afternoons, sleeping comfortably through the night without the siren scream of…well…police sirens…has been a delight. A delight, I say, to throw open the windows and see only my begonias and not a disheveled bunch-backed imp answering the call of nature in my backyard. A delight, I say, to hear the pepper-shaker rattle of cicadas and not the ghetto-harpy’s mating call.
Thug Life, how can I continue to write loving yet witty letters to you if you give me nothing, nary a peep, a toot, a squealing tire on which to base my epistles?
Truly, Thug Life, it is as if you heard my gentle yet bitingly acerbic and sarcastic pleas! It is as if you read my modest blog and said amongst yourself, goodmen that you are, “We shall trifle no more! We shall no longer indulge in our usual skulking, slinking, hollering, lurking, violent, shady, asshattery ways! NAY, goodwyfe Spider, we will give up our life of petty crime and neighborhood menacing. Never again shall we toss our ale jugs into the bin during the wee-est wee hours of the morn, nor shall we wee-wee in the parking lot like rouge mutts!”
I am overcome, Thug Life, at the thought.