I am not excited about flying cross country to spend 5 days getting slammed by a former client’s old man meat for rent money, and writing for you twats while he recharges. I haven’t really been back to LA since I was a kid. We left when I was 12 because I had a depressive drunk birth-father (not the fun Step kind like Jesus) who needed a new start in a new timezone, which didn’t really work out.

I remember hating LA. We lived right on the border of the rich part, like literally, the neighborhood went from rich to poor in the middle of my street, beginning with my house. My dad said he was going to re-stucco the front, ripped it all off, then left the wood and cinder blocks and pipes exposed for 5 years and let the lawn turn into a weed forrest while he drank in the garage. There were some Filipinos further down the block with some chickens and a chihuahua that went missing. The kid next door claimed he beat the rat dog to death in a pillow case with a bat, but that dog was most likely the Filipinos’ dinner. There was a drug bust one night. A local skinhead would paint swastikas on the wall of the retarded kid’s house. The riots were kind of exciting.

This is Deelishes from Flava of Love’s teets. I don’t know whether she won or not, but she looks like the tranny that used to prance by my school yard every other day swinging a purse and a ponytail weave.

Once I saw Flava Flave in NYC heading west on 18th street at 5th ave. He had his big clock on and was yelling into is cell for attention. It was sad. But not as sad as Deelishes’ udders. Someone didn’t wear a bra for ten years. She should get a lift and you should start smacking your prick because you know it turns you on.

Obediently yours,
Sugar Nell (ex-hooker, friend of Jesus)

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