Dear fellas,
I can’t believe how fast things move on the outside. I saw a flying car once. Now they’re everywhere. The world went and got itself in a big damn hurry. People talk faster. And louder. The parole board got me into this halfway house called the Brewster, and a job bagging groceries at the Foodway…
Nah, just kidding. I can’t go through with that joke, they’d have to pay me to sign my name in the wood at the end. “O.J. was here” would cost an autograph-seeker $100,000. I got bills to pay.
I was the star at that prison, they gave me the one-room Hilton all right.
Actually, I got all the Hiltons. Paris, Nicky, that hot MILFy mother. Conjugal visits are awesome. I’ve been trying to get into jail just to get me some of those for fifteen years now.
As for the accusations that I killed my cellmate, that bitch deserved it. That is, if I did it, which I did not. But if I did, it was because I loved him and he betrayed me by going behind my back with that other fairy. But I didn’t.
I did miss the golfing, though. They only had nine holes at my country club prison.
I could use a job now. I wonder if NBC sports is looking for a football analyst.
No comments:
Post a Comment