It’s Friday, bitches! It’s a big day here at Ghetto Genius HQ, and we’re gearing up for an even bigger year for J-Wun and the CREW. Put down the bong or the doughnuts or whatever the fuck you do when you wake up, and join the CREW in saying:
HAPPY MOTHERFUCKING BIRTHDAY, J-WUNDERFUL!!!
Our boy is 13 now, a "man" in some cultures, so what better way to get all in that birthday ass than to receive birthday wishes from 168,000 people? There are big things poppin’ for J in the coming months, and you will all learn about that in due time. Like when we SAY you can know, okay? Also, I need y’all to create a distraction so I can get G’d up for that bar mitzvah cash, ya heard me? Since it was H-Bomb’s bright idea to honor this Day of Special Days with a blog post, she’s gonna shed a little insight into what it’s like to be friends with this forever-drinking, forever-shitting, forever-drunk dialing Guamaican Freak Show and Flo is gonna add some prose of her own. Shit is about to get real for this mother fucker.
A few things from L-T before H-Bomb breaks this shit down:
1. Happy Birthday, Asshole.
2. We’re out of fucking toilet paper. Again.
3. Love you like our faces rubbed the same vagina at birth. RIDE OR DIE.
Now, for H-Bomb:
My Dearest J-Wundercunt,
Today we celebrate the day that you were expelled from your mother’s uterus. I am not sure how that big head of yours actually made it out, with out splitting her in two, but I guess I can just chalk that shit up to SCIENCE.
Here we are, 34 years later and you are still a giant bobble-headed motherfucker, who also happens to be a prolific writer and first-class jive-ass-turkey. I know L-Train said you were becoming a man and turning 13 today, but I think she meant that you were hung like a 13 year old boy...I am sure you are a grower, not a shower. Oh, fuck, who am I kidding. My mom told me you really are packing a Guamaconda down there. And now the pukes begin. But, I digress.
What stemmed from a photo and an email about back alley sex quickly, turned into what we have today. Friendship? I wouldn’t go that far. Mutual respect and admiration? Now I am just using words you don’t understand. Mexican Standoff because we both know too much about each other to ever NOT be on good terms? That seems about right. I can't believe some of the things I have told and I swear to God if you EVER tell anyone about that thing I did in New Mexico back in '01, I will chop your wang off and use it to lasso lesbian cows. Literally and figuratively.
But back to our "friendship." Who the fuck calls someone at midnight, West Coast time, when they know the person they are calling lives on the East Coast and is sleeping, only to be drunk and borderline incoherent? You do, that’s who. I am pretty sure you also left the phone on while you were doing what I could only imagine to be sucking off a homeless person in the bathroom SFO. Real fucking classy, sweet tits.
Who calls someone at 6am their time (DO YOU NOT REALIZE I LIVE IN FLORIDA ASSCLOWN?) and in one breath asks for bail money and then in the next breath calls them a cunt and other assortment of insults, racial and ethnic slurs? YOU DO. Seriously, I think I am getting you a month in rehab for your birthday. No, fuck that. You would just get Lindsay Lohan pregnant and then the world would have it’s first Ginger-Guamaican. The world is not ready for that and I am not ready for any more late night phone calls that are either of you crying or sucking off homeless men. Please make some more friends to bug in the wee hours of the morn, because I am getting your number blocked today. REAL TALK.
All of that could have been forgiven, when I went to San Francisco for my birthday last year. But, instead of taking me to a nice strip club to celebrate my birthday, you took me to some borderline Tiajuana Donkey Show of a strip club that was probably full of AIDS and then made me bear witness to the saddest group of strippers with more daddy issues than Freud could unravel. Thankfully, we were so drunk that I could have easily hallucinated the whole thing. I know the truth, son. And you are truly a mother fucker.
Speaking of being a mother fucker, PLEASE stop boning my mom. I am not ready to call a dude who is only 8 months older than me "Dad." That is some sick shit; but I wouldn't expect less from someone who knows the likes of Anonymous and The Ringer (who were not able to contribute to this for legal reasons...i.e. they are probably incarcerated) and have fallen asleep at construction sites.
For the record, I do love you like a long lost brother from another mother (please don't try to fuck her, too, you sicko) and am so thankful that we are friends. But the more I think about the shit you have put me through in the last 2 years, I wholeheartedly agree with what I texted you this morning. I wish you nothing but the best for your birthday and the rest of your days, and I really and truly hope you only get Chlamydia and not Herpes today.
Love ya, fucker. H.
I am gonna pass the mic to Flo, because that literary genius knows how to write some prose that will make a girl (me, H-Bomb, not J-Wunder...but that little bitch will probably cry when he reads this, too) tear up. With out further ado, Flo-Rich:
Every single year, when I manage to live to see another birthday, I feel two things:
I feel a deep sense of satisfaction that I made it through the previous year relatively unscathed, and I feel a profound disappointment that I didn't do more.
What I try to remember is that there is still so much goodness coming my way.
Things I couldn't possibly imagine if you dared me to let loose and wish for anything and everything.
Sometimes, it feels like one day bleeds into the next with few moments that make you feel full and round with contentment.
It is then that I choose what is hardest - to be happy and have faith that everything will turn out beautifully.
I hope you live in rooms full of light.
Happy Birthday, J-Wunder. Much love to you for being my backbone and the smart part of my brain that I lack.
And there you have it, J-Wunder. Your three Ghetto Angels wanted to do something special to wish you a happy birthday; because no matter what shit we talk, or fucked up yet hilarious things we say to each other, none of us would be here unless you had a whisper of an idea in that giant fucking head of yours to start a blog and then the goddamn brilliance to have us be your Ghetto Angels/Contributors.
We love you, Boss.
L-Train, H-Bomb & Flo-Rich
