One time, Mel Gibson had had hate sex with a prostitute in the back of a Lamborghini while Mario Andretti drove it around the track at 170 miles per hour, but the birthday card from his grandmother still had a teddy bear on the front, holding a bundle of balloons. Inside she had inscribed a short note to her favorite grandson, wishing him all the best on his special day. Mel set down his morning vodka, and gingerly placed the card on the mantlepiece between a box of hollow round ammunition and a photograph of himself jerking off. It was too late to call Australia, and his nana was too hard of hearing to use the phone anyway. So Mel Gibson decided that he would write her a thank you note. Wouldn’t that be nice!
“Consuela!” he shouted.
Mel Gibson had a few women who worked for him around the house, none of whom were named Consuela, but all of whom he called Consuela. What a pice of shit he was! The women took turns who had to answer him when he shouted blindly from wherever he was in the house, and Maria was up. When she found Mel Gibson, he was, as usual, completely naked. “Where’s my office?” he asked. Maria explained how to get there. It was a room he had only been in twice since buying the mansion in 1998 with some of his Ransom money. He sat down at the desk and tried to find a pen and paper, but there wasn’t one within his immediate line of sight. Again, he shouted for Consuela. When Gloria arrived, she explained that there was plenty of paper and pens in the desk drawers, which, she explained, was normal when organizing a desk. Mel Gibson shrieked at her for 45 minutes and then made her open the drawers for him. Then he kicked her out of the room and began to write.
Dear Lying Cunt Whore Cunt Nana,
Fuck you for the birthday card. I’m going to hit you in the face and chop your head off and bury it in the ground before the jacuzzi. You used to love me but I don’t have any friends AHHHHHHHHHHHRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR CUNT. You should blow me. You should blow me first, and then send me a birthday card, because I deserve it. Cunt fuck cunt bitch whore.
I hope you are getting raped right this second.
P.S. The Holocaust is a myth.
He smiled to himself, drank a fifth of vodka, burned his house to the ground, punched himself in the face, told a three-year-old child that it was a piece of shit faggot, and then asked–well, let’s be honest, not asked exactly, more like scream-demanded–Consuela to mail the card for him. Just a normal birthday card from a grandson to a grandma. Off it goes into the mail!