Saturday, May 2, 2009

Dear Hunter,

I'm sorry Hunter. When you read this you'll be all, "Hey, what happened to that Jack Johnson singing Jimmy Buffet song that I tirelessly listened to over and over drunk last night to get every last lyric, even though Sarah said we could easily google them if I needed them so bad." "Fuck googling them!" you said. You wanted to listen, stop, sing. Listen, stop, sing. Kind of along the lines of stop, drop and roll. But different. 
I typed away for you but there was something goofy going on and it was making the type to big and cutting stuff off and I just looked at it. Just stupid. We were kinda drunk. That was fun.  Especially the part where you wrote on Bob's wall that he looked like a.... I won't say it, cause what he reads this sometime? I'm telling you, I don't care how old we are, adult supervision is s a good idea and you can't count Sue as "adult," when she's drinking too. Sue and her crazy showers. That's why she left, not cause we were boring her. Or maybe we were. Once there had been to much wine to do tricks anymore and the games got old, she was outta here. Hey, now that I think about it, she left when she thought the wine was gone. She didn't know about that fifty dollar bottle my brother left here to give to my parents. Whoops. 
So sorry about the song. I'm going to text you the whole thing, piece by piece. That'll be fun...


  1. Fuck you Sarah. Once again, I get zero say in this. I was feeling that song. Put it back.

  2. I was feelin' it as well. Except instead of a Pirate, I was a cowboy...out on the Texas/Mexico border. Living in the hills and the buttes and sleeping out, bathed in Starlight every night.

    Coarse grounds in my coffee and beans for dinner and an Apoloosa horse named Peter Nincompoop.

    That's what I'm talkin' about.