I also demand to know which one of you motherfuckers paid the clubhouse attendant to pack up my locker and put 'Texas' tags on my suitcases. Like Mr. S. would ever trade me. I'm a GODSEND. You couldn't even FUNCTION without me, you sorry motherfuckers. Be a little more careful with that shit next time. That's Louis Vuitton calfskin, and it doesn't come cheap, fuckwads.
Oh, and the Ben-Gay in the jockstrap? Not fucking funny, assholes. Unless, of course, the equipment got mixed up and that was supposed to be for RJ, in which case, how considerate of you.
Is it pick on me day and nobody told me? I even baked you bitches individual bundt cakes last night to make you feel better on the plane ride. See if you get any of them now. They were even carrot cakes glazed with caramel sauce, but now I'm eating ALL OF THEM.
God. I should just be fat, alone, and miserable. Where's that chardonnay again? I need some time alone with me.