Jesus is my homeboy.
About a week ago, I was walking up to my front door when my psycho neighbor/mailman ran out of his apartment to give me a package. Aside from the awesome fact that I get to listen to he and his equally nutso girlfriend fight every minute of every day, he also puts packages for me in his apartment until I get home so that the asswipes in the shithole neighborhood I live in don’t steal the box sitting on my porch.
I noticed that the box came from North Carolina, and when I saw that all the words were spelled correctly and not written in crayon, I realized it wasn’t from anyone in my family, but that it was in fact from my favorite ass monkey.
He sent me an e-mail earlier telling me that he was coming back from a trip, and saw something, and as soon as he saw it, realized he had to buy it and send it to me.
Why a Jesus mug, you ask? It’s obvious. He worships me in a way that can only be compared to the delusional adoration that those kooky Christians bestow on Jesus.
Either that or he thinks I’m going to begin an affair with my gardener and then serve him coffee.
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