Three months ago I got a letter forwarded from one of my old addresses about a pending child support/custody case. I found this suspicious because I don’t usually jizzbomb slimy pussies, nor do I live in Nebraska, but I decided to look into it. Upon further investigation, I began to start piecing the puzzle of this riddle wrapped in a mystery together. First of all, the only degenerate redneck I’ve ever came in (on her period) and had unprotected sex with (off her period) was Becca. We all know about Becca. Since her relationship with me evaporated like a fart in a hurricane, I assumed the rest of her bi-polar flatulence crop-dusted another unlucky (male) sperm donor.

However, nothing in my life is ever easy to admit, because I got Becca pregnant.

I didn’t just get her pregnant with any fast swimmer, I slam-fucked a reality stupidstar into her womb.

I knew Becca had two kids with a tattoo artist named Cody and lives at her parent’s house in Virginia with both little shit machines, but I never knew that she hid our previous love child from the world–such a famous bastion of American culture who happened to share our collective genetics and precious intellect.

How did this happen?

I’ll tell you how it happened, dear reader. A couple sausage melts at the Waffle House and I was smitten. In a moment of weakness, I made love to Becca in the very same trailer she was conceived in and I felt her convulse and barf her Schlitz malt liquor all over my torso (she might or might not have been awake). I knew right away that she was pregnant with our little Alana… I mean, “Honey Boo Boo”.

I had no idea that Becca was fertile but I assumed that she was a responsible sexual partner and took certain precautions so unplanned pregnancies wouldn’t be in our discussion(s) of the future. Apparently my faith in her common sense was usurped by her poor choices to keep our retard child, and I guess I was now a father (and closet martyr of said child). Who could have guessed that my alcoholic genes mixed with Becca’s poisoned vaginal juice and whorish womb would happen to create the most infamous redneck calling card in the history of reality television; a female Eric Cartman made out of female discharge and particles you would find underneath a Nascar racetrack porta-potty?

The fact that CPS hasn’t been taken this sloppy tub of Country Crock away from the abusive, malnourished manatee that birthed her in order to give her half a chance at living a happy life is indicative of how far American society has fallen. As a newly identified (concerned) father, I contacted Michael Lohan (Lindsay Lohan’s father) and the Reverend Al Sharpton to help me save my little Honey Boo Boo, but I fear it’s too late for her.

“I WANT TO TAKE PSYCHOLOGY IN COMMUNITY COLLEGE”

The NNN (The Nick News Network)

The Nick Sterling News Network

CLICK ON THE FUCKING PICTURE!

I try not to mince words.

This is the EDD appeal paperwork I am sending in to the state of California. Why? Because I’m an asshole, that’s why.  I know I got shit-canned at my work for being an unruly son of a bitch, but I literally had a legitimate claim. I didn’t quit, abandon my job or prison shank any of my co-workers, so helping me out with $200/week for a month until I found another job I could eventually get fired from was the difference between me being all happy go-lucky this holiday season and me slamming my boner on my computer desk in absolute frustration.

The state of California gives these ditch monkey’s subsidized housing and Welfare for not using birth control and making poor decisions and I tell this total thundercunt of a female supervisor she is reconstituted donkey vomit and suddenly I’m not liable for a little social assistance? You know what? Fuck you, California. Fuck you with a titanium alloy spiked dildo covered in wombat excrement. And if anybody thinks that’s harsh, well, fuck you, too.

I’m going to rape the state of Cali-fawn-yuh for taxes next month and then I am going to join a militia and shoot guns at foreign brown people. At the very least, I can go back to buying booze for rich high school kids in Arizona and not have to worry about working. Sure, I might have a 16 year old girl crying in my cat’s litterbox after she drank three O’Douls, but at least that’s better then filling out all this bullshit paperwork just to get money you’re going to spend on the Mexican family of 14 living next door to me. At least the girl will put out and give me something for my effort, after she gets the cat shit off her toes, of course.

Fuck rules. It’s time to live illegal again.