It's been more than six years since I've even heard from you, longer since I've seen you. All was right in the world. You were someone else's problem now. But after all these years you call me up (how the fuck did you get my number anyway?) and go off on me because you got another DUI. Six years ago I turned you in because you came by my house and used your car to shred my front yard because I wanted nothing more to do with your drunken ass. I called the police, described your condition and your vehicle, you know, maybe I saved a life that night. They stopped you and made you stumble the line, they arrested you, life was good. But last night, some six years later, you got another DUI, and it's my fault that this is your second offense, because if I hadn't turned you in that first time, six years ago, this would only be your--

Never mind all that. you know the deal.

After all the bullshit you put us through, all those years ago, you have the unmitigated gall to call me up out of the fucking blue and bitch at me because you got a second DUI (Driving Under the Influence), and somehow I am responsible for that? You fucking pickled hag! You putrid, rusty, cum dumpster! Have you forgotten that you destroyed lives? Have you forgotten that you left innocents dashed against the rocks caused by your wake of Kool-Aid and vodka (but mostly vodka) night after night and to the rim tea-glass style? Do you remember after I finally had enough and left? You decided it would be a great idea to get even with everyone. So you began your campaign of attrition, spreading your legs for anyone that could clip a clothespin on to keep from blacking out in the fumes of your drunken stupors. How many countless men with no names ground pounded your asshole until it resembled a butter churn? How many nameless puss-predators base-jumped their cock off your numb, drunken lips, tea-bagging their balls off your chin, leaving you no evidence of their presence the next morning save for your still glowing sphincter and the impressive collection of crusty pearl necklaces all over your tits? your ass? your sheets? your pillows?

Oh how your daughters cried to me after the messy breakup! How you would stagger around the house in the mornings after another headboard-poundage-marathon, your once beautiful hair looking clearly like someone had used it for a post-fuck cock rag. How your daughters found rubbers on your bedroom floor, some of them torn open but never used. I guess you were too caught up in the moment. They called you on it, your 14 year-old and your 17 year-old. They staged their own half-assed intervention. They were concerned. How you turned on them! How you talked to them! Then you would apologize and reduce yourself to a smoldering pile of tears and empty promises, informing them how I had done this to you. This was my fault for leaving. For not sticking it out. You forget I endured your drinking problem for two and a half years. I was through rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic. I had to get away from you. I couldn't help you.

And then the next night after your promises to the girls? Second verse, same as the first, bitch. Just another round of drink guzzling and balls-deep, cunt-flap-bashing Olympics with some guy who was resourceful enough to comment in the bar on how enchanting your blue eyes were. We both know they are brown, but why hold that against the guy when your root-weary vagina would do? Christ, didn't Nickleback write a fucking song about you? An Album?

You eventually ran your daughters off, best thing for them really, plus it freed up more rooms in the house for your empty bottle collection. Frankly the phone call I received from you last night was shocking not because it had been so long since I had heard from you, but I seriously doubted that you were still alive. Then I couldn't believe you had only two DUIs total over the years. But the absolute worst was that when you called last night, you were drunk!

Look, I know your life is complicated. I mean, it must be a real bitch having your gag reflex bashed in by some loser's cock ring night after night. But why piss on me? It's been six fucking years! How about leave me the fuck alone? How about taking some responsibility for your own actions? Do you remember what that judge said to you? I know the restraining order has surly expired by now, but must I really go get another one?

What else are you going to blame me for? Will it be my fault when your meat curtains drag behind you like a fucking bridal train? Will it be my fault when you die from some fucking unfathomable sexually transmitted disease that was formed from the ball-sack-bouillabaisse-C(r)ock-Pot you call a vagina? Will it be my fault when your daughters high-tail it out of town to get away from the rumors spreading like wildfire that their mother is so nasty that her crabs bungee jump from her tampon string? Will it be my fault when they lock your ass up for plowing into a school bus full of children because it happened to get in they way of your bee-line to the liquor store, where everybody knows your name? Will it be my fault when you lose every job that could be had in this town and the last of your most loyal friends leave you with nothing but the tumbleweed of loneliness and the baron wasteland that was once a respectable woman? Will it be my fault that I slam the phone in your face when you're twelve-stepping your way through the phone book trying to make amends to everyone you wronged and it ends up costing you so much fucking money in phone bills that you have to take out a second mortgage on your duplex home?

Forget that you ever knew me, you human sump. Forget my number and my name just as you have your dignity. Forget about pinning the blame anywhere but someplace where it takes a mirror to get it on straight. And the next time two fellas are using you for a human rotisserie, and the guy in the 'back door' pulls out because of some discomfort and investigates your colon only to find a class ring, a half a pack of Rollo's, and a note that says, "You're getting warmer!", and in his disgust dives out the fucking window to his death leaving the other guy to decide if he wants to finish up or puke on your face, do not take so much as a nanosecond to even think about blaming me for any of it.

And I know it's been six years, but since I am on a role:

Fuck you with a backwards porcupine for keying my car.
Fuck you with a flaming 747 for filing false police reports in a vain attempt to get me arrested.
Fuck you with a polar bear after being jerked off with a fistful of fish hooks for stalking my family and my new girlfriend (who is now my wife).
Fuck you with your daddy's dentures for trying to get me fired from a job I held for nine years by calling the CEO of the fucking company and making up lies.
Fuck you with a rabid, pregnant wolverine (after being shown pictures of your vagina then beaten) for forging my signature on credit card applications and leaving my score in ruins.
Fuck you with a flaming copy of War and Peace for attempting to use cunt for currency in an attempt to have me killed.
Fuck you with a lit Molotov cocktail for the countless terroristic threats.
Fuck you with a cheese grater dipped in battery acid for turning your children into emotional basket cases.

You got another DUI? Couldn't have happened to a nicer person, you fucking jiz-guzzling, monkey-spunk junkie! I hope the judge locks you up, and breaks the key off in the lock!

Worthless cunt.

That Busey photoshop thread is the greatest thing I've ever seen.

It is horrible.

It's a combination of two meme's into a previously existing funny picture. The orgy of meme-ery and funny fused together in this one object creates a feeling of joy within oneself, often referred to as laughter.

This feeling is dependent on having, what is called, a "sense of humor". Prior knowledge of said funny picture should not be relevant to the lulz, and thus, sir...you fail...

That "I SEE WHAT YOU FUCKING DID THERE" thing is pretty awesome, as image macros go.