#iHate My Uncle Sam

Hate is a strong word. But I hate my Uncle Sam. He is the most self-righteous, two-faced, underhanded son of a birch that I know. He contributes almost nothing to my life, but is constantly trying to tell me how to live it. Every time he contacts me, I want to push my Kanye button. The only reason I show him any respect at all is because he’s my mother’s brother. But before she died, she told me that she didn’t like his sorry butt either. He has no sense of finance management. He spends 95% of his money on lottery tickets, cigarettes, and only sweet Baby Jesus knows what else. And he’s always got this friend with him. I ain’t never met the guy, but I think he calls him Fica or something. I have no idea how he knows when I get paid, but every two weeks he calls me looking for a handout. And to make it worse, I get an annual visit from him by January 31st, in which he proceeds to tell me he has some emergency and needs a load of cash by April 15th. As if what I’ve been giving him all year isn’t enough. He’s got these two women that he bounces between every 4-8 years, and neither of them are quality options. They’re almost as bad as he is. If you have a drunk uncle like me, Mandy and Brian, I know you feel me. But I’m tired of his crap. The next time I see him, (Bernie Mac voice) it’s gon be some furniture movin’. Imma bust his head to the white meat. I refuse to deal with this dude any longer.





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