Above – Collapse after news of JoJo’s ungodly betrayal
By Loretta Martin, (as told to georgialeesays)
In our last segment, Sweet Loretta, by phone call from Lisa, a bewildered stranger, learned a shocking truth. Both women unwillingly belonged to a vast coven of sister wives, held in secret by JoJo, a Chicago Yankee, residing in Tucson, Arizona.
The phone call, on March 31, April Fools Eve, shook Loretta to the core and the floor (see photo) And yet, she rose, through rage and tears, and formulated a plan: Send JoJo a fake lovely-dovey pre-April Fools e-mail.
The next day, April Fools – follow up with a scathing nuclear e-blast (see below) cc’ing all of his known women, contacts provided by Lisa.
Post e-mail, busted, JoJo fled on foot, and was last spotted in the dessert hills, squatting with familiar pricks of his Saguaro Cacti hideout.
Below: April Fools e-mail. (apologies to all decent Yankee friends, most of whom live in Atlanta now anyway.
Subject: With a Rebel Yell – die Yankee Scum!
Bozo: I’m sure you know that yesterday’s sniveling love letter was my little April Fools joke. Every word was a lie, including “And” and “The.”
To quote Elvis Costello: “I wish that I didn’t hate you. Least not as much as I do. And squander all my contempt for a little nothing like you. Liars like you are ten-a-penny Women would slap you, if you knew any.”
OH, silly me, you DO know women a-plenty. At least two of us WOULD LOVE to slap you, for starters.
The others that we know of, from skanky whores to Mondo-Bondage Devotees and casino-dealer cancer survivors, may relish your multiple dalliances, that, according to your un-clean cellphone, span roughly from 2004 – 2013.
Imagine my surprise! Our long-distance relationship begun in 2010, followed by your 2011 cross-country move to me, your “only” love. By mutual agreement in 2012, you Got back West, vowing undying love and a return, with viable employment, when the stars aligned. Yet you wasted no time reuniting with old loves and gathering new victims, including Lisa – Deep Throat informant. In writing, Judas, you denied me, more than thrice. To whit:
“I didn’t love her (me). She was a vain, self-absorbed, neurotic, alcoholic and no good in bed. Really? LMAO!!!! What about…should I go into detail here?
Lisa called yesterday, after finding my moldering number in your cellphone. We compared notes, all negative, but not devoid of humor.
We shared your purple-prosed e-mails. Funny – they are near- duplicates AND sent to BOTH of us AT THE SAME TIME!
Damn technical glitches! Surprising for you, a computer savvy Lothario. While here, when not “job searching,” you sought mindless pursuits, such as “world-building, Farmville, etc. as “stress relievers.”
All the while, you stuffed women’s inboxes, coast-to-coast, with seductive e-mails, when not on Porn Hub, Adult Friend-Finder and the like. No wonder you clicked that screen so fast when I walked in.
With you as bizarre commonality, Lisa and I are now friends. At Christmas, in your spirit-of-the-season generosity, you flew 1800 miles here, asked me to marry you, proffering a cheap topaz “promise” ring.
All this while, Lisa, a circumspect Penelope, counted hours until your return from “an all night drive, after a family Christmas gathering in California!” Penelope, chilling champagne for your romantic New Year’s Eve rendezvous, both of us used, abused.
Oh hell, let’s cut to the chase here. My vast posse of Decent Southern Men (fuck Ole Neil Young) are ready/willing to drag the Golden CSA dagger of my ancestors across your scrawny throat. But, don’t worry, JoJo, the weapon is too sacred to contaminate with your (disease-riddled) bodily fluids.
I admit that I’m ashamed of myself.
For: allowing you, a bum-of-the-month, as my Dad referred to my teenage crushes – to live here, diverting attention from my sweet daughter, who loathed you from the start.
For: investing in clothes, shoes and hairstylists, my failed effort to make you presentable.
For: researching countless job possibilities that stalled in background checks and “false accusations.”
For: taking your consumptive ass to medical treatments for smoking-related illnesses, while you lied about quitting.
For: buying into your SAD little stories of child abuse, death and destruction. Why believe anything?
One thing I do believe is your comment: you weren’t “in my league.” You should be eternally banned from the sport.
Through a series of dark arts rituals, I am purging you. A pox on and you and your harlots’ houses! The Universe won’t support your atrocities, or your sorry, lecherous self.
Ritual One: The fake Christmas “Promise Ring,” floated down a slimy creek to rest in the sewer.
Ritual Two: Your letters/cards, especially the Christmas vow “To Be Impeccable with my Word?” Incinerated. So much for One of the “The Four Agreements,” that you and yours are so high on.
Oh, forget all of that, as I will, and soon.
But hear this! Etch in on your black heart – I will NEVER forget or forgive your disrespect to my family, and my mother’s memory.
Recall, JoJo, before her funeral, the funeral home, the viewing/wake. Mother, regal as a queen, rests in an open casket, flowers fill the room. I greet a long receiving line of beloved friends. In a black out, otherworldly state of shock, I vowed to stand up to it. To make Mother proud of me, this last time.
And YOU, YOU! Electing this time to bolt. Without a word to me, strolling to the Waffle House for a quick three-egg special. Your appalling insult leaves me scattered smothered and covered with a grimy disgust for you that I will take to my own grave.
Oh – You’ve got mail! Tax evasion, Bankruptcy Court, car repossession, welfare fraud and your ex’s foot-long drug/alcohol violations (I dare you to find anything on moi, your “other alcoholic”) How do these besotted women bail you out? Have you reduced them to streetwalkers or mendicants, to support your miserable existence?
I don’t have time or energy to rat you out. Unless you’ve sold it for cigarette money, send my stolen computer (erase child pornography first) and letters will “return to sender, address unknown.” I’ll wait for your mug shot to filter down to America’s Most Wanted or the Post Office photo gallery.
Keep everything else you stole – clothes, my debit card, (cancelled after unauthorized use on your second treck back West.)
For me, happiness will be the best revenge. That’s a sacred vow, in memory of my beloved Mother, who also hated you.
So Get Back, JoJo, back to where you once belonged. Stay there. I will survive!
p.s. Please change the love song, “I’m Your Man,” burned on multiple CD’s for all your women. You insult the great Leonard Cohen, by adapting his masterful lyrics. Frankly, we’re all sick it.