I Don't Need A Dad! Let's Get Something Straight...

Irv here--

I seem to remember that this was supposed to be MY blog. Look, Lonnie, I don't need you. As a dad, you were never around. I actually feel sorry for you. I'm the one in jail (and btw I finally got a shirt from the desk clerk, James, who likes me, I think, and let me use his computer to make this entry).

And Kwan, if you want to exploit my story for publicity for your campaign, fine. Use this entry to investigate my father, Lonnie. He was at Thanksgiving Dinner last year with Uncle Vick, my grandparents, the social worker, and I. Ask Lonnie, who killed the Social Worker chick. Ask Lonnie who buried her in the backyard, when Uncle Vick had Lonnie's gun trained on me?

Ask Lonnie.

He's so scared the truth will come out about what he did, that he thinks he can pin the whole thing on his own son. "Can't bend fully over." Ahhh, how sorry-ass sad is that? Balding and paunchy old man can't possibly be to blame. Yeah, right.

I was so angry at him for months, that when the Labor Day barbecue came, I was terrified what I might do. But he didn't show up.

He actually tried to get me to "confess" in that motel room when he held me and Kwan hostage overnight. He believes his own story. That's sick shit. I'm your son, Lonnie!

I'm not scared of Lonnie and I'm not scared of Uncle Vick. Neither was grandma and she's dead because of it. Her poor husband, my grandpa, just happened to be in the room that horrible night and had to irritate everyone asking for another helping of yams. Well, grandpa got it, too, with half a yam dripping out of his mouth.

I'm the only one who doesn't have delusions of grandeur. And because of it, I'm in jail. That's America. But I'm a survivor.

Gotta go. James is winking at me.

Irv--