Okay, I’m going to be totally honest with you: I was the one that shot you in the ovaries. It was a rookie mistake; I thought I was shooting a glass bottle on a rail post, and it turns out it was your baby compartment. My bad. In my defense, you should have waved your hands or something when you crossed the street.

But I’m not here to defend myself, I’m here to apologize to you, and maybe buy you a new pair of pants. I’m pretty sure I shot through your pants; it’s hard to tell when you’re as shit-faced as I was though. Anyway, regardless of what article of clothing I peppered with my new shotgun, I’m really stoked that you’re not dead.

Because I’ve never shot anyone nearly as accidentally as I shot you. It was a total fuck-up on my part, and I wish there was more I could have done than vomit on your shoes when I stumbled over to you. Hey, I was drunk remember?

I really, really feel bad about the fact that I destroyed your reproductive system like that. It’s not fair that you are forever infertile now, while I just knocked up this tramp that swears she was on the pill. It’s not fair at all. I wish I could make it up to you. You could take my child, if you promise to assume full legal responsibility for it. And feed it. Or I could pay you some money. I don’t have a lot of money, so some of that money is probably going to be bags of crack that I stole, but hey, you’re definitely not pregnant now, so I say go for it. 

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Infant on blanket with fake gloved hands
"Seriously, this is the best child care my little bastard baby is going to get from me. I want you to have it."
If it makes you feel any better, I had an extra bad hangover the next morning because I stayed up all night smoking crack. Hey, I just saw someone get shot that day, I cope in my own way. But the good news is, I wrote you this apology letter, because I just feel shitty ever since I saw your bleeding body roll into that storm drain. I didn’t kick you or anything, it was really windy out if I recall. But when I heard you screaming, "I’m not dead!" I knew what I had to do. Don’t thank me for pulling you out, it’s thanks enough that you didn’t get mad when I smacked your head on the grate three or four times.

I’m terribly sorry your lady parts got riddled with buckshot, and I’m also sorry about backing over your arm with my truck. I was trying to shine my headlights on your wound, but when I heard your bones break I suddenly remembered it was two in the afternoon. It’s a good thing I had that bottle of Jim Beam in my truck to help you numb the pain, but it would have been a lot better if it hadn’t also been holding a couple of my cigarette butts. Live and learn I always say.

I did roll the windows down on the way to the hospital when I sparked that bong bowl, and I hope that one day I can set things right with you for accidentally spilling the bong water in your exposed bullet holes. I was trying to pass it to you, but I think you were unconscious by then.

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And about when we got to the hospital, that was totally a "Hope you get better" shove out the door and peel out. Because I totally do…hope you get better that is.

Anyway, I wish all the best for you, and I’m crossing my fingers and praying you won’t press charges.

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