never trust an osborne

 I want to live in a world where everyone has that adorable, sweet wrinkly grandma that still makes toast over the burner, and that old that old fart of a grandpa who races you in a mashed potato and cream corn eating contests, and always lets you win.  Sure we can all dream right? But truth be have it, some of your grandparents, grandparents, grandparents were real live rapists, murderers, and treason committers. For serious, and I believe that I can uncover at least one disgusting family member out of each and every one of you who is reading this. Heck, I know I’ve gone to school with at least one of you already.

And the thing is I always knew it too. It was always that same weird feeling in the back of my head, saying “that kid is seriously fucked up, like I would never wish that kid upon any family” and now I know why, because it runs in your fucking family. You were no good then and you’re no good now- I would personally and formally like to ask all you raping murderers that have a fondness for treason to leave. Please just put down the paper, computer, or wherever the heck you are reading this from and go hang yourself. Please. Ok now that they are gone, I can breathe a little easier, I hope you can too.  I do this for you, you know, so I hope you appreciate it.

Alright so where do we start. It’s almost too hurtful for me to begin, because it happened on a particularly fond day for me, it was... No not on Christmas, not even Hanukah. Nope, not thanksgiving... would you stop guessing already – it was on my birthday August 17^th 1801 when Bartholomew London was... duh... duh...duh...duh... POISONED, signifying Hamilton’s first Murder.  “Which rube conducted this concoction”, I DEMAND!! And by rube I mean countryman, and by conducted I mean brought life to... so basically what I mean to say is which countryman brought life to this concoction.

Well I will tell you who, though it turned out to be two who’s, and they were none other than George Nemires and Mary Osborn. Now you cannot stand there stone-faced and tell me that you didn’t go to school with one goddamn Osborn, maybe not a Nerisme-whatever that name is, it’s a little obscure, but a freaking Osborn.  Of course you did, they always wore jogging pants and ate there lunch in a brown paper bag- sitting on that brick ledge eating that same damn egg salad sandwich,  chocolate pudding and banana every day, brainstorming who they are going to poison.  There’s probably an Osborn hiding in the corner of your room right now, I’d look back now just to check that shit out, because I don’t want to say I didn’t warn you after you end up dead.  Those Freaking Osborn’s are bad news.