An Open Letter to Jonah Byrde

*SPOILERS AHEAD*

*SPOILERS AHEAD*

*SPOILERS AHEAD*

Dear Jonah Byrde,

First off, I’m proud of the young man you are becoming. You are a money laundering child prodigy, and you will no doubt turn millions, if not billions of dirty money into clean money during the span of your career. That is, unless I am granted access by Netflix to walk through the TV and give you these mf hands. If that happens, then, well, your career maybe short lived.

Allow me to explain.

Jonah, I am in the process of writing a strongly worded letter to the Emperor of Netflix to request access into Ozark. The first reason why I am audacious enough to make such a bold request is because I pay the Netflix account, while my brother, one of my best friends, my Dad and I think my mother in law drain the life force from my account and leave me with this ever growing high ass bill. These mfs are one price increase away from becoming Comcast. But anyway, that’s right, I’m willing to risk life, limb and liberty in order for me to give you these hands. I’m willing to dodge Mexican Cartel gunfire and walk through the triecious, heroin filled foothills of the Ozarks in order for you to receive this blessing, in order for you to receive these hands.

I know what you’re thinking. I know you think I don’t know your struggle. And you’re right. I don’t I don’t know how it feels for you to be thrown into an infinitely fucked up situation such as having to relocate on a drop of a dime because your father is the head money launderer for one the biggest drug cartels in the world. You’re right, I don’t know how it feels to have two incredibly dysfunctional parents, including a mother who is turning more sinister than your money laundering father. You are right, I don’t know how it feels to be paranoid every night, while drug dealing hillbillies and Mexican drug lords breath down your neck and watch your every move. You’re right, I have no idea what it’s like to grow close to a Uncle who understood you, who understood your plight. Even if he was bipolar, he still saw your humanity and recognized your individualism, only to find out that the one person who saw you, was essentially killed by his sister, your mother.

You are right about all of that, Jonah. And you know what? I don’t fucking care.

Man tf up, Jonah. Boo-hoo, my parents are triller than Paul Wall’s verse in “Still Tippin.” And boo-hoo, my parents are getting shit done and protecting their children against mass murders. Boo-hoo, my sister is now more trill than I am and down with the team and understands what tf she’s suppose to be doing. Btw, I was about to say “she understood the assignment,” but you can’t pay me enough money to actually write that phrase with the seriousness it doesn’t deserve. Boo-fucking-hoo, my family needs me, so what I do is throw them under the bus every chance I get because my favorite Uncle was killed because he almost got all of us killed. Boo-hoo, instead of turning my family into a money laundering Golden State Warriors super team with KD, I instead go money launder for Ruth (we love you, Ruth. Stay safe), who is about one more family member being murdered away from turning into the Dark Phoenix off X-Men and turning everybody into dust molecules.

The shit you pulled this season legit makes me wonder if white people own belts. How do they wear pants? With silly string? Do their pants hold up on a prayer? What happens if they lose weight? What if your father, Marty Byrde loses a few pounds? How will his pants hold up? Because he for gawd damn sure doesn’t own a belt. We know that for sure. And we also know for sure that your mother, Wendy Byrde doesn’t own a belt, nor have access to tree sticks nearby, which is weird, considering y’all reside in the fucking Ozarks. Jonah, your parents are doing too much talking. Which puzzles the shit out of me. So, your mother can have her brother killed, but she refuses to smack some sense into you? Your father has contributed to the well being of mass murdering drug lords, but he can’t hit you with two piece and a biscuit and a red beans and rice from Popeyes combo special?

Jonah, does that make sense to you?

Of course it doesn’t. You know it doesn’t make sense. Like it doesn’t make sense that you’re 14 years old, but you look older than me trying to figure out what Pushing P means. Jonah, you may not be fictionally too old for this, but you are literally too old for this shit. See, Jonah, you think what you are doing is rebellious. You think betraying your family somehow displays to anyone paying attention that you are better than them. You’re not. What you are is an annoyance. An annoying teenager being played by someone who is old enough to make a beer run for the fictional you.

Fall in line, fam. Just, fall in line.

Un-Sincerely yours,

Every Netflix account payer and their cheap family/friends who watch the shit for free

Leslie McLemore writes about a lot of different shit for Black With No Chaser. He is also the Takeaway Kang, the greatest baby father to the dopest babymomma, and the father of two beautiful girls, one of which gets on every nerve he has. The other one is sweet…sometimes. So, you know, balance. Sort of.

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