Fuck You, Mr. Feeney

If the internet had been as ubiquitous then as it was now, I guarantee you that the worry line marred Mrs. Matthews would have been googling your address and just waiting to see the sex offender registry website pop up.

Seriously, dude, fuck you.  Get a life, buy some kid’s swimsuit catalogs and go move to a hut in the middle of the woods.  I’m tired of watching you follow these fresh faced innocent boys through every grade of k-12 and then into college too.  They have too much to live for.

By the way, you creepy old jerk, your tutelage hasn’t seemed to help these victims at all.  Eric, whom you took a keen interest in, had so thoroughly devolved by the time he hit college that he didn’t even resemble the confident cool dude he once was.  Cory had become an effeminate madman.  Topanga a hysteric.  The only cool people I saw were that redhead, that black chick, and the hot Lawrence brother.  They seemed pretty normal, because they never had to stumble upon you, conveniently out in the garden once again.

Good luck sleeping at night, either from guilt or excitement over the new Matthews boy that the (ancient, old, most certainly menopausal) Mrs. Matthews miraculous gave birth to.  Just wait at least three years before you start inviting him over to help with your azaleas and then flashing your wrinkled, nasty balls at him.


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