Happy *&%$$#* Birthday to You, Too

Dear Mr. Dude who Gave our Moving Van a Ticket for Not Using Parking Lights:

Wasn't it fairly obvious that we were temporarily parked, what with all the coming and going and the open goddamn moving van doors and everything? And when did you find time to skulk by and GIVE us a parking ticket, anyway? I don't think between the four of us we could have been away from the van for more than 30 seconds at a time.

Sr. Compa has requested that I let you know, Mr. DWGOMVATFNUPL, that he hopes you die a slow, painful, and embarrassing death, perhaps some sort of antiquated venereal disease, -nay- he hopes you have to watch your family die of said disease first. He hopes said venereal disease makes your limbs fester and fall off, and that you are cursed with continual flatulence. He hopes that you have difficulty sleeping, and that you suffer from dry eyelids. He wishes for you a buttocks replete with pimples, and halitosis that permeates concrete walls and chases away all human and animal companionship. He hopes your house will be plagued with termites, and will crumble into a sodden, smelly heap. He hopes your skin will become at once scaly and damp, with oozing yellow pus emanating from your festering open sores. Finally, and perhaps most devastatingly, he wishes for you a life devoid of sex (although his previous wishes should take care of that one quite nicely).

Never piss off a Latino. Canadians are thouroughly incapable of coming up with such colourful curses on our own.

Feliz cumpleanos, mi amor. I promise next birthday, we won't have to move. And if we did, at least I'd have figured out where the damn parking lights are.