Don’t you “Cheers to the frickin’ weekend” me, you pampered, overpaid, fluorescent sow. You’re in the same league as Katy Perry; when you’re a skinny, gorgeous millionaire who’s never worked a 9 -5 in her life, you automatically waive your right to express relief at the prospect of the weekend. You have your Grammies, Bugattis and $10,000 a night island getaways – shut up and let the rest of us enjoy our damn 48 hours in peace, before we go back to our tedious desk, checkout and manual labour jobs on Monday.
Dear Justice Crew,
You’re clearly living, breathing, dancing proof that time travel was invented in 1996. Give my regards to The Backstreet Boys when you get home, and perhaps tell Diana to avoid tunnels.
You’re 30 years old sweet pea, there’s no need for the pink hair extensions, Mickey Mouse midriff tops and rebel-teen attitude. It’s time to start showing some class. Hang some ferns in your trailer or something.
Lots of love,