Here Comes Karen Ya'll

Here comes Karen, Y’all.

A menopausal mothball.  Looking like the Ghost of Jim Crow’s Past with that nicotine-stained Betsy Ross smile and scorched upper lip that’s been in an abusive relationship with hot wax for decades.  

She really took a break from microwaving creamed corn in a permanently stained Pyrex dish to let me know I’m a “pathetic human being.” 

 Well Karen, you are a sepia toned thrift store giving plantation porch energy.  And you brush that tumbleweed on top of your head with pork chop bones.

Believe me, Karen, I thank God every day that I don't know you and that we don’t live near each other.  

If I had to pass by that face at the mailbox, I’d report it to the county medical examiner’s office because you look like an embalmed librarian who died in 1987 and still uses expired Avon products and soaks her feet in vinegar while watching reruns of Supermarket Sweep.

Karen, I bet you keep emergency butterscotch candies and voter suppression pamphlets in your purse. You probably still pronounce “Coloreds” with your whole chest at church potlucks.

I could have gone my entire life, joyfully, peacefully, hydrated and moisturized without the jump scare of your horrible face popping up in my inbox like a racist demon.  

Go log off, Karen. Go knit your rot box pillow and veil.