Maacah’s Letter to Her Husband David

Fall to your knees and thank God, that your son doesn’t yet know he can kick your ass.
He is two heads taller, twice as broad through the chest, with arms long enough to wrap around your triple-chinned neck half a dozen times. And he hates you. He sees you, King David, and recognizes what you are — a hypocrite, a tyrant, collicky baby with an army-commanding temper. 

Hang your mouth in fear, bulge your eyes in recognition that your deathbed was dressed with the very fabrics you selected, each sheet and fold a chain you forged yourself.
Absalom raises his armies against you — stumble before them, hobbled by your own pride.
Witness me, your lawful loyal firstly loving wife in the vanguard of the calvary tasked to take your head.

Despair, David the King. Despair, David the Corrupted. Despair, David the Liar.

Despair, and ask yourself:

Why does every pre-diabetic, hypertensioned, prematurely gray, blue eyed man with a whopping five foot six inches (or less) to his name think he’s a fucking king?

And what kind of man would look at a rock, pick up a chisel, and carve “Honor me?”