Dear Sharon, Thomas, and/or Richie,

If you’re reading this, chances are you’ve discovered the personal meth lab I’ve been running in our two-car garage for the past eight months. To be honest, I’m somewhat disappointed that you discovered this, but I also anticipated that this day would eventually come. Since the family has established that the garage is Dad’s work area, I’m not sure why you stumbled upon the meth lab I have situated between our Kenmore washer/dryer and several boxes labeled “Memories.” But I’m sure you had a justifiable reason for entering the garage without my permission.

First off, let’s just take a minute to laugh at this. Think about it: After all the times Mom has told me I never cook for the family, it turns out I’ve been in the garage working my tush off at cooking methamphetamines. Now that’s pure comedy! Like Seinfeld funny, right?

Anyways, you’re probably looking at this letter I’ve posted above my personal meth lab, and looking at the meth lab, and asking, “Why is my husband/father running a medium-scale production line of highly addictive drugs in our family’s garage?”

When I first heard from Glen in human resources about the meth lab he had been operating in his toolshed, I’ll admit I was skeptical. “Sure, meth is great,” I thought, “but nothing I’d invest my time, money, and personal safety in.” But then I realized I couldn’t remember the last time I had a hobby. Sure, Family Board-Game Night is great, but sometimes Dad needs some time to himself. You might consider this a midlife crisis. And you’re right; I guess it is. But you can’t fault me for wanting something fresh and exciting in my life. I could have run out and bought a Porsche, but a sports car is almost as dangerous as producing meth on a rickety old poker table.

Oh, and Richie, you might be thinking that Dad is a hypocrite because when I found that pack of cigarettes in your room I lectured you for three hours about the dangers of marijuana, alcohol, premarital sex, and tobacco. However, none of those things can turn into a full-on commercial operation that helps pay the gas and water bills like selling meth does.

I started this whole lab as a hobby. I’d spend a relaxing Saturday morning in the garage cooking crystal, sell one or two batches a month, and treat myself to a day at the ballpark with the profits. Nothing big. But, Sharon, I feel like this meth lab is really about to blow up, in the good way. So I hope you can be as supportive of my meth as I was of your going back to school, because I think I’m ready to turn this little hobby into a full-time profession. My shit has been getting purer with every batch, and the sales show it. Hell, you should see how far these meth heads travel just to get a sack of the goods. Oh, by the way, remember all those cable guys who have been stopping by the house over the past few months? Yeah, those were meth heads. I suspect you might have already figured that out, considering we’ve had DirecTV since last summer, but, either way, I apologize for deceiving you.

Anyways, I really think that if we all work at it we could turn this little engine that could into not only our prime source of income but also a great way for us to spend some quality time together. Think about it: Dad would be the cook. Mom would measure the chemicals. Richie, you’d handle sales at your school and at the local teenage hangouts. And Thomas, you have the most important job, little buddy! You’d help hold off the cops if they ever raided the house.

You don’t have to make a final decision or anything yet. All I’m asking is that you consider it. Maybe tonight at dinner we can have a serious talk about making this family meth lab happen. We’d be much more comfortable financially, and Dad would get to spend more time with everyone. I could drive Thomas to school in the morning, come home, cook up some meth, mow the lawn, cook some more meth, pick up Thomas from school, drive him to guitar lessons, make a delivery to Rico on the way, come home, spend a few hours in the lab before dinner, then divide the meth that Dad worked so hard on into ounces and grams while we all watched According to Jim.

I’m sorry you had to find out this way, but I think this is for the best. If things go right, with all the money we make off our crystal-meth production and distribution, maybe we’ll finally be able to take that trip to Hawaii we’ve been talking about for years. We’ll discuss everything over dinner. If I’m late to the table, I’m probably in here cooking up—you guessed it—lots of potent, pure, and powerful meth. Just knock gently before entering so I don’t get startled and blow up half our house. I love you.

Best of wishes,
Dad