Unknown relative needs to crawl away now

An open letter to my “son” (or are you my “nephew”?):

Hi,

You don’t know me, although judging by your claims, I either birthed you or one of my siblings did. So I guess that makes us family. And, since we’re kin and all, I’m going to have to give you some tough love:

You’re a poopyhead.

First, I don’t appreciate you cold-calling “Grandma.” Or hot-calling her. Or even referring to my mother as your grandma, ya little lunkhead.

I say that with the utmost affection. Well, as much as a “mom” can muster for a fake kid trying to bilk money from her parents.

How could you? Claiming you’re her grandson and that you’re in a bit of a jam — then insinuating she’s losing her marbles because she doesn’t know your name?

“It’s me, Grandma! Don’t you know your own grandson?” you lied through your green teeth. Well, I picture them rotting, anyway, from all the crud spewing out of your mouth. Can’t be good for your oral hygiene. Or your soul. I digress.

When “Grandma” called you out by inquiring which ONE of her grandsons you are, you sensed the deal flying south and tossed out the insult about her not remembering your name.

“I know it. Do YOU?” came the retort of a not-so-feeble mind. Take that! Boy, you hung up faster than Usain Bolt runs the 25-yard dash.

Such insolence. What disrespect. How incredibly arrogant. And after all I’ve done for you? Ungrateful brat.

Oh, wait a minute. That’s right. I haven’t done anything for you. But that’s probably only because you are a COMPLETE STRANGER to me.

Some little punk sponging off your real mother, no doubt, running a scam on possibly unsuspecting seniors — likely from a burner phone you bought online with someone else’s credit card — while sitting on a fold-out bed in your room in your Mom’s basement.

A subterranean dwelling is fitting for a slug like you, BT dubs, since you’d rather pick a pocket or 200 than to get off your lazy duff and look for a job.

Good for nothing whippersnapper. I thought I raised you better than that? Oh right, I keep forgetting — WE AREN’T RELATED!

Which is fortunate for me because my mama didn’t raise no fools — and neither did hers, you dig, Senor Ponzi?

I’m not sure what defective spore blighted your mutant family tree but I’m certain if you buy a subscription to ancestry.com or send away for a 23 and Me packet, you’ll find you are somehow related to Bernie Madoff. Did I say buy? Aw, who am I kidding? You don’t actually pay for things, obvi. I digress.

Speaking of would-be felonious fam, I wonder if you happen to be related to the dolt who attempted the same lame larceny on my father-in-law last summer? Two peas in a very wicked web of a pod, you are.

And it’s not like your con is even terribly imaginative. So not only are you a liar but also one so inept that you can’t technically qualify as a thief. Pathetic.

Man, what am I going to tell the other “moms” at the country club when they ask what you’ve been doing these days? Oops, that’s right. No one’s asking about you, ya little twerp. Except maybe one somebody.

Take it from your old “Mom,” like a good doctor, karma always makes her rounds — and she never forgets a name, capisce?

Kimerer is a Tribune Chronicle columnist who’d like to smack the back of her fake son’s head. Visit her usually-not-so-angry blog www.patricia kimerer.com.

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