Listen to me, Weird: this ends here. It’s over. Not just the boozing, all of it. Over these past few decades I’ve seen you deteriorate from the lyrical supergenius who wrote “Lasagna” and “Couch Potato” to a boozing, violent, drug-addled hedonist with no concern for whose lives he’s wrecking.

Yeah, go ahead and play dumb. Dare to be stupid. It won’t work. Your family and I went through your trash can, and you know what we found? Cocaine. Cough syrup. Over two dozen empty bottles of Hydrocodone. It seems like you’re not just “Addicted to Spuds.” You’re a mess, Weird. You need help. As you said on Off the Deep End, “I Can’t Watch This.”

What’s with your new music? Where did all this explicit content come from? Your new parody of Drake’s “Nice For What,” which for some reason you just called “Buttsex,” is the only track off the latest album that can be played on the radio, and that’s only if they censor the hell out of it. Your take on that Ed Sheeran track? What kind of demented mind listens to that song and comes up with “I Will Destroy Your Brain with My Big Giant Superpenis”?

And then, somehow, it gets worse! Seriously, the last two tracks: “Jews” parts one and two? Talk about offensive! These ten-minute rants detailing what you call an “inevitable Zionist takeover” are, at best, ridiculous, and at worst a babbling, bigoted tirade likely fueled by the acid we found in your bottom desk drawer. And, news flash, “Oy vey” doesn’t rhyme with “poisoning the Earth,” no matter how much you slur the words.

Clearly, your family-friendly persona has been completely destroyed by the glitz and glamour of the parodist’s lifestyle.

We tried to look the other way as long as possible, but enough is enough. The drugs, the drinking, the obscenity, the whores. Prostitutes, Weird? I thought you were classier than that. I guess all those Hawaiian shirts and accordion jam sessions were misleading.

Hey! Get your damn hands off me, Al. I’m just saying what needs to be said. I never wanted to tell you all this, but as you said in Even Worse: “You Make Me.” You may have a killer’s eyes, but your pupils are so dilated and bloodshot I doubt you can even see straight enough to land a punch. So shut up and listen.

What’s changed since the days when it was just about the music, just the songs, cleverly adapted into polka, food-themed, or otherwise wacky variations? Where is the Weird Al who gave rise to the fat suit? The Weird Al who had us looking at hardware stores like they were Disneyland, who had us thinking about Albuquerque in a whole new light?

I heard a song not long ago that had some interesting lyrics. They seemed pertinent to the matter at hand, so I wrote them down in order to share them with you. They go: “There’s no time for sin and vice, living in an Amish paradise. We don’t fight, we all play nice, living in an Amish paradise.” You know who wrote these poignant words? You don’t, do you?

It was you, Mr. Yankovic. And now it’s time for you to find out what you meant by them.

Do the right thing, Weird. Give up your ways of sin and vice. Live in an Amish paradise. And let a new Saga Begin.