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Dear Penis (with life support system attachment),
By the time you read this, I'll be spreading all your diaries around on file-sharing networks (scanners can be so fun sometimes, yah!). I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but I know what you're thinking: "Did he fire six shots or only five?" Well, to tell you the truth, in all this excitement I kind of lost track myself. But being as this is a .44 Magnum, the most powerful handgun in the world, and would blow your head clean off, you've got to ask yourself a question: Do I feel lucky? Well, do ya, punk? I know this might seem like a punch in the jaw to you, seeing as we made all those plans to kill any infidel swine who refuses to submit to the ways of the Holy Qur'an and our great prophet Muhammad (peace by upon him), but I just don't see things working out that way. I'm sorry about this — at least so long as I remain intoxicated. I just need a bit of a laugh. I want to tell you that I think you are ...unusually odorous, in a good way... sometimes, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are a card-carrying member of the Hair Club for Men, and I am the main character in a really crappy pulp horror novel about rabid watermelons. You like urine sample collecting, pushing unsuspecting tourists off from very high places and watching them fall, and accusing comatose patients of laziness, and I'm just not sure I can ever share your joy in those things. How can two people so different ever make it for the long haul? I think we should date each other sometime in the next millennia. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I go on another nightly tour to quench my vampiric thirst for human blood. I'd really like us to become supervillains and plot to conquer the world together (after which I will kill you as there can only be one true Master), if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, before I decided to read through your diary last week. Take care of yourself and never forget to write down the number of every donkey cart that hits you.
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