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Dear Bob,
By the time you read this, I'll be on a pilgrimage to Sears to buy "sporting goods" for my weekend adventure with the male cast members of "My Name Is Earl". I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but I'm not getting any younger, and you're not getting any richer. I know this might seem like an Uncyclopedia in-joke to you, seeing as we made all those plans to hack into Pentagon's databases and expose the alien cover-up in Roswell, but I just don't see things working out that way. I'm sorry about this — I think. I just need need need need need... well; I can't quite remember. I want to tell you that I think you are the creep who's making all those nightly phone calls where only heavy breathing is heard, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are a blathering windbag who needs a nice big cup of shut the fuck up, and I am not you. You like navel lint collecting, recording your own toilet visits and sharing it on file sharing networks as MP3's wrongfully named as famous songs, and watching animal porn, 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 on other planets. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever someone mentions the words "two", "inch" and "penis" in my presence. I'd really like us to become the de facto lead couple in one of those crappy never ending sitcoms that plays annoying canned laughter after every damn sentence, be it funny or not, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, way back in the 60's during Woodstock. Take care of yourself and never forget how much lower your reputation will slip as soon as I publish this on my blog.
P.S. They're coming to take me away! D.S. |