 |
  |
 |
Tuesday, February 10, 2026
Dear Uncle Sam,
By the time you read this, I'll be waiting for you in the closet with a butcher's knife. I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but one of us has to go, and the strychnine I've been adding to your Corn Flakes doesn't seem to be working. I know this might seem like a kick in the nuts to you, seeing as we made all those plans to trade all our remaining STDs even-steven, but I just don't see things working out that way. I'm sorry about this — but I thought that since I've now finally managed to track you down, it might be good manners to at least write one last good-bye letter to you before I kill you. I just need to enter "4 8 15 16 23 42" into my command prompt every 108th minute. I want to tell you that I think you are my repressed feminine side, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are the latest addition to my evergrowing list of people I'm planning to kill, and I am stuck in an elevator and slowly succumbing to my own flatulence (since I had nothing but pea soup and brown beans this morning). You like flicking staples at livestock, tripping on your own shoelaces on purpose just so you can blame the Jews for it, and releasing frogs into preschool kitchens, 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 a six-legged rhinoceros flies by. I'd really like us to become people that pretend not to know each other, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, during my opiate daydream earlier today, after which I woke up to the cold and harsh reality again. Take care of yourself and never forget that I have the Infinity Gauntlet and is thus the supreme being of this universe.
~ The queen of Doggerland. P.S. You're fired! D.S. |