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Dear Prisoner nr. 721,
By the time you read this, I'll be composing a concerto for 3 bassoons and a trombone. I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but I don't think I could restrain myself from laughing about what I saw last night. I know this might seem like a sinister scheme from me to stage an "accident" and claim the life insurance policy on you (which it is) to you, seeing as we made all those plans to run the 3rd marathon around the world together (tied together, that is), 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 to kick you while you're down, before the snooker comes on the telly. I want to tell you that I think you are at least somewhat humanoid looking (which is about the only thing you have in common with mainstream humanity), but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are so fat that Jupiter orbits around you sometimes, and I am a serial killer convicted for the deaths of 79 people. You like wearing my knickers on your noggin, juggling chainsaws, and smelling your fingers, 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 again, but in another life — preferably a previous one. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I run around screaming and foaming in my padded cell. I'd really like us to become people that pretend they never dated, 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 how much lower your reputation will slip as soon as I publish this on my blog.
~ Alan Smithee. P.S. I accidentally dropped your cat into a bowl of hydrochloric acid yesterday. I'm afraid she got sent to the cornfield. Sorry about that. D.S. |