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Tuesday, December 2, 2025
Dear Mr. President,
By the time you read this, I'll be in deep space of all places, thanks to that traveling lottery win I had two months ago. I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but it's not like I'm not going to kill you on Saturday anyway. I know this might seem like a kick in the nuts to you, seeing as we made all those plans to push the boundaries of human genetics past the point of good taste by procreating, but I just don't see things working out that way. I'm sorry about this — but honestly, putting my hamster in the microwave was too much. I just need to put this facade you've been living to an end, before I run out of script material. Ghostwriters cost a fortune. I want to tell you that I think you are a Terminator sent from the future to kill me, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are from another dimension, and I am fucked up for life after 15 years of heavy heroin abuse. You like playing Worms 3D, pushing unsuspecting tourists off from very high places and watching them fall, and biking against red light at rush hour, 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 — oh wait, I meant to write "hate" of course. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I want to remember what suffering feels like. I'd really like us to become partners in crime and rob helpless old ladies of their retirement savings, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, while we were three thousand miles away from each other. Take care of yourself and never forget that every time you wish for coal as a Christmas present, you'll get porridge instead.
~ God. P.S. It was me who assassinated J.F. Kennedy. D.S. |