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Sunday, November 16, 2025
By the time you read this, I'll be living in your house and drinking your coffee. I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but this world simply isn't big enough for the both of us. 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 grow old, fat and senile together, but I just don't see things working out that way. I'm sorry about this — mostly. I just need to finish that annoying Zork game on that Uncyclopedia website I told you about yesterday (it's driving me crazy, it's like no matter what you do, you'll ALWAYS end up being eaten by a grue!). I want to tell you that I think you are dumb as a rock, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are the disembodied head of Patrick Duffy, and I am on drugs. You like wearing my knickers on your noggin, peeling watermelons, and disturbing annual sci-fi conventions with whistles and cymbals, 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 Friday and then try to kill each other through strangulation (or with knives) just for fun. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever someone asks me to define the word "ugliness". I'd really like us to become an African-American comedy duo, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, before the psychiatrist told me that you were my split personality all along. Take care of yourself and never forget that the world is going to end unless you enter the code "4 8 15 16 23 42" into the micro-computer every 108th minute.
~ The Samaritans. P.S. Give me five million dollars now, or I'll scratch my own eyeballs out. Just kidding, he he he! I bet you fell for that one. D.S. |