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Wednesday, February 4, 2026
Dear Ex-Friend with Benefits,
By the time you read this, I'll be captured by the FBI.
I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but no, I am not going to stop sending these letters just because the judge I know this might seem like a kick in the nuts to you, seeing as we made all those plans to drink the blood of every man, woman and child in Iraq, but I just don't see things working out that way. I'm sorry about this — really. No, really. Those are teardrops on the letter, and not spittle from laughter. I just need more out of this relationship. Financially, emotionally, sexually, intellectually. Everythingually. I want to tell you that I think you are a virgin, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are a pederast, and I am a nun. You like bothering foraging bears, juggling chainsaws, and nibbling off wires to public computers at libraries and Internet cafés, 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 run around screaming and foaming in my padded cell. I'd really like us to become bitter enemies, constantly plotting each other's downfall until one of us (preferably me) succeeds, giving that person (again, preferably me) the opportunity to engage in stereotypical maniacal laughter, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, with that goat up in the Himalayas. Take care of yourself and never forget that Soylent Green tastes like spinach.
P.S. It was me who assassinated J.F. Kennedy. D.S. |