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Friday, February 6, 2026
Dear Jimbo,
By the time you read this, I'll be dead; not surprising, since I surgically implanted this letter into my groin. I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but you win some, you lose some - and in your case, you lose everything. I know this might seem like an Uncyclopedia in-joke to you, seeing as we made all those plans to infiltrate the "Red Cross" organization and shamelessly purloin their charity funds, but I just don't see things working out that way. I'm sorry about this — or at least that's what you're supposed to say in these situations. 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 Cylon imposter, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are a blathering windbag who needs a nice big cup of shut the fuck up, and I am an amateur weightlifter. You like smoking banana peels, bobbing for old tires in the East River, 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 when Hell freezes over. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I need another scullery maid. I'd really like us to become people that ignore each other in public, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, well, no... but no-one else has to know that. Take care of yourself and never forget that I know where you buried the body, and won't hesitate to contact police should the need arise.
P.S. Can I borrow 5 bucks? D.S. |