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Monday, February 2, 2026
Dear wife nr. 11,
By the time you read this, I'll be held at gunpoint by my twisted aunt Maggie for stealing cookies from the cookie jar.
I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but I know this might seem like a crappy thing to do to you, seeing as we made all those plans to cannibalize your family, but I just don't see things working out that way. I'm sorry about this — sorry that I didn't take the chance to get rid of you last month, but I promise I'll make up for it the next time we meet. I just need to engage in homicidal behavior on a massive scale. It can not be corrected but I have no other way to fulfill my needs. 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 heiress to the throne of Rondark, and I am a mother of two-and-a-half. You like fondling barnyard animals, pretending to be Captain America, and genitally piercing unsuspecting strangers in unemployment line queues, 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 our respective parents, if only so we can feel unfaithful again. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever my girlfriends and I are trading stories on our worst sexual experiences. 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, before you decided to become yourself and get to be so much of a stuck-up prig. Take care of yourself and never forget all the people we've killed together.
~ Alan Smithee. 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. |