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Thursday, November 13, 2025
Dear Bob,
By the time you read this, I'll be tripping on shoelaces (I had no idea that you could get THIS high on them...). I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but I have stolen three nuclear warheads and am planning to commit suicide by detonating them (in midtown New York, just to spice things up). I know this might seem like a letter of indulgence to you, seeing as we made all those plans to alphabetize our combined compact disc collections someday, but I just don't see things working out that way. I'm sorry about this — well, sort of, at least, kind of, maybe, a little... I just need to plot your murder for another week and I'm set to go. I want to tell you that I think you are ...more than passable, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are a Democrat, and I am suicidal. You like toying with mousetraps, filling stuffed animals with ice cream, and feeding rice to sea gulls, 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 again, but in another life — preferably a previous one. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever someone mentions the words "obesity", "fat" and/or "pig" in my presence. I'd really like us to become nihilistic Al-Qaeda terrorists and blow up everything that moves, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, I think. Take care of yourself and never forget where you leave the keys. Honestly, those things are are a PAIN to find again.
~ Grand Admiral of Switzerland. P.S. Remember to drink the nut-flavored tea I poured you today. D.S. |