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Monday, December 1, 2025
Dear Santa,
By the time you read this, I'll be hitchhiking to Wal-Mart to choose your replacement. I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but time is money, and according to your most current bank statement you have insufficient funds to purchase additional time credits with me. I know this might seem like a slap in the face to you, seeing as we made all those plans to sink the British isles, but I just don't see things working out that way. I'm sorry about this — well; not really. I just thought it'd sound good. 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 not the worst lover I ever had, but that would be a bald-faced lie, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are a Nazi war criminal, and I am an amateur weightlifter. You like bungee jumping from church steeples, filling stuffed animals with ice cream, and arguing with the voices only you can hear over dinner plans, 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 a six-legged rhinoceros flies by. I'd really like us to become partners in crime and steal candy from helpless little kids, 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 I have the Infinity Gauntlet and is thus the supreme being of this universe.
P.S. They're coming to take me away! D.S. |