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Featured version: 8 December 2006 |
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Dear God I can't believe I'll soon be rid of you at long last,
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 — I think. I just need more space. Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan is sounding pretty nice to me right now. I want to tell you that I think you are ...alive and breathing, 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 stuck in an elevator with Alessandra Ambrosio (OK, the first part is true, the second is just me daydreaming). You like sprinting through morning traffic while on fire, pretending to be Captain America, and smelling your fingers, 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 each other's pets. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever my herpes sores erupt. I'd really like us to become born-again strangers, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, before the psychatrist told me that you were my split personality all along. Take care of yourself and never forget to eat your vegetables.
~ Captain Obvious.
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