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Featured version: 8 December 2006 |
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Dear LeChuck,
I know this might seem like a sudden turn of events to you, seeing as we made all those plans to slowly fade into non-existence, but I just don't see things working out that way. I'm sorry about this — mostly. I just need to kick you while you're down, before the snooker comes on the telly. I want to tell you that I think you are the true identity of the Zodiac Killer, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are nothing, and I am an Uncyclopedia in-joke. You like wearing my knickers on your noggin, filling stuffed animals with ice cream, and recommending suicide as the only viable cure for hiccups, 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 other people. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I smell that characteristic composite stench of rotten eggs, garlic and blue cheese again. I'd really like us to become acquaintances, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, before I decided to read through your diary last week. Take care of yourself and never forget that every time you wish for coal as a Christmas present, you'll get porridge instead.
~ Lara Bingle. |