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Featured version: 8 December 2006 |
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Wednesday, February 18, 2026
Dear psychiatrist,
I know this might seem like a big surprise to you, seeing as we made all those plans to kill any infidel swine who refuses to submit to the ways of the Holy Qur'an and our great prophet Muhammad (peace by upon him), but I just don't see things working out that way. I'm sorry about this — I think. I just need to put this facade you've been living to an end, before I run out of script material. Ghostwriters cost a fortune. I want to tell you that I think you are so incredibly full of shit that it's a miracle that you haven't exploded into a cascading rivulet of foul smelling excrements yet, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are the only one in the world who actually thinks Jason Friedberg and Aaron Seltzer are funny, and I am a mother of two-and-a-half. You like using magnifying glasses to kill aunts, harassing sheep until they explode, and writing love letters to Bob Saget, 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 people without AIDS. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I finally track you down and kill you. I'd really like us to become slowly solidified into a kind of buttery jell, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, at least while we were in separate cells at the police station. Take care of yourself and never forget where you leave the keys. Honestly, those things are are a PAIN to find again.
~ Alan Smithee. |