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Featured version: 8 December 2006 |
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Wednesday, February 18, 2026
Dear Archchancellor,
I know this might seem like an insidious scheme to dominate the universe 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 — but I've been stuck in this nightmare world for months now, and writing this letter is my last chance of a wake up call. I just need need need need need... well; I can't quite remember. I want to tell you that I think you are like a senile old parrot, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are a balloon animal fan, and I am fucked up for life after 15 years of heavy heroin abuse. You like sucking off the black guy that mows your lawn, dating circus midgets, and disturbing annual sci-fi conventions with whistles and cymbals, 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 species. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I need a good laugh. 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, before you decided to become yourself and get to be so much of a stuck-up prig. Take care of yourself and never forget that everything in this letter was a lie.
~ The collective members of your band.
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