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Featured version: 8 December 2006 |
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Dear Miss Universe,
I know this might seem like a cowardly way of telling you that I ran over your mom with fatal outcome just 10 minutes ago to you, seeing as we made all those plans to adopt a child from a third world country for media publicity, but I just don't see things working out that way. I'm sorry about this — sorry that I didn't take the chance to get rid of you last month, but I promise I'll make up for it the next time we meet. I just need nails, matches and a voodoo doll of you. I want to tell you that I think you are a mammal, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are under surveillance by the CIA, and I am your father. You like caressing lamp accessories, insult sword fighting, and filling guinea pigs with helium, 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 someday, but only if you go in for surgery and get you brain replaced. And your nose. Or to keep it simple, ask them to change everything but your name. Or have them change that as well, unless doing so would complicate billing. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I'm solving a crossword and have to come up with a synonym for the word "stupid". I'd really like us to become that kind of insufferable cinemagoers who've read the plot in advance and sits and yell out spoilers throughout the film to the annoyance of everyone else, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, nah; I'm just screwing with you. Take care of yourself and never forget the restraining order the judge issued against you.
~ Your favorite drugdealer.
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