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Featured version: 8 December 2006 |
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Dear Lloyd Simcoe,
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 visit Easter Island and go on an egg hunt, but I just don't see things working out that way. I'm sorry about this — or at least that's what you're supposed to say in these situations. I just need to finish that annoying Zork game on that Uncyclopedia website I told you about yesterday (it's driving me crazy, it's like no matter what you do, you'll ALWAYS end up being eaten by a grue!). I want to tell you that I think you are a Cylon imposter, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are an agnostic, and I am on drugs. You like toying with mousetraps, pushing unsuspecting tourists off from very high places and watch them fall, and playing King Kong with dollhouses in toystores (and going to jail for it), 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 someone asks me to define the word "retarded". 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, I assume, in some other more cheerful reality among the infinite number of alternate universes out there. Take care of yourself and never forget to have your pets sprayed and neutered.
~ The queen of Doggerland. |