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Featured version: 8 December 2006 |
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Monday, January 26, 2026
Dear Prisoner nr. 700,
I know this might seem like an Uncyclopedia in-joke to you, seeing as we made all those plans to infiltrate the "Red Cross" organization and shamelessly purloin their charity funds, 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 more cowbell. I want to tell you that I think you are going to get coal for Christmas this year, being as naughty as you are, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are a pedophile, and I am a serial killer convicted for the deaths of 28 people. You like wearing my knickers on your noggin, filling stuffed animals with ice cream, and smelling your fingers, 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 wiretap your telephone calls. I'd really like us to become bitter enemies, constantly plotting each other's downfall until one of us (preferably me) succeeds, giving that person (again, preferably me) the opportunity to engage in stereotypical maniacal laughter, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, at least before we met. Take care of yourself and never forget to have your pets sprayed and neutered.
~ Your favorite drugdealer. |