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Featured version: 8 December 2006 |
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Monday, December 29, 2025
Dear disembodied head,
I know this might seem like a bit of a shock to you, seeing as we made all those plans to live together in happily unwedded bliss, or a reasonable facsimile, but I just don't see things working out that way. I'm sorry about this — really. No, really. Those are teardrops on the letter, and not spittle from laughter. I just need more space. Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan is sounding pretty nice to me right now. 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 the disembodied head of Patrick Duffy, and I am an Uncyclopedia in-joke. You like laying on the floor with all the lights off, tripping on your own shoelaces on purpose just so you can blame the jews for it, 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 for the hell of it. It's not like we don't both have herpes. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever someone asks me if I've ever picked up a hitchhiker I really regret picking up. I'd really like us to become a Heathcliff and Catherine-like ghost couple and creep out softhearted onlookers in our restless afterlife, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, before the psychatrist told me that you were my split personality all along. Take care of yourself and never forget your true place in life (which is at my feet, groveling in abject obedience).
~ Tiddles.
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