Dear Captain Blackbeard,
By the time you read this, I'll be watching The Uncyclopedia Movie.
I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but it's not like the world isn't going to end on December 21, 2012 anyway.
I know this might seem like a big sick demented joke in a vortex of meaninglessness
to you, seeing as we made all those plans to destroy the universe, but I just don't see things working out that way.
I'm sorry about this — well; not really. I just thought it'd sound good. I just need to find someone who is male and breathes — and quickly.
I want to tell you that I think you are really quite adequate, 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 deaf, dumb and blind.
You like guessing the weight of elderly women, scratching yourself publicly, and dissecting frogs with butterknives,
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 each other as soon as possible, since the Internet connection on my computer isn't working, and I figured I could browse through your computer during our "date".
But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I smell that characteristic composite stench of rotten eggs, garlic and blue cheese again.
I'd really like us to become people that ignore each other in public,
if that's okay with you. I think we can do it.
We had some good times, my left hand and I.
Take care of yourself and never forget that you've only got one bullet left, it's going to take more than that to stop me.
Have a nice day,
~ Your abusive stepfather.
P.S. Now I have a machine gun. Ho ho ho. D.S.
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