Dear Mr. President,
By the time you read this, I'll be constrained within a straight-jacket in some place soft, drooling obscenely over your past nude pictures.
I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but uh, well... now what was it again... (God dammit) Oh, yes, I was going to write to you because... because... ummmhhh... (hang on a minute)... I seem to have lost my memory so I'll just improvise a letter with no true meaning from now on, if you don't mind (which you'll probably do).
I know this might seem like an Uncyclopedia in-joke
to you, seeing as we made all those plans to buy a million rubber ducks for all our retirement savings, but I just don't see things working out that way.
I'm sorry about this — I think. I just need to enter "4 8 15 16 23 42" into my command prompt every 108th minute.
I want to tell you that I think you are a fucking ugly bitch, and I want to stab you to death, and then play around with your blood, but I don't think we're right for each other.
First of all, we're not really compatible. You are an atheist,
and I am allergic to air.
You like harassing sleeping rottweilers, 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 other people.
But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I need someone to help me move.
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, or so we'll pretend.
Take care of yourself and never forget that every time you see a rainbow, someone is having gay sex.
That'll teach you,
~ The Samaritans.
P.S. I accidentally dropped your cat into a bowl of hydrochloric acid yesterday. I'm afraid she got sent to the cornfield. Sorry about that. D.S.
Featured Article (read another featured article)
