Dear Poster Child for the Criminally Insane,
By the time you read this, I'll be a mother.
I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but it's not like I'm not going to kill you on Saturday anyway.
I know this might seem like a crappy thing to do
to you, seeing as we made all those plans to kill any infidel swine who refuses to submit to the ways of the Holy Qur'an and our great prophet Muhammad (peace by upon him), but I just don't see things working out that way.
I'm sorry about this — at least so long as I remain high. I just need to put this facade you've been living to an end, before I run out of script material. Ghostwriters cost a fortune.
I want to tell you that I think you are strangely charismatic, considering your freakishly odd appearance, but I don't think we're right for each other.
First of all, we're not really compatible. You are a blathering windbag who needs a nice big cup of shut the fuck up,
and I am Republican.
You like wearing my knickers on your noggin, masturbating to gardening shows, and arguing with the voices only you can hear over dinner plans,
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 assassinate an infidel.
I'd really like us to become partners in crime and steal candy from helpless little kids,
if that's okay with you. I think we can do it.
We had some good times, before the psychatrist told me that you're just a figment of my imagination.
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,
~ Dalai Llama.
P.S. Oops, I almost forgot to mention that you have brain cancer. See the X-Ray I attached to this letter.
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