Dear LeChuck,
By the time you read this, I'll be eaten by a grue.
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 a big surprise
to you, seeing as we made all those plans to push the boundaries of human genetics past the point of good taste by procreating, 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 to finish that annoying Zork game on that Uncyclopedia website I told you about yesterday (it's driving me crazy, it's like no matter what you do, you'll ALWAYS end up being eaten by a grue!).
I want to tell you that I think you are a real pain in the ass, but I don't think we're right for each other.
First of all, we're not really compatible. You are a Nazi war criminal,
and I am a champion pie eating finalist.
You like attacking clergymen, lassoing people on subways cars, and releasing frogs into preschool kitchens,
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 sometime in the next millennia.
But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever Saturn orbits Pluto.
I'd really like us to become Siamese twins (we might have to undergo an extensive surgery for that though),
if that's okay with you. I think we can do it.
We had some good times, at least during those many hours of drug and alcohol induced unconsciousness.
Take care of yourself and never forget that I have the Infinity Gauntlet and is thus the supreme being of this universe.
Namaste, and good luck,
~ Your favorite drugdealer.
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