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Saturday, February 14, 2026
Dear Penis (with life support system attachment),
By the time you read this, I'll be abducted by aliens and half way to Zeta II Reticuli. I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but attorneys cost money, and I'm eating for two now, if you know what I mean. I know this might seem like a letter of indulgence to you, seeing as we made all those plans to hack into Pentagon's databases and expose the alien cover-up in Roswell, but I just don't see things working out that way. I'm sorry about this — but I thought that since I've now finally managed to track you down, it might be good manners to at least write one last good-bye letter to you before I kill you. I just need need need need need... well; I can't quite remember. I want to tell you that I think you are my personal Jiminy Cricket, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are committed, literally, and I am an Uncyclopedia in-joke. You like harassing sleeping rottweilers, talking like Captain Kirk, and igniting your own fart, 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 our respective parents, if only so we can feel unfaithful again. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I dig your cold, dead body up again to have sex with you. I'd really like us to become the de facto lead couple in one of those crappy never ending sitcoms that plays annoying canned laughter after every damn sentence, be it funny or not, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, with that goat up in the Himalayas. Take care of yourself and never forget that every time you see a rainbow, someone is having gay sex.
~ Norman Bates. P.S. I am your father. Search your feelings - you know it to be true. D.S. |