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Dear Lloyd Simcoe,
By the time you read this, I'll be ill in Swine Flu. 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 sudden change to you, seeing as we made all those plans to terrorize the elderly couple that lives down the road, but I just don't see things working out that way. I'm sorry about this — it's just a shame I waited so long to do it, and wasted so much of my valuable time. I just need more cowbell. I want to tell you that I think you are going to find out that the anthrax I've contaminated this letter with might be quite unpleasant once it's started to take hold on you, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are from another dimension, and I am Republican. You like toying with mousetraps, dressing up as yourself during Halloween, and genitally piercing unsuspecting strangers in unemployment line queues, 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 for the hell of it. It's not like we don't both have herpes. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I assassinate an infidel. I'd really like us to become born-again strangers, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, I think. Take care of yourself and never forget that I have the sniper rifle, and I know how to use it.
~ DJ Pie Safety. |