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Friday, February 13, 2026
Dear Bob,
By the time you read this, I'll be pushing up the daisies. I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but I'm not getting any younger, and you're not getting any richer. I know this might seem like a sinister scheme from me to stage an "accident" and claim the life insurance policy on you (which it is) 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 as a bisexual, I'm interested in only two kinds of people — and quite frankly, you don't fit into either category. I just need more sex, and for longer than the 3 minutes and 2 inches you're able to provide... or was it the other way around? Anyway... 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 a Democrat, and I am on my own plane of psychological existence. You like navel lint collecting, dating circus midgets, and you cannot lie, the other brothers can't deny, when a girl walks in with an itty bitty waist and a round thing in your face you get sprung, 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 need to tell my side of the story on Jerry Springer. 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, before the police accidentally found the body hidden in your closet. Take care of yourself and never forget that pushing Up Up Down Down Left Right Left Right B A Start on your keyboard may be fatal to your health.
~ The collective members of your band. |