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Saturday, November 15, 2025
Dear Penis (with life support system attachment),
By the time you read this, I'll be buying the farm. I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but my eyes have yet to fully recover from last week when your wig fell off. I know this might seem like a very large malignant tumour on your L4 vertebrae (and to be truthful, it is) to you, seeing as we made all those plans to infiltrate the "Red Cross" organization and shamelessly purloin their charity funds, but I just don't see things working out that way. I'm sorry about this — well, sort of, at least, kind of, maybe, a little... I just need more length from you than I'm getting, and let's face it — you're shrinking with age. I want to tell you that I think you are the creep who's making all those nightly phone calls where only heavy breathing is heard, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are an atheist, and I am a grue and will certainly eat you the next time we meet. You like attacking clergymen, recording your own toilet visits and sharing it on file sharing networks as MP3's wrongfully named as famous songs, and making faces at babies until they cry, 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 again, but in another life — preferably a previous one. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever someone asks me to define the word "promiscuous". I'd really like us to become slowly solidified into a kind of buttery jell, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, way back in the 60's during Woodstock. Take care of yourself and never forget that the world is going to end unless you enter the code "4 8 15 16 23 42" into the micro-computer every 108th minute.
~ Quinn the eskimo. P.S. I just found out that I have AIDS. That probably means you have it too. D.S. |