 |
  |
 |
Dear Flavour of the Month,
By the time you read this, I'll be fucking your sister. I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but you weren't at home, and anyways I forgot to bring my AK with me. I know this might seem like a crappy thing to do to you, seeing as we made all those plans to infiltrate the "Save the Children" organization and shamelessly purloin their charity funds, 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 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 not as strong in the Force as the Emperor thought, 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 fucked up for life after 15 years of heavy heroin abuse. You like navel lint collecting, bobbing for old tires in the East River, and practicing surgery on household pests, 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 on Friday and then try to kill each other through strangulation (or with knives) just for fun. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I completely run out of other, far more important things to think about. I'd really like us to become engaged in a brutal medieval fight to the death with the good ole' armour, horse and lances (but only if I get to win), if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, five past seven on Sunday November 3, 2003 springs to mind, for instance. Take care of yourself and never forget that you've only got one bullet left, it's going to take more than that to stop me.
~ Mom. P.S. I am your father. Search your feelings - you know it to be true. D.S. |