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Friday, February 20, 2026
Dear Santa,
By the time you read this, I'll be on a pilgrimage to Sears to buy "sporting goods" for my weekend adventure with the male cast members of "My Name Is Earl". I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but your needs are inherently less important than mine. 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 visit Easter Island and go on an egg hunt, but I just don't see things working out that way. I'm sorry about this — but I've been stuck in this nightmare world for months now, and writing this letter is my last chance of a wake up call. I just need to find someone who is male and breathes — and quickly. I want to tell you that I think you are a..well...um...okay, nice...yeah...maybe, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are possessed by Pazuzu, and I am a fucked-up loser who only likes to hang around you because of your money. You like harassing sleeping rottweilers, filling stuffed animals with ice cream, and belly-button sniffing, 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 own mirror images. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever my house is in need of some serious cleaning up. I'd really like us to become an African-American comedy duo, 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 your true place in life (which is at my feet, groveling in abject obedience).
~ Alan Smithee. |