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Dear Flavour of the Month,
By the time you read this, I'll be captured by the FBI. I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but your needs are inherently less important than mine. I know this might seem like a kick in the nuts to you, seeing as we made all those plans to vacation in the Ivory Coast, and smuggle bits of it home to sell on the black market, but I just don't see things working out that way. I'm sorry about this — mostly. I just need to plot your murder for another week and I'm set to go. I want to tell you that I think you are not as good looking as your MySpace photo made it appear, 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 all that and more. You like playing Worms 3D, talking like Captain Kirk, and releasing frogs into preschool kitchens, 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 when Hell freezes over. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever my herpes sores erupt. I'd really like us to become supervillains and plot to conquer the world together (after which I will kill you as there can only be one true Master), 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 I have the Infinity Gauntlet and is thus the supreme being of this universe.
~ Your sycophantic lodger whom you will never be rid of. |