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Monday, February 9, 2026
Dear Santa,
By the time you read this, I'll be burnt at stake by the Spanish Inquisition.
I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but no, I am not going to stop sending these letters just because the judge I know this might seem like a bit of a shock to you, seeing as we made all those plans to push the boundaries of human genetics past the point of good taste by procreating, but I just don't see things working out that way. I'm sorry about this — I think. I just need to kick you while you're down, before the snooker comes on the telly. I want to tell you that I think you are ...more than passable, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are committed, literally, and I am hypersexual. You like urine sample collecting, lassoing people on subway cars, and finding out a random victim's e-mail address and subscribe it to every advertisement letter you can find, 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 each other as soon as possible, since the Internet connection on my computer isn't working, and I figured I could browse through your computer during our "date". But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever someone mentions the words "two", "inch" and "penis" in my presence. I'd really like us to become ultranerds who always write in leet speech and use Internet abbreviations such as LOL, ITA, IIRC, YMMV and IMHO in common speech, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, at least while we were in separate cells at the police station. Take care of yourself and never forget your true place in life (which is at my feet, groveling in abject obedience).
~ The Speaking Clock. P.S. Can I borrow 5 bucks? D.S. |