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Dear John letter

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Featured version: 8 December 2006
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Monday, March 30, 2026  

Dear [insert name of recipient here],


By the time you read this, I'll be eaten alive by Jabba the Hutt. I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but I know what you're thinking: "Did he fire six shots or only five?" Well, to tell you the truth, in all this excitement I kind of lost track myself. But being as this is a .44 Magnum, the most powerful handgun in the world, and would blow your head clean off, you've got to ask yourself a question: Do I feel lucky? Well, do ya, punk?

I know this might seem like a slap in the face to you, seeing as we made all those plans to grow old, fat and senile together, but I just don't see things working out that way.

I'm sorry about this — but I thought that since I've now finally managed to track you down, it might be good manners to at least write one last good-bye letter to you before I kill you. I just need to put this facade you've been living to an end, before I run out of script material. Ghostwriters cost a fortune.

I want to tell you that I think you are a virgin, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are heiress to the throne of Rondark, and I am an amateur weightlifter. You like flicking staples at livestock, dressing up as yourself during Halloween, and arguing with the voices only you can hear over dinner plans, 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 someone asks me what the ultimate expression of the ongoing cultural and genetic decay of humanity is.

I'd really like us to become acquaintances, 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 that I still have your diary and can at any time mail the most embarrassing parts (like the chapter about the summer of '04) of it to The New York Times.

Happy Thanksgiving,

~ Your intestinal parasite.

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