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Dear Uncle Sam,
By the time you read this, I'll be fucking your sister.
I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but I know this might seem like a letter of indulgence to you, seeing as we made all those plans to destroy the universe, but I just don't see things working out that way. I'm sorry about this — sorry that I didn't take the chance to get rid of you last month, but I promise I'll make up for it the next time we meet. 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 a Sagittarius, and I am suicidal. You like urine sample collecting, dating circus midgets, 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 when Hell freezes over. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I sharpen my hunting knife out in the garage. I'd really like us to become a Heathcliff and Catherine-like ghost couple and creep out softhearted onlookers in our restless afterlife, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, before the psychiatrist told me that you're just a figment of my imagination. Take care of yourself and never forget your true place in life (which is at my feet, groveling in abject obedience).
~ The Pope. |