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Dear Archchancellor,
By the time you read this, I'll be a blowing rich, retired businessmen on a slow boat to China.
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 cowardly way of telling you that I ran over your mom with fatal outcome just 10 minutes ago to you, seeing as we made all those plans to infiltrate the "Save the Children" organization and shamelessly purloin their charity funds, but I just don't see things working out that way. I'm sorry about this — but honestly, putting my hamster in the microwave was too much. 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 going to find out that the anthrax I've contaminated this letter with might be quite unpleasant once it's started to take hold on you, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are a blathering windbag who needs a nice big cup of shut the fuck up, and I am pregnant. You like wearing my knickers on your noggin, dressing up as yourself during Halloween, and genitally piercing unsuspecting strangers in unemployment line queues, 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 other people. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I've poured rohypnol into your cocktail again. I'd really like us to become engaged in a brutal medieval fight to the death with the good ole' armour, horse and lances (but only if I get to win), if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, nah; I'm just screwing with you. Take care of yourself and never forget that I have the Infinity Gauntlet and is thus the supreme being of this universe.
~ God. P.S. Can I borrow 5 bucks? D.S. |
