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Dear Mr. President,
By the time you read this, I'll be in pitched battle with God and all his host of angels. I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but your feelings are inherently less valuable than mine. I know this might seem like a slap in the face 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 — but if the writing's a but shakey that's only because of my helpless, loud and hysterical laughter. 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 the true identity of the Zodiac Killer, 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 an amateur weightlifter. You like sucking off the black guy that mows your lawn, filling stuffed animals with ice cream, and biking against red light at rush hour, 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 sometime in the next millennia. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I forget what your name was. I'd really like us to become jaded, cynical and bitter in our own different ways, 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 our honeymoon in Bunnyland.
P.S. You're fired! D.S. |
