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Dear whatever your name may be,
By the time you read this, I'll be at the Prancing Pony, waiting for the wizard to arrive. I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but seeing you without makeup made homosexuality suddenly seem very feasible to me. I know this might seem like I'm into polygamy or something just because I have five wives at the same time, but I'm sorry about this — but I've been stuck in this nightmare world for months now, and writing this letter is my last chance of a wake up call. I just need to finish that annoying Zork game on that Uncyclopedia website I told you about yesterday (it's driving me crazy, it's like no matter what you do, you'll ALWAYS end up being eaten by a grue!). I want to tell you that I think you are at least somewhat humanoid looking (which is about the only thing you have in common with mainstream humanity), but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are the disembodied head of Patrick Duffy, and I am stuck in an elevator with Alessandra Ambrosio (OK, the first part is true, the second is just me daydreaming). You like fondling barnyard animals, lassoing people on subway cars, and practicing surgery on household pests, 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 in Hell, after killing each other. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I do sadistic things to your digital duplicate in The Sims 3. I'd really like us to become snobbish self-styled intellectuals who always change the subject to 19th century Russian literature in order to look smart everytime a third person approaches, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, while we were three thousand miles away from each other. Take care of yourself and never forget our honeymoon at Arlington National Cemetery.
~ Brother Eggs-over-easy. P.S. I think I ran over your mom with my car earlier today. At least I think it was her, but there wasn't much left to identify... D.S. |