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Dear Mickey Finn,
By the time you read this, I'll be very relieved. I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but you weren't at home, and anyways I forgot to bring my AK with me. I know this might seem like an insidious scheme to dominate the universe to you, seeing as we made all those plans to sink the British isles, but I just don't see things working out that way. I'm sorry about this — really. No, really. Those are teardrops on the letter, and not spittle from laughter. I just need more out of this relationship. Financially, emotionally, sexually, intellectually. Everythingually. I want to tell you that I think you are so incredibly full of shit that it's a miracle that you haven't exploded into a cascading rivulet of foul smelling excrements yet, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are nothing, and I am stuck in an elevator and slowly succumbing to my own flatulence (since I had nothing but pea soup and brown beans this morning). You like using magnifying glasses to kill aunts, huffing kittens, and smelling your fingers, 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 on other planets. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I dig your cold, dead body up again to have sex with you. I'd really like us to become people that pretend not to know each other, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, before we ended up in Hell together. Take care of yourself and never forget that I'm no longer in a coma.
~ The Joker. P.S. I just found out that I have AIDS. That probably means you have it too. D.S. |