Dear John letter

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Friday, December 26, 2014  

Dear John Bull,

By the time you read this, I'll be saving a bunch of money on my car insurance by switching to Gecko. I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but your voice is so grating that another few phone calls from you would have left me deaf for life by the end of the year.

I know this might seem like an odd twist of fate to you, seeing as we made all those plans to spend at least more than two hours together, but I just don't see things working out that way.

I'm sorry about this — but another officer is at the door - I'll write more in an hour. I just need nails, matches and a voodoo doll of you.

I want to tell you that I think you are my repressed masculine side, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are one of Evil Bert's sinister henchmen, and I am a fucked-up loser who only likes to hang around you because of your money. You like smoking banana peels, filling stuffed animals with ice cream, and igniting your own fart, 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 species. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever someone mentions the words "two", "inch" and "penis" in my presence.

I'd really like us to become Siamese twins (we might have to undergo an extensive surgery for that though), if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, at least when we turned the clock forward a few hours and then pretended that something nice happened during that time (whereas nothing at all happened, really).

Take care of yourself and never forget that I know where you live, your name and what you look like, so beware.

See you in Hell,

~ The big guy, with the axe, in the cupboard, just behind you.

P.S. Do you remember that VHS tape I showed you yesterday, the one with a towel-headed man and a well? If so, you now have six days left to live. Life's a bitch, ain't she? D.S.

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