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 you win some, you lose some - and in your case, you lose everything.
I know this might seem like a total violation of the laws of physics
to you, seeing as we made all those plans to adopt a child from a third world country for media publicity, 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 to kick you while you're down, before the snooker comes on the telly.
I want to tell you that I think you are dumb as a rock, but I don't think we're right for each other.
First of all, we're not really compatible. You are the demi-duchess of Kumswalla,
and I am addicted to raspberry muffins.
You like harassing sleeping rottweilers, juggling chainsaws, and making faces at babies until they cry,
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 as soon as possible, since the Internet connection on my computer isn't working, and I figured I could browse through your computer during our "date".
But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I must scream for help because someone has raped me (again).
I'd really like us to become an African-American comedy duo,
if that's okay with you. I think we can do it.
We had some good times, I think.
Take care of yourself and never forget that Soylent Green tastes like spinach.
Greetings,
~ You, before you became amnesiac.
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