I'm sorry I haven't been in contact with you. I have been very distraught. You see, my wife (Buronica) has decided to leave me. If you don't remember, Buronica and I met when I absentmindedly walked into her and left her paralyzed. As I completed my court-ordered care service of Buronica--changing her diapers, teaching her to walk, and whatnot--I decided that I probably loved this woman. Through a series of increasingly complicated blinks and droolings, I came to realize that she was declaring her true and undying love for me, as opposed to simply blinking and drooling.
While her walking lessons took a turn for the worse recently--she fell off of a cliff while running away from me for some reason--she still left me. While I was sleeping, she rolled her wheelchair straight out the door and into the police station. If not for the fact that she couldn't speak, I suspect that I could be in some sort of troubling situation.
With this turn of events, I've realized that Scientology is not for me. They promised me everlasting life and happiness in exchange for ninety-seven percent of my paycheck and three drops of my blood to provide for the rebirth of the intergalactic overlord of space Xenu. They refused to give my money back, but the blood was returned with interest.
I suppose that's it for this e-mail, as I have absolutely no motivation or brainpower left. I'm going to go and, in my depression over my lost wife, shoot a dog.
[SPOODLES], Big SpenderAND THEN!
To Sarah B:
Oh, the summer is almost over. It is time again for us to look back with much fondness and pot pie at the sunny days and fancy nighttime dances that made up the months of May through August. While you have remained distant and detached from me, a sure sign that we are probably officially broken up or at least on a break, there is much to be said for all of the experiences and ice cream sodas we shared. Have you forgotten? Have you forgotten to remember...the past?
Remember the time that you and I went to the Boardwalk in Mayfield, New Jersey? How the salty air blew through our salty hair? How we kicked sand in that fat kid's face just to watch him cry and, in depression, gorge himself with salt water taffy and fudge? Those were the days. We were carefree and happy, and we stole batteries from the dollar stores to plug into our kerchiefs and nightcaps.
Remember the time that you and I went to see a movie at the local multiplex? How I bought you a dollar-fifty worth of snowcaps for nine dollars and twenty-three cents? We snuck into a G-rated movie and held hands without anybody knowing. Pooh's Huffalump Movie will always be OUR movie, and nobody can take that away from us. Not even television's John Stamos!
Speaking of John Stamos, remember how John Stamos is a dreamboat? How, as Uncle Jesse on television's Full House, single strands of his hair were always dangling teasingly over his right temple. Aunt Becky never treated him right, no ma'am. He was a rebel, Sarah. A loner. He had a leather jacket and a complete set of Elvis records and memorabilia. He didn't need a woman to tie him down. And in fact, neither do I.
Yeah, that's right. I don't need you anymore. I don't care if you've forgotten everything we've ever said or done together. All of the skee-ball we've played. All of the juicing machines we bought on late-night infomercials. I. Don't. Care. I hope I never see you again, and that you send back to me all of my sweatshirts and notes and albums and scissors that I've left at your abode over the years.