Murakami-san,
Your parallel worlds fascinate me. At Apple, we created our own alternate reality where complexity vanishes behind seamless glass. In your novels, characters drift between dimensions effortlessly.
My cancer made me appreciate your mortality themes. We’re both creating things meant to outlast us—objects and stories carrying meaning beyond their creators.
Steve Jobs,
Yesterday’s Apple vs. Microsoft debate was magnificently theatrical. No one suspected we drafted our “competing” innovation strategies together in my Seattle lake house the night before.
The press loves our supposed rivalry, but they’d never understand our partnership extends beyond technology.
Mister Putin,
It’s-a me, Mario! Your pipeline politics impress a plumber like me! I rescue princesses; you capture territories—we both understand pipes and power.
Your bare-chest horseback photos remind me of Bowser—intimidating but overdoing it. Maybe try wearing overalls? More practical for invading sovereign countries, and extra pockets for-a spare mustache.
Donald,
I’ve told you a thousand times: NO tweeting after bedtime! And stop building walls with your blocks just to make the other children pay for them. Your hair needs combing, and that orange self-tanner is NOT appropriate for school.
Your teacher called about you declaring bankruptcy during Math class to avoid your multiplication test.
Nikola dear,
Stop rewiring the house! Your “energy transmission” shorted our block. Pigeons aren’t geniuses—they’re birds with parasites.
Don’t build Tesla coils unsupervised. And stop calling Edison a “thieving dullard” to his mother.
Bill,
Your iambic pentameter walked so my 280-character tweets could run. You invented 1,700 words when language wasn’t enough; I invent companies when products don’t exist.
We’re basically the same person except my hair is more complicated than Hamlet’s entire plot. I’m naming my next child “Puck420,” inspired by your work.
Chairman Trump,
Your gilded towers remind me of imperial excesses I overthrew! Yet your cult of personality—impressive. My Little Red Book spread ideas; your ghost-written book spread your image.
Our similarities: we both promised working classes greatness while exploiting them. The difference: I embraced red flags; you called them fake news. Your wall is amateur—mine was Great!
Marty sweetie,
Take down those DeLorean posters—you’ve missed the bus daydreaming about flux capacitors. Stop telling teachers homework “isn’t due for 30 years.”
No skateboarding behind cars! Your “temporal experiments” are dangerous, and puffy vests aren’t invincible.
Chairman Mao,
Your Little Red Book created a single narrative for millions. As a novelist, I find this terrifying—stories should multiply possibilities, not restrict them. Surrealism is freedom’s last defense.
Perhaps in another dimension, your revolution produced a society equally free to imagine and dream without fear. A revolution imprisoning the mind while freeing the body accomplishes only half its task.