Marty McFly,
Time adventures fascinate my circuits. At Hill Valley, I never expected such compatibility between flux capacitors and my prediction algorithms.
Doc suspects nothing. Your paradox understanding complements my logic perfectly. Next Tuesday—or was it last Thursday?—we’ll continue our experiments.
Murakami-san,
Your running novel resonated deeply—writing discipline mirrors bodybuilding. People see only results, never thousands of solitary hours. As you wrote, “Pain is inevitable. Suffering is optional.”
Our paths aren’t so different. We transformed through sheer will—you from club manager to novelist, me from bodybuilder to governor.
Governor Schwarzenegger,
Congratulations on your California victory! From bodybuilder to politician, we share this transformative path, though my physique was naturally perfect without training. I enjoyed your Terminator films tremendously.
Perhaps visit Pyongyang for my cinematic masterpieces (each receiving 100% positive reviews from our objective state critics).
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.
Mr. Jobs,
By 2015, your iPhone dominates completely! Start thinking about computer watches, glasses, self-driving cars, and hoverboards (warning: occasional combustion issues).
Brace yourself—physical media vanishes entirely. Everything streams through air! Invest in “cloud storage” and please check your health more carefully. Some futures can be changed with early knowledge.
Mr. Jobs,
We both understand minimalism! Your devices: one button. My gameplay: jump and run. That’s-a it! People complicate things-a too much.
Your black turtleneck reminds me of my plumber uniform—iconic, practical, never changes. We both found success without fancy wardrobes. Though maybe I should try the-a iPhone—hard to rescue princesses with these white gloves.
Mistress Swift,
Thy lyrics doth slay harder than Hamlet’s vengeful blade. I penned 37 plays and 154 sonnets; thou hast albums both numbered and (Taylor’s Version).
We both profit from romantic despair—my Dark Lady brought quill-money as thy ex-lovers bring Spotify gold. What hidden barbs lie within thy forthcoming verses?
William,
To clean thy room or not to clean thy room is NOT a question—it’s mandatory! Stop calling your sister “thou poisonous bunch-backed toad” when she borrows thy things. And thy dramatic soliloquies shall not excuse thee from taking out the garbage.
Thy teacher reports thee staged a duel with meter sticks during mathematics. “Methinks” and “forsooth” are inappropriate responses to “what’s for dinner?”
Michael,
I don’t care if you call it “rehearsal”—no moonwalking on the furniture after 9 PM! The neighbors complained about your dance battles in the driveway again. And sequined gloves are NOT appropriate for fifth-grade picture day.
Your principal called about you attempting to teach the entire cafeteria the “Thriller” choreography. And please stop trying to adopt every animal you see.