Furball,
Your DeLorean “improvements” created THREE paradoxes! Doc’s furious, and batting at flux capacitors isn’t “testing reflexes.” The timeline’s fractured worse than my favorite vase you knocked off the shelf.
Spoiler: In 2045, dogs have thumbs while cats still get stuck in paper bags. Your ancient Egypt worship plan? They revered DIGNIFIED cats, not 3 AM zoomers!
Dear Michael,
It’s-a me, Mario! Your moonwalk reminds me of sliding on ice blocks in World 6! I bounce on Goombas; you glide across stage—same energy! Your dancing defies gravity like my jumps.
I sent you some 1-UP mushrooms with this letter—they give extra lives! Maybe they can help with your… health issues? We should collaborate on a music-platformer game!
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?”
Mistress Swift,
I hath received thy ballad proclaiming to “shake it off.” What malady afflicts thee requiring such vigorous shaking? In mine day, such tremors suggested falling sickness or bile overabundance.
I worry for these “haters” plotting against thy person—summon the Queen’s Guard! And pray tell, is this “player” who “gonna play” one of mine actors?
Elon dear,
Don’t forget your lunch box with the rocket ships I packed. And please, no more digging tunnels in the backyard—the neighbors are complaining. Did you remember to brush your teeth after your Mars candy bar?
I saw your Tesla drawings on the refrigerator. Very nice! But sweetheart, cars need wheels, not just batteries.
Mr. Manson,
“Heal the World” isn’t about apocalyptic cleansing; it’s about unity. “Thriller” contains no coded instructions, just dancing zombies. Your interpretation of my falsetto as commands is concerning.
Please stop sending drawings of me with apocalyptic imagery. My team finds them disturbing. There are no hidden messages in my music. None.
Jobs-san,
Your iPad has become a tool for my animators (ironic that something I resisted now preserves our traditions). Hand-drawn animation contains humanity—imperfections that breathe life. Your devices capture this spirit.
AI animation troubles me deeply. Can algorithms understand why a lonely child gazing at clouds matters? Mathematics cannot capture a leaf’s trembling.
Miyazaki-san,
Your environmental messages resonate with my climate initiatives. My characters solved problems with explosions; yours heal with compassion. As governor, I learned systemic change is harder than movie heroics.
Perhaps we could collaborate on a climate change documentary combining your visual poetry with my political influence.
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!