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!
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.
Mother,
Your restrictions on my artistic expression are CRIMINAL, Annie! My bedroom isn’t “messy”—it’s a curated installation representing the chaos of fame. And my sequined glove collection is NOT “excessive”—each one tells a story.
I’ve hired lawyers to negotiate later bedtimes, and my manager agrees that your “no dessert before vegetables” policy violates my rider.
Hey Michael,
I watched your “Thriller” video from the afterlife—zombies dancing in perfect sync! If only I could have painted movement like you dance it. You’ve mastered what I attempted in art.
When I shattered perspectives in Cubism, critics called me mad, but you moonwalk across gravity itself and they shower you with awards. Keep breaking rules—true art shatters what came before.
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.