[My colleague Scott Brown was recently blindfolded, taken to a safehouse, drugged, flown to Pakistan, beaten, fed delicious sweets, and made to listen to a horrible ska cover of “Rock Lobster.” Back at PopWatch HQ, just before he collapsed in hyperglycemic fits, he passed a secret Microsoft Word document on to me, which I dutifully transcribed for you. I’m just the messenger, people!]
You’ve probably read some pretty crazy things about me in the papers lately, saying I’m into you and all that. (I’ll say this once: Never date/enslave a Sudanese poet! Hate to stereotype, but… meeeeow!) Well, it’s true. I’m pretty crazy about you, Whitney. I think you’re, like, totally Islamic — on the inside, Whitney, where it counts. I truly believe that you are every (Islamic) woman. And sometimes, on those tapes I send to scare the Americans, all I’m saying is, “I wanna dance with somebody. With somebody who loves me!” (Those tapes are mostly filler — Zawahiri got this karaoke machine, and we like to make these little “radios shows” that seem a lot funnier in the moment, you know?)
Anyway, about killing Bobby, I won’t lie. I drew up some schematics. This was back in my younger days, so the idea was a little Rube Goldberg-meets-Tom and Jerry — I was going to steal the musically superior Billy Ocean’s car and drop it on him, and then make a pun on that “Get Out of My Dreams (Get Into My Car)” song. Couldn’t make “the funny” come, though. Then I was thinking maybe I’d say something like “Whose prerogative is it now, jackhole!?!” or “This is new-jack jihad, bitch!” but I couldn’t decide what kind of spectacular death those would go with.
It does pain me that you chose to marry an infidel who rapped about the Ghostbusters, and managed to get arrested at a Disney World nightclub. But I do suppose that, girl, as long as he’s been giving his love to you, you should be giving him your love too. Still, if doubt ever enters your mind, and you ask yourself, “How will I know if he really loves me?” keep me in mind as a Bobby replacement; I could be your Johnny Gill.
I could be all of the man that you need, and take you to a higher love, if not the greatest love of all. After all, I have nothing, nothing, nothing, if I don’t have you. (Well, not exactly, technically I have millions of dollars, a terrorist network, and a secret-cave lair, but you gather my sentiment, most beautiful Whitney Houston.)
In closing, I hope life treats you kind. And I hope you have all you’ve dreamed of… and if one of those things is having Bobby Brown adios’ed, you just let me know. Don’t deny if this heart is calling for me. And thanks again for never wearing braids.
Saving all my love for you,
P.S. I think my reality show would have been better.