Dear Head of ****** School, Oxford
Your staff is by far the worst organised, most useless bunch of bitter old fuckheads I and my daughter have ever had the misfortune of dealing with.

Your inability to correctly enter my mobile phone number onto your database fifteen times in two years became a running joke in my family.

Your threatening to expel my daughter for something she hadn't done was a spectacular illustration of your ineptitude. I could understand it if there was confusion over who had done it. There wasn't. My daughter had to take it upon herself to go to the teacher who witnessed said incident and ask him to tell you what had happened because you hadn't bothered to gather a single piece of evidence before booking the expulsion meeting. I can't even begin to fathom what thought process was gone through to just randomly pluck a name from the air and blame her for it. You utter utter shit-for-brains.

The teacher who you had received dozens of complaints about, who unraveled in front of our eyes at a parents evening, had to hit a child in the face before she was disciplined in any way.

The head of the PTA took his own child out of your school.

You decided that my daughter should be placed into the bottom set for every single subject. We could never get a justification for this from you.

When we moved her to a different school, she was placed in the top set in all of her classes within the first term. She is taking AS level subjects during her GCSE years and she is happier (and healthier) than she ever was at your vile stinking cesspool.

I have nothing but contempt for you and 95% of the people who work for you. I hope you all die in a grease fire.
(Bliss/Full up to the brim, Wed 10 Mar 2010, 17:35, 9 replies)

Dear Lazy Part of my Brain,
Please get off your arse and go to the shop. There is nothing apart from naan bread to eat and you really should do something about that. I know you're enjoying pissing about on the net and not doing anything remotely productive, but yesterday's tea consisted of a cheezburger, and as I don't remember being a lolcat this needs to change. Now. Get Off The Internet!

In anticipation,

Your Guts.
( Poppy The Platypus was abducted by an army of toast soldiers on, Wed 10 Mar 2010, 16:52, 6 replies)

To: Sir Thomas Legg (Chairman, Panel of Inquiry into Parliamentary Expenses Abuse)
Dear Sir,

As you will be aware, many of the expense claims under your investigation relate to persons who have presided over legislation regarding criminal activity. Such legislation includes the 'Proceeds of Crime Act' (POCA), and the introduction of the 'Criminal Injuries Compensation Board' (CICB).

Under the POCA legislation, the state is empowered to seize the assets of convicted criminals, including any profits made on such activity which, in the case of many drug-related crimes, may be enormous.

Under the CICB legislation, any victims of crime (be their injuries physical, mental, or financial) may be compensated by the state.

Is it therefore reasonable to assume that all profits made as a result of illegally claimed expenses - for instance, on house purchases made on the back of such claims - will therefore be subject to seizure, given that the alleged criminals have deigned this a fit response for others?

Similarly, it would seem only an extension of logic that the 'victims' of any proven crime (the beleaguered taxpayers) should be entitled to expect compensation for their losses.

Can I be assured that you will consider these points when making your final recommendations?

Further, will you be justifying to the electorate the arbitrary threshold date from which these abuses are to be investigated? Clearly, there has been an institutionalised laxity in the handling of expenses for decades. How many of the country's so-called "Great and Good" are sitting on empires built on nefariously funded foundations?

Yours sincerely,

B3ta Demeter.
(b3ta_demeter, Wed 10 Mar 2010, 16:21, 7 replies)

You owe me something...
Dear Steve,

Last Christmas when you gave me that present with a tag marked: Obviously DVD’s. No surprise there. But they’re your favourite genre, PORN!!! Enjoy!!! It got me into a shitload of bother with the Mrs. Cheers for that.

But then when I eventually got round to opening my pressie, the Mrs. dispatched to a friend’s to talk about ovaries and other such lady shit, a box of man-sized Kleenex at my side, the best German lube money can buy on my other side, cock in hand in trembling anticipation...

I was not impressed.

Deep Impact is not porn. Blow, likewise. Snatch, ditto. In the Line of Fire – nope. Must love dogs – again, no (and absolutely bloody awful). Free Willy – fuck off. Octopussy – bit of a laugh, had a semi wank over that one, but definitely not porn. Black Snake Moan – sexy title, sexy film. Full on wank over the girly in the hot pants, but technically not porn due to the lack of hardcore interracial sex action ending in spectacular facial cumshot that leaves the 'actress' looking like she's just dipped her head in wallpaper paste.

Steve, in short, you owe me some porn.

PS - Though I did watch Inside Man all the way through and thought it was pretty decent... Thinking about it, when you get round to purchasing me some hardcore, don’t get me a flick named Inside Man... I don’t think I’d be into that sort of porn.

PPS – Just to make it clear although I watched it all the way through I did not wank off over this movie. I like Denzil Washington, but just not in that way.

PPPS – Cheers.
( SpankyHanky, Wed 10 Mar 2010, 16:17, 3 replies)

Hello. My name is Mr Omboko and I leeve in Nigeeria.
Dear pipple of bitter.

I hev been advarsed from Meester Gigglemush of Kinetic North Ltd to write thees letter to you and breeng you all gud fortune.

I dont no whaat ees heppening to the weather here. Eets supposed to be sunny but I jus looked out of ma weendow and it am peesing down like a hippo here. Jeezus Crarst!
I hev been watchin you pipple here and I em very pleased to be able to talk to you at last and chew de fat and al thet jazz. I would lark to till you about masilf and breeng you big opportuuunity to make beeg money to AY YI YI YI YI YI!

I was riscued by the chuch when I was a leetle keed after my father was keeled by a beeg gang of men with steeks after he raped the wiife of the chiff of poliss and myy mother was tekken away by an illifant and was never sin agin.

In hees will he left me the keys to hees empire. A chain of 300 Rolls Roice shops al over Efrica. Thees bisniss am doing very well and no sign of any resission here meester.

I hef a small problim. You see, I em a disabled after an accident with a beeg nife wen I was keeling a gnu for dinner. I hed trepped the bugger in the hole in the ground wheech I had made thet morning after breckfass. I remimber it very will. I hed Wittabeex.
I jump eento the hole to cut the buggers throt but he jump up and keeked me in the tissticles and I fall on my beeg nife wheech stab me in the enus. I hef not been able to walk since thees tirrible eccidant.

Wat I em saying raaht here ess thet I can not get to the benk untill too week time and I need some cash to send out for some pain keelers eef you know wat I mean. Ai Yi Yi Yi Yi Yi Yi.

You pipple of bitter sind me faarve hundrid Eengleesh ponds in a jeefy beg and I weel post you a brend new Rolls Roice. I muss be med but you weel be doing me a beeeeeeeg faver here ma frind. My adriss is 61a The Beeg Steet, Nkottomokonumba, Johinnisbug. Efrica NW1 3RT
Think you
(chb3 Read my lips. See my profile. See me talk., Wed 10 Mar 2010, 16:16, 7 replies)

Dear Twunty Travel Company
(I thought that posting this complaint letter I have sent to my tour operator and as they have not read it yet (Sent with read receipt). Hopefully a few B3tans also may be able to help me with what to do to regarding getting a refund)

Dear Travel Company

I have booked a holiday with you to visit one of your chosen destinations and have been calling to confirm a few details. I originally called you to give you the last payment towards my package and also to ask you a few questions regarding the email I received from your PR department about places of interest in my upcoming destination such as the mountain ranges, the newly constructed night attraction that is clearly some manmade eyesore (despite your claims of it to be natural), a number of links to information on walks through the grassy meadows and other things similar.

After a few calls came back as a deadline I just classed that as a problem with the local exchange and decided to leave it a day or so. Two days later and I tried again but I got the same deadtone, I then tried all other forms of communication with the head office but to no avail. Your website is now down and all emails have remained unopened (I send all outgoing emails with a read receipt).

With less than a month until my holiday I am now starting to get worried as you seem to have disappeared off the face of the planet as all other offices that I have tried have also had the dead tone too. I know that a number of companies have been affected by the credit crunch but you are a global company for god’s sake, I haven’t seen you announced as bankrupt on the news. Could you please contact me with notification of a refund or at least a number to call to finally pay off my tickets and get ready for my holiday.


Regards



Mon

PS Regardless of whether I do get the money back or go on holiday I swear that this is the last time that I will be using Alderaan Travel Services Ltd. Your planet may look pretty nice but this experience has really put me in a foul mood.
(mon bison powered by magnets, Wed 10 Mar 2010, 16:00, 3 replies)

Dear My Department,
Thanks for giving us the info for picking next year's modules yesterday and asking that we discuss them with our personal tutors for signing them off. It's just a shame that today is an open day where most of the tutors are busy with prospective students, meaning that we (you know, those of us who are already paying you lots of lovely money) have ours heads full of questions and no-one to ask about them. For the sake of our sanity next year, please, please think about the timing first. I'm driving my poor boyfriend slightly bonkers by asking him questions which he really doesn't know much about.

Thanks in advance,

PtP

PS Thanks for great range this year, some really exciting stuff to chose from. And no, I am not being sarcastic.
( Poppy The Platypus was abducted by an army of toast soldiers on, Wed 10 Mar 2010, 15:00, Reply)

Bad Drivers
It seems that I missed the letters of fellow motorists the other night and thought I would put my letter here. But upon reading it, it seemed a tad too long to write down as a post on here (though I'm not sure now)

It was initially written as a scribblin' on facebook but decided to put it on my blog today. So have a read amillionlightyearsaway.blogspot.com/2010/03/open-letter-to-bad-driver.html
( Jinxy13 is hating the S key, right about now., Wed 10 Mar 2010, 14:48, Reply)

Dear DJ Spoony,
Football is Immodium of the brain, drawing to a halt all synapses, save the one that makes men go ‘WaaAAArRRRararagh!’whenever some granny-fucking teenager fails to do what he’s paid grotesque amounts of money to practice day-in and day-out - get ball A from point B to point C without hitting terrace D.

And there’s another thing. I managed to walk in a straight line today without 1) falling into traffic 2) perambulating backwards or 3) cartwheeling down George Street - all without international coaching, Star Trek style medical teams or obscene quantities of Nandrolone, so where’s my Banana Republic GDP salary and/or roasting spread in The News of The World? Congratulations! You managed not to fuck up for 10 seconds our of 90 minutes and that makes you a hero! Where I work that would make you very very fired.

But it’s not the game that I dislike with some fervour and gesticulation, it’s the post-match fucking analysis - no, let me narrow that down - it is DJ Spoony.

For those of you across the pond, let me explain; DJ Spoony has done but two things with his life -1) made shite music and 2) presented the ‘˜606 Phone-in Show’ on BBC Radio 5 Live. Yes, that’s 606, presumably the devil threatened to sue for defamation if they made the middle digit ‘6’ as well.

Let me explain my home to you, dear readers, I have 8 radios in my house. One of them is tuned to Five Live, and so are the other fucking 7. I only have 5 rooms, which means that after any given football match, I not only have to listen to DJ Spoony’s phone-in, but I also have to have it beamed at my head at every conceivable angle. Somewhat like a firing squad, only less pleasant.
Here’s a brief rundown of your average 606 phone-in:

Kevin from Bolton phones in.

“Innit,” says Spoony. “Keven, innit, yeah?”
“Gutted,” says Kevin.
“Innit,” says Spoony.
“Innit,” says Kevin.
“Yeah” says Spoony.

Wayne from Liverpool phones in.

“Gutted,” says Wayne.
“Gutted?” says Spoony.
“Innit,” says Wayne.

Sheila from Bognor Regis phones in.

“Innit,” says Sheila.
“Innit,” says Spoony. “Gutted?”
“4-7-5-3-1,” says Sheila.
“Innit?” says Spoony. “2-8-4-3-pi.”
“9-1-2-fish-piss,” says Kevin.
“You still there?” says Spoony.
“Innit,” says Kevin.

And round and round and round we go, in this, the precious time before sleep which should be spent listening to balanced BBC political commentary and ingesting enough beer to last me throughout the night. This endless droning, like bees without the purpose or the organization, is what passes for football discussion - and worse yet, as entertainment for which DJ Spoony gets paid by the good, clean TV license paying British public.

This is the time after the match when the synapses start kicking in, when the ‘WaarRRrRrrargh’s are turned into nonsensical mutterings. Like a child learning to speak, it is all nonsensical shite, ‘Sven, mee-maw, pee-pee, offside, innit,’ and actual proper cursive talking is best left to the adults.

Fuck off back to your drum machine, Spoony,

TheSnark
(TheSnark oh, c'mon, like you didn't see me coming, Wed 10 Mar 2010, 14:40, 21 replies)

Dear Mary,
Remember that time my eldest sister split up with her boyfriend and asked to come home? Do you remember how you threatened my father with "Either she goes or I go"?

Do you remember how you demanded over the 'phone that I bloody well respect you because you deserved my respect because you were my stepmother?

Do you remember that time my teenage sisters and I went for a walk with our friends, and when we came back you just happened to be sunbathing nude in the garden, and when we saw you that sinister smile crept across your face as you watched us in our embarassment?

Do you remember "accidentally" coming out of the bedroom naked when my friends and I were playing in the hall?

Do you remember that time we had guests over for Sunday lunch, on that rainy day, and halfway through you and dad disappeared to have really noisy sex, leaving us kids to host?

Do you remember the time you blacked Dad's eyes and made him sleep in the shed for 5 days, in that old sleeping bag among the petrol and the rats?

Hahahahahahahha

Good luck with your new marriage.

A V
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Wed 10 Mar 2010, 14:37, 4 replies)

Now I don't have much luck with my sex life
as you will see from here and here (previous letters I have posted on this hunting/shooting/fishing forum) I can't believe that I have found it necessary to write another stern letter.

Dear Mr Patel
I have been a patron of your newsagency for many years and have never found myself contemplating writing a letter of complaint but recent events and circumstances have forced me to take out my angry pen.

If you check your records you will see I have a daily order for the Times, Financial Times and our local evening newspaper. For the last three weeks I have had to make the journey to your shop to return copies of other newspapers which have been put through my letterbox.
Let me just qualify this. I have never, and will never order a copy of The Daily Mail. If I ever want to read this kind of racist propaganda I shall buy a copy of Mein Kampf. It is better written and less controversial.

While I applaud your decision to employ children of all abillities and disabillities I can't help thinking you may have picked the wrong children to work in this area. Here are my reasons. On Monday morning my sex life was disturbed again. My butler, Parsons, was collecting the milk from the staff/tradesman's entrance which is situated at the rear of the house. He was Dressed in just a dressing gown as it was only 06:30 hours and as he stooped to pick up the bottles he was startled by the noise of a bicycle attempting to cross the cattle grid at the main gate. Now it's a damn awkward contraption to cross in the Land Rover so how the young man thought he could attempt to navigate at speed this bloody obsticle is beyond me. The cycle managed to get about half way across before the front wheel was bent and became wedged between two of the cross beams of the grid. This caused the cycle to stop dead throwing the rider over the handlebars and knocking Slater, the gardener, off the ride-on lawnmower. Slater landed face down in the drive and was trampled on by my daughter who was riding her second favourite horse back to the stables following a jaunt into the village in a deliberate and humourous attempt to annoy oik drivers on their way to work. Sometimes I take the hosebox out for similar pleasures although my latest game is to drive my new Rolls Royce to the local Lydl supermarket displaying a sticker on the rear window which reads, "What Recession?" Bloody good fun. Arf!

Meanwhile the lawnmower was still on the move and heading for the house. Parsons attempted to stop the machine by jumping on but unfortunately the cord from his dressing gown became wedged around the cutting cylider pulling him tightly backwards into the seat. His arms both firmly stuck downwards were unable to grasp the steering and the thottle was forced into the maximum position. The mower then gained momentum and headed across the lawn and towards the rear of the house, mowing down three peacocks and a curious cat in the process. As the uncontrollable machine continued to speed towards the staff doorway the blades cut through the cord catapulting Parsons off and into the roof of one of the greehouses used by my son who has developed an interst in growing rare and exotic plants.

At this point in time the postman arrived in his van which began the long journey up the main driveway. He noticed the paperboy laying bleeding and broken by the gate next to a rather large and fresh pile of horse droppings. As he neared the rear of the property he was greeted by the now driverless lawnmower heading directly towards him, causing him to swerve and crashing into the ornamental pool in the Japanese garden.
The postman was unhurt although several priceless koy carp were squashed. The mower then struck the staff door bursting it inwards.

My wife's maid, Tanya, was behind the door at the time still dressed in her night attire stooped down to feed the cats. As the door burst in the large brass doorknob found its way into the vagina of the poor girl at some speed. Now at the time of all this kefuffle, I was enjoying some foreplay with my wife who had agreed to inercourse that morning. This is not something which happens very often. We were in a 69 position when the crash happened. At this point my wife bit my chap and shat in my face causing severe lacerations and an embarrasing visit to A&E.

This chain of events has angered me very much. A chap only gets his hole every year or so these days and this now I have to wait until September of next year. On this day I shall be cancelling my newspaper delivery as an act of caution. As I said while I applaud your giving those less fortunate a chace to earn some money, the boy employed on this occasion should never have been allowed on a bicyle in the first place. I got a letter from his mother yesterday who tells me he has now returned to the blind downs syndrome children's home where he has made a full recovery. Parsons has left my employ now and I am told his wounds have more or less healed and he shows them off regularly in his new career as a children's entertainer. Slater has never really recovered from his ordeal and now sits in a pile of his own dung in his room playing an endless loop of so called 'music' from the popular beat combo, My Chemical Romance.

Please find suitable staff to deliver our papers and you may like to take note that the letterbox is 4 foot high so don't take on any flids. My wife and I would also like to take the opportunity to offer our sympathies to the family of the young girl who was shot last wednesday. I did tell you we were shooting grouse that morning and we did issue regular audible warnings which of course, being deaf, she did not hear. One final point of issue. Would you please, as I have instructed, please place my monthly magazine order, Razzle into a large plain envalope and mark it 'private and confidential' and marked for my personal attention.

Captn' Horatio Clutterbuck Hood-Butter III (ret) _{VC VD and Bar}

( Captn Hood-Butter is not dead yet., Wed 10 Mar 2010, 14:33, 3 replies)

Dear M (for Maria or Mad Scotswoman - you choose)
No I don't forgive you - how could I ever forgive someone who claimed to love me yet lied all through the 'relationship', and then, when I finally grew some and said it was over - proceeded to call me every name under the sun on the day my dad died?

I don't care that you just want to look me in the eyes and say sorry - it won't make one iota of difference to the hate (yes, I hate you) I feel.

I'd like you to stop calling and texting me - it's getting kind of pathetic now, 4 years down the line. Do what I did - find someone who's ultimate aim isn't to completely ruin your life - someone who is, frankly, absolutely fantastic - and get on with things.

And yes, you may still know where I live, but my friends and family all know what you did, and there's not one of them would stop any of the others from punching you out.

All the best,

snee
( snee held his breath since, Wed 10 Mar 2010, 14:23, Reply)

Dear BBC...
You are not the Daily Mail.

www.bbc.co.uk/blogs/haveyoursay/2010/03/how_can_we_reduce_reoffending.html

Regards,

CC
( CaptainCrackerjack live trout, slow motion, Wed 10 Mar 2010, 13:49, 1 reply)

Dear Mannerless,
When I say, "Good morning", I expect a response, not a grunt. What are you, 13?

When I ask how you are, I expect a response somewhere around "Good thanks", "Been better" and "Not great" etc etc, followed by the same back. If you have problems and are not ok, or have done something exciting, please feel free to mention this also - I don't consider it bad form to not be properly English about this. Well, yes, since you asked, I'm great thanks.

When you ask a question, I will respond. If your question was one born of confusion and I enlighten you, some kind of expression of gratitude would be welcome. "Cheers" or "Ah, cool, thanks for that" would be acceptable. When I need something similar, I don't expect to have to ask the room at large three times and then / or address it to a specific person and then cajole them into answering. Eye contact here would be a useful indication that you heard me, and an appropriate response to this cajoling is not "Yeahyeahyeah".

When I ask you to do something and you agree, I do not expect to ask you several times if you have done it, and on the third time be disagreed with about whether it is the right thing to do, followed by a game of tennis whereby you attempt to get me to agree to do it without actually outright asking me. If you don't have time to do it, tell me and ask me to do it. I'll probably do it. Keep going with the first way and it wont get done.

These are called manners and social graces, and as the phrase goes: They cost nothing.

Doing or not doing these things strongly implies, to me at least, that you either have the social skills of a diarrhetic baboon, or you hold me in complete contempt. Given that you very occasionally surprise me with some manners when you've had enough coffee or when you need something, I suspect it is the former.

But either way, don't be so fucking miffed when I can't be arsed to talk to you any more.

Thanks.
(MrOli is ugly, but in the morning you will be sober, Wed 10 Mar 2010, 13:43, 3 replies)

Dear Social Services
Dear Social Services,

There's a young lad lives in the flat upstairs from me. I've seen him before.

The reason I'm writing is I keep hearing something from that flat in the middle of the night. I'm not sure what it is - I think it's some kind of trouble or fight. I've asked him what the noise was but he won't discuss it.

On at least one occasion I'm sure I've heard someone being hit followed by what sounded like a child crying.

This morning he had a huge black eye. He said he'd walked into a door (again) - and that it was none of my business anyway. He insisted he wanted to be left alone, with nothing broken and nothing thrown.

Regards,


SV
(jimicus, Wed 10 Mar 2010, 13:27, 5 replies)

Dear Debbie
I realise you are trying to move on with your life now that we are apart, but I felt it would be kindest if you heard this from me rather than finding out about things "on the grape vine" as it were. You will be glad to know that I have managed to sell the house, despite the shithole state you and your vile offspring left it in, and for a small profit, which helped towards the huge debts you left me. I have also re homed your dog, the one you begged me for even though I hate dogs and never ever wanted one. He is, apparently, very happy in his new home with people who care about him and don't just leave his shit all over the garden for me to tread in.
I know you will find this hard to believe, but I now have a very lovely girlfriend, despite your assurances that no one would ever look at me again. A girlfriend who knows how to wash up and do hoovering, which means I don't have to do all the house work like I used to when we were together, which I found quite a chore, especially as I was working 12 hour days, though I do realise you were very busy watching "Loose Women" every day and then telling me how they think all blokes have affairs and therefore I must have been unfaithful to you. Incredibly, despite your assurances to me to the contrary, some women do like sex. and with the light on. and not just in the missionary position. and we do enjoy this more than once a fortnight. Sometimes we do it for 4 or 5 hours. She enjoys all the things that you told me were "Disgusting" which was a surprise.
I am sure you and Colin will be very happy together with his lovely money
Take care and try not to get run over by any buses

With no love whatsoever

Vinnegar Strokes
(Vinegar strokes Should know better on, Wed 10 Mar 2010, 13:27, 1 reply)

(after travelling back in time 20 years) Dear me
1. Don't shag Jenny's Mum, the opportunity will arise but just because you can doesn't mean you should.

2.Remember to get into the sports hall early the day of the basketball final so you can get hold of a pair of shorts that actually fit you and avoid a disastrous "balls out in front of the entire school" situation.

3. If you are going to shag Jenny's Mum, don't shag her younger sister Alison, for reasoning see point 1.

4. The old Ginger bird in the BT call centre you will work in does not just want to make sure you have somewhere safe to sleep, she wants you to be a father to her even more Ginger kids.

5. Suzanne, who you sit next to in Geography, actually looses around 8 stone and turns out to be a stunner. Put the groundwork in now because trust me it will be worth it.

6. The entire bottle of Southern Comfort you chose to drink on your 18th is not a good idea unless you want to have your stomach pumped and lose the love of Jenny after telling her you have shagged her Mum and Sister.

7. Remember that Jenny's Dad is very big and unusually nippy fella for a 50 year old.

8. Use Sunscreen.
( The only Dave is pushing things forward, Wed 10 Mar 2010, 13:25, 5 replies)

Dear John Gavinson* (Neilson Holidays Customer Services)
Thank you for finally replying to my complaint about my holiday in January. However sending me a copy of the terms & conditions associated with my booking hasn't really addressed any of my points.

If you are going to promote yourself as a provider of activity holidays, may I suggest that you offer a baggage allowance that enables customers to get their stuff to their activity holiday. If I had a snowboard made of tissue paper, I may be able to meet your allowance - however it would be shite in the snow.

Could you not apply whatever baggage allowance you deem necessary consistently across all your customers. Seven of us checked in at Gatwick, and more than one of us had an overweight bag, but I was the only one that you tried to sting for £60. (By the way to avoid being charged I just gave my snowboard boots and coat to someone else to hold whilst you weighed the bags, and stuck them back in when I went round to oversize baggae drop-off)

If you can transport 10kg of equipment for £15, why do you want £10 a kg for anything over that? That's just greedy.

And finally, I don't care what your terms say, if I book a holiday 14 weeks before departure it is not a late booking. Not by any stretch of any reasonable persons imagination.

That is all.

(Actually I might send it....)

* name changed to protect the twunkey.
(jono_h, Wed 10 Mar 2010, 13:24, Reply)

Free Willy
You should never have been given parole.

What's the latest count, three dead Sea World trainers?
(Big Grant, Wed 10 Mar 2010, 12:58, 1 reply)

Mujava-
Township Funk is one of the best records of the last two years. Its ubiquity on mixes across the board, from house heads through to peeps like Sinden and Filthy Dukes is clear evidence of its aceness. That melody just smacks of 3am, heads down, drugged up hedonism.

Thank you!
(dozers, do fuck off ur a nob m8, Wed 10 Mar 2010, 12:23, Reply)

Dear soon to be ex-husband
after smashing up my house, my health, my life, nearly 2 years ago I kicked you out. Threats with big knives and suicide I realised in the end were empty ones.

You have had your surgery for free on the NHS, after I paid for your Visa and I have just heard you have finally moved back to the States.

It's the best news I have had for a long time!! I'm so happy!

I wonder if your new girlfriend finally worked out that you are an obsessive, jealous, paranoid, violent alcoholic too?
No longer do I have to worry you are going to use the key you stole from me to sneak into my house, or get texts and emails from you with your psychotic rants and misguided pleading for pity.

You want the last bits of shit you left in my house do you? Go fuck yourself and pay me the thousands of pounds you owe me.
But you won't will you, as financial abuse is the only one you can still practice.

I hope your gammy leg rots and falls off you sad little prick.

HA! I feel so much better!
( Herb Alpert's Taxi Driver I have very beautiful lips, Wed 10 Mar 2010, 11:43, 5 replies)

Dear Hayley
I'm very sorry that despite all your wonderful qualities I still left you. You really were a tremendously sweet person, intelligent, articulate, artistic, passionate, had a killer body that I just loved to stare at...

I know I told you it was because we were moving apart and I didn't think a long distance thing would work but really it was just because the sex wasn't very good and wasn't getting appreciably better with time. The simple logistics of you being 5ft 3, petite and a virgin when we met and me being 6ft tall and making no apologies for length meant I literally couldn't enjoy sex. It was like arms length sex, if I leaned in for a kiss you winced in pain, I'm not a complete bastard so that didn't just turn me on more!

I hope you've found a kind, loving, considerate dwarf that makes you very happy.

MattyLion

*commence flaming*

The salient details are relevant because I genuinely feel bad that the reason for the split was so shallow, everything else about this girl was perfect.
( JebediahSpringfield, Wed 10 Mar 2010, 11:37, 40 replies)

Dear Chell
This was a triumph!
I'm making a note here:
"HUGE SUCCESS!!"

It's hard to overstate
my satisfaction.

Aperture Science:
We do what me must
because we can.

For the good of all of us.
Except the ones who are dead.

But there's no sense crying
over every mistake.
You just keep on trying
till you run out of cake.
And the science gets done.
And you make a neat gun
for the people who are
still alive.

I'm not even angry...
I'm being so sincere right now-
Even though you broke my heart,
and killed me.

And tore me to pieces.
And threw every piece into a fire.
As they burned it hurt because
I was so happy for you!

Now, these points of data
make a beautiful line.
And we're out of beta.
We're releasing on time!
So I'm glad I got burned-
Think of all the things we learned-
for the people who are
still alive.

Go ahead and leave me...
I think I'd prefer to stay inside...
Maybe you'll find someone else
to help you?
Maybe Black Mesa?
That was a joke! HAHA!! FAT CHANCE!!

Anyway this cake is great!
It's so delicious and moist!

Look at me: still talking
when there's science to do!
When I look out there,
it makes me glad I'm not you.

I've experiments to run.
There is research to be done.
On the people who are
still alive.
And believe me I am
still alive.
I'm doing science and I'm
still alive.
I feel fantastic and I'm
still alive.
While you're dying I'll be
still alive.
And when you're dead I will be
still alive.

Still alive.

Still alive.
(ldwater otherwise known as a 'jive turkey', Wed 10 Mar 2010, 11:34, 1 reply)

Dear Colin with the Landrover
Thank you for leaving the keys I left sticking out of the boot of my mother's car under the wheel arch and for leaving a little note on the windscreen. You saved me from having to get my mate (having just returned from Glastonbury) to do the entire round trip again with the spare set. You're an absolute legend.
( emvee cruor deo cruoris, Wed 10 Mar 2010, 11:12, 5 replies)

Dear relationships (a repost),
Apparently, very expensive classes are offered on how to get a husband. Women pay potential good shoe money so some shrew can tell them how to change everything about their personality/dress sense/aroma in order to bag a man. This is cruel to men, as it seems that as soon as the lady has her giant rock (remember ladies; the bigger the diamond, the more he loves you!) and wedding planner, she can revert back to the type of woman that no man wanted in the first place. This should be some shite Hallmark movie or Cheryl Cole song lesson in how women should be ‘true’ to themselves, but really, these women should just shut the hell up and realize that nobody likes them. They should just get some fucking cats and hope their feline friends don’t eat their faces when they die.

I’m often asked relationship advice, like I’m the great beacon of stable relationships. “You’re 31 and you’ve been married twice! You’re an expert, an old pro!” “All right then. Never date a bloke who plays the didgeridoo, chew with your fucking mouth closed (you fucking cow), people named Simon are cunts and any man who wants you to be clean shaven is a pedophile.” It’s sound advice, but they never fucking listen to me, and therefore continue the circle of relationship life, shagging further and further down the food chain until they grow tired and die.

These mini-skirted maniacs, the human equivalent of a mating baboon’s red ass, are never going to bloody realize that acting like a decent human being will get them what they want. Instead they embark on mating rituals by diminishment: diminish their thigh size, diminish their IQs, diminish their sense of self-worth, then finally, diminish their clothing. As if removing every last bit of everything interesting there ever was about them, by turning themselves into a vagina with an overly made-up face will make them worthy to be somebody’s long-term fuck partner.

Then, say, they actually find a partner they want to fuck for life. They’ve spent every waking moment of their lives dreaming of finding a boy who sticks his penis in her vagina with flair. The entire relationship is from there forward entirely based around sexual chemistry, and they neglect things like, oh, speaking to each other. And they fall so in love with the pleasure experienced by their bits that they marry the source of this orgasmic gratification, and lo, they live happily and merrily, rutting as often as a clock chimes. That is, of course, until one of them tires, waking up only to realize that the best years of their lives have been wasted on cum.

Girls, I recommend this: if a boy desires you for your invented lack of personality, then he’s a cunt. If your entire relationship is based around fucking, a new word should be used entirely for this purpose. ‘Fuckfriend’ and ‘Fuckband’ work, and darling, if the your only happy times are spent with a penis up your fanny, you’re both going to wind up exhausted and lonely.

I find it odd that many people won’t marry their friends, as if the initial awkwardness of boning their best mate is their vision of hell, yet they’re more than happy to make a pledge for ‘forever after’ with a bloke whose pubic hair is more intimate than his eyes.

Love, my friends, is total happiness, not just the occasional arousal of a clitoris,

TheSnark
(TheSnark oh, c'mon, like you didn't see me coming, Wed 10 Mar 2010, 10:31, 18 replies)

Dear Everyone
I'm sorry I have no time for you or your problems any longer. I am tiring of being burdened with all of your shite and expected to deal with it all for you. I get no reprieve, I get no help, I get no sympathy. I just sit back and watch as everyone tucks into the feast while I'm running around serving.

If you have no time for my answer when you say "How are you?" stop asking.

I have my own things to worry about now, and they are my priorities. I'm sorry I'm ooot.

Onwards and upwards!

Ta ta fuckwits!
( SauronWibble I'll hold it, you lick it..., Wed 10 Mar 2010, 10:21, 5 replies)

Dear Cheryl Cole
Why don't you just come clean, as it were, and admit that your 'marriage' to Ashley Cole was nothing but a face-saving excercise?
It seems too much of a coincidence to many people after your racist altercation with a lowly toilet attendent, within six months you had married a black man (incidentally putting to bed those rumours about him being gay, which occurred about the same time).

I'm sure you'd like the majority of the british public to believe it was just a coincidence. Just like the fact you and Mr Cole have the same management team is 'just a coincidence'.

Like it's 'just a coincidence' that rumours of Ashley's affairs always seem to come out just before you release a single, like 'Fight for our Love', which makes the public go all weepy and sympathetic for you.

I'm sure you had no idea that the press had been sitting on the latest affair rumours for six months before they decided to release the details on the day you announced your new single, thus allowing the media to plug it everytime they mentioned the 'news' story.

I'm sure that you're not that thick, that you can't see that you're allowing your life to be turned into a fun-packed soap-opera which benefits only those people around you, and means that when the truth finally emerges the public will go back to hating you almost as much as they hate your 'husband'. You also realise this whole affair has probably killed any chances your 'best friends' in Girls Aloud ever had of having a career of their own (except maybe the ginger one).

As Troy McClure said to Selma Bouvier: "Of course this marriage is a sham. The difference is, we know ours is a sham."

Yours
Sarah Harding
( Joe Scaramanga with a G-double-O-D vibration, Wed 10 Mar 2010, 10:13, 4 replies)

Dear young man at the train station,
I'm not sure if you were aware of this fact, but you had a large brown stain covering most of the bum of your pale blue skinny jeans. I amused myself in the few minutes we were waiting for the train by trying to decide how it got there - did you simply not know how to use the washing machine, and your clothes were going mouldy? Had you decided, unwisely, to sit down somewhere muddy and stained them? Were you in fact gay, and after a quick morning rough loving session with your boyfriend neglected the fact that his spluff may be leaking out of your bottom mixed in with your unpassed morning ablutions and this vile substance was in fact what was causing the amusing sight? By the way, you are also way too short to be wearing skinny jeans. I'm only an avergae size woman and I'm taller than you, and folding the leg of your jeans halfway back up to your knees just isn't cool.

I therefore had a little bet with myself over whether you were a Brighton or a Sussex student, and upon leaving the train tried to dawdle and look behind me without looking like I was dawdling and looking behind me, so I could see which direction you walked off in. However, this slightly impossible manoeuvre on my part meant I walked into a hedge.

Thank you, boy with the stain on his trousers, for helping me make myself look like a twat this morning.

Love, me.
(Petite chien is going to do science to it, Wed 10 Mar 2010, 9:43, 1 reply)

Dear Brentford FC owners on Fifa 10
Why oh why do you keep sacking me.

I won every cup in the league apart from one so you decide to let me go. I'm going to join QPR and set it to amateur just to teach you a lesson.

Yours never again.

Ps I'm going to buy all your good players then sit them on the reserves
(NuffMuff fucks shrubbery, Wed 10 Mar 2010, 9:35, Reply)