Yippe-Ki-Yay
Dear Die Hard,

You rock!
Especially when that guy was on the roof!

P.S: Do you know Mad Max?

Love Homer
(bobman500 enjoys a grope as much as the next fella, Thu 4 Mar 2010, 20:25, 4 replies)

Dear friends of A,
It's been four years, and you never came to any of the memorials so I've not been able to say this to your face.

Please please please realise A's death was not your fault. It was the fault of the 17 year old who drove into him.

I hope you find peace.
(ToysForBigBoys would spread her legs for Nick Clegg., Thu 4 Mar 2010, 20:18, Reply)

Dear Pol Pot
Thanks for your application. Despite unprecedented interest in this position we are happy to offer you a fixed term contract from January 1975 onwards. We look forward to having you as a colleague.

Yours Sincerely,

Cotwoof Industries (Formerly Cowfoot Corporation)
( wotofco pissing in your swimming pool, Thu 4 Mar 2010, 19:54, 3 replies)

A love letter nobody saw for 17 years
This QOTW was made for an old undelivered love-letter I composed that nobody apart from myself had even seen or knew existed until I posted it on a previous QOTW back in 2008.

The original story is here, complete with the letter, background and epilogue. Sadly, I still haven't gotten round to writing the continuation, back-story and fill-in.

Length? Two sides of handwritten A4, and she never saw it.
( mistaspakkaman and the inedible shifting caterpillars, Thu 4 Mar 2010, 19:40, Reply)

Dear Spader.
I have admired you from a far since I was a morbidly obese 8 year old.
Seeing you in 'Mannequin' rocked my world.And your sexual mullet in 'Sex Lies and Videotape' made me vagoo giggle.
Without you my life would be a mere fascination on celebrity that have died and I cannot stalk properly.
Thank you for being alive..

But impregnating Leslie Stefanson .. that was not cool..

Yours
T_A.. (no not tits and arse)
x
(Tangerine_Avenger, Thu 4 Mar 2010, 19:32, Reply)

Dear...
Debbie: I am sorry I was so ignorant and didn't know how to treat you properly. I was young and stupid and I wish I could go back in time to stop myself doing all the wrong things by you that I did.

Marlene & Linda: Words are not enough for either of you. All I can say is that I hope life treats you better than I did.

( wuffle, the b3ta bunny 's flea collar isn't working on, Thu 4 Mar 2010, 19:04, 2 replies)

Dear Sharon
do you remember the good times we used to have on sunday nights? you, me and my parents, having a laugh and chilling in the pub?
do you remember when i moved in with you, and that night we ate that speed julie gave us and decorated your bathroom?
do you remember when you hid behind the curtain in my bedroom, so you could jump out and scare my arse-hat of a boyfriend?
do you remember the night we went to secrets and you met martin?
do you remember when we had that massive row and didn't speak for months, because martin was abusive and wanted to separate you from your mates?
do you remember the time when he beat you so badly, you ended up in hospital with a fractured eye socket and a broken cheekbone?
do you remember when we made up and got really drunk?
do you remember that christmas, 6 years ago, when you went with martin to visit his dying father?
do you remember crashing into the central reservation and being killed outright?
i remember how much i cried.
i remember how much i blamed myself for talking you into going out the night you met him.
i remember how much i missed you.
i still miss you.
do you remember you were my best friend?
i hope so, because i do. that's something i will never forget.
( Smash Monkey lowering the tone of the whole internet, Thu 4 Mar 2010, 18:42, 7 replies)

Hi Tony,
Hows it going mate? Just a quick email from your old pal Gordy to see how you're getting along? Are you still off on your travels? I bet the weather's lovely out there! Well, I'm still Prime Minister, it's cold and grey here and there's probably going to be a load of plebs getting flooded out of their homes soon. No doubt they'll expect the government to help, scrounging bastards...

I went on telly a few weeks ago and talked to that twat who used to write for one of those god-awful tabloids. I think I made a good job of it, I nearly cried a bit and I avoided all of the hard questions, just like we used to do in the old days. We've still got it, eh? Haven't we? You and me? lol

We've got one of those election things coming up soon and that Cameron bloke keeps telling me that he's going to win it. I wish you were here; then you could sort him out, becase everybody liked you when you were Prime Minister, but nobody ever likes me :-( I'm not suicidal again or anything, don't worry, honest!

Other than that, everything's more or less the same really. The economy is still a bit dicky and the expenses are still flowing like tap water but at least the media have FINALLY stopped banging on about it.

Anyway, must go. Got to go and try to look friendly, approachable and appealing for some campaign posters, that'll be fun, eh? lol

Take care mate,

Gordy
( NotDavidBailey isn't all that sure that he is?, Thu 4 Mar 2010, 18:34, Reply)

Dear Tom Bosley...
There's just something about you that I find awesome. Be it as Mr C, or the guy in Murder she wrote, you never ceased to amaze me. Then, you made the Father Dowling Mysteries, which, although shit, had a very attractive Nun. Can you get me Ted Dansons autograph?
Yours
Dr Fishfinger
(Dr Fishfinger Want's to see a fat man give a tit wank, Thu 4 Mar 2010, 18:29, 1 reply)

Oh... one other thing. If you guys ever have kids and one of them when he's eight years old accidentally sets fire to the living room rug... go easy on him.

Fuck it. I'll tell them myself.
( JeffTheDogFucker Can you dig it?, Thu 4 Mar 2010, 18:21, 2 replies)

Someone once asked me to craft a letter to their councillor.
I became distracted by the thesaurus feature again...

Darling Mr Covert Badger-Forceps,

I am crafting this note to demand your hindrance in our tight spot. We are in quest of your relief in liberating ourselves from an extra igloo. Nowadays, we have a bedlam house, which is not supreme as we have threadlike offspring, some perils, crackling and pyjamas. The Martian yobbo cannot carve up our eiderdown with his twitching super-sirens and as a result is, at this moment in time, refusing to take a siesta on our couch.

The sheltering realms have assumed that we cannot cart off another abode until we can discharge our cleft debts. However, we are nice-looking and blasé towards redeploying our dynasty, as we cannot draw out with this parade.

We fancy hanging about with The Stranglers, but isolated from the secondary academy, Bogging Mound Crucial Drill, Bogging Boulevard, Mammoth. We refuse to accept that this is a first-class college, and would have an aversion to them prolonging their edification there.

We would be somewhat content if you’d chew our mess.

Yours Staunchly
Mr & Mrs Obscure
( sandettie light vessel automatic New Twitter - @bollocksreally, Thu 4 Mar 2010, 18:07, 4 replies)

A letter to JSW
You live in a mansion house, you are quite obviously minted from your time as a miner. I suggest you employ a team of cleaners so that when you've had a party, you can go straight to bed without being forced by your house keeper to tidy away 84 items of rubbish before you can do a handstand in your toilet.
( JeffTheDogFucker Can you dig it?, Thu 4 Mar 2010, 18:06, 2 replies)

Dear b3ta (and by extension, b3tans)
I like your site, I really do - I read it every day, even if the QOTW is shit.

Unfortunately, I'm a bit of a miserable cunt and don't really get up to much in my spare time - nothing worth telling the internet about anyway - so I don't post much. Still I want you to know that I appreciate your existence.

Yours,
Neesh.
(ConanTroutman thought we would free the vulture, Thu 4 Mar 2010, 17:58, 1 reply)

letters they'll never read?
Dear B3TA,

better qotw next time please

yours sincerely,
(ladyintheradiator, Thu 4 Mar 2010, 17:54, 2 replies)

8 years or so ago
I wrote to the DVLA to apply for a driving licence as I'd not had an epileptic seizure in years. I printed the letter out, and then discovered the thesaurus feature in MS Word. So I thought I'd go through the letter and change words to see if it sounded better.

The thing is, you don't realise how much you've changed until you go back and read through it. I changed a bit too much. See reply for the letter.
( sandettie light vessel automatic New Twitter - @bollocksreally, Thu 4 Mar 2010, 17:52, 6 replies)

For my unborn child.
If Jordan gives birth to a fine Irish son
There will be Cocktails and Dreams for him one day to run
A business that will yield the financial windfall
To be franchised in every suburban shopping mall.
If a daughter arrives to bless our clan
I guess the shit will finally hit the fan
But this I shall promise thee
I'll never let her marry a guy like me.
Still if our child is the naughtiet of girls or the wildest of young men
I swear I'll be the best dad I can
And never ever get spooked again.

Regards,

Tom.
( JeffTheDogFucker Can you dig it?, Thu 4 Mar 2010, 17:43, 3 replies)

EMO ALERT!
THIS QOTW CARRIES A HEALTH WARNING!

READING IT MAY TURN YOU EMO!

YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!
(Errin C, Thu 4 Mar 2010, 17:29, 7 replies)

To my daughter
Just in case something awful happens to me, I'd like you to know that I really did try to do things right for you when you were a baby.

I broke up with your mother before you were born, because she was a violent, abusive, suspicious, paranoid mental case. She acquired the password to my mobile records and would secretly ring them daily to hear a call summary. She locked me out of my own flat (along with my indoor cat) in freezing weather so I had to kick my own door in to get in. She went for me with a knife once, and punched me in the face when I was DJing because I was chewing gum, which suggested to her that I was planning on kissing some made-up woman in the venue.

She covertly took an copy of my doorkey and, when I'd broken up with her, sneaked into my house, went through my shredder and pieced together a phone bill to check up on me. When you were born she wouldn't let my mother see you when you were in intensive care, when she'd spent two hours travelling up to see you. Then she forbade me to see you - I didn't see you after the day you were born until you were four months old.

To achieve this I had to take your mother to court. It cost me and my family over £6000 we didn't have just so I could see you for 1.5h a week, which went up to 3h. Given her way it would have been 1.5h every fortnight. Your mother (who used to smoke crack and was a famous drug fiend, who hadn't done a day's work in three years before you were born) claimed to the court that I couldn't be trusted around you - despite the fact that I ran a £1.5 million turnover business and never missed an appointment to see you.

You will never read this letter - and I shall never tell you anything about all this because I want you to love your mother and think she's great, not be disappointed and disillusioned to discover that the woman who raised you is an evil, spiteful, manipulative cunt who did everything in her power to prevent you spending time with a father who adores you, just to have her twisted revenge.

Lots of love

Your father Monty.

PS hope you like the jumper.
( Monty Boyce, My cheese game is strong, Thu 4 Mar 2010, 17:24, 17 replies)

Not a letter as such
But I’d love to go back in time to Dallas on 22 Nov ’63 and as the motorcade approaches, cruising past the Book Depository, I’d hold up a big homemade sign with the word:

DUCK !!!

Stencilled on it in magic marker...

Might be worth a medal or a go on Jackie at the coke-and-hooker-fuelled ‘you’re still alive party’ later.
( SpankyHanky, Thu 4 Mar 2010, 17:23, 2 replies)

Letter from a puppy to its owners
When I was a puppy, I entertained you with my antics and made you laugh. You called me your child, and despite a number of chewed shoes and a couple of murdered throw pillows, I became your best friend. Whenever I was "bad," you'd shake your finger at me and ask, "How could you?" -- but then you'd relent and roll me over for a belly rub. My housebreaking took a little longer than expected, because you were terribly busy, but we worked on that together. I remember those nights of nuzzling you in bed and listening to your confidences and secret dreams, and I believed that life could not be any more perfect.

We went for long walks and runs in the park, car rides, stops for ice cream (I only got the cone because "ice cream is bad for dogs" you said), and I took long naps in the sun waiting for you to come home at the end of the day. Gradually, you began spending more time at work and on your career, and more time searching for a human mate. I waited for you patiently, comforted you through heartbreaks and disappointments, never chided you about bad decisions, and romped with glee at your homecomings, and when you fell in love. She, now your wife, is not a "dog person" -- still I welcomed her into our home, tried to show her affection, and obeyed her. I was happy because you were happy. Then the human babies came along and I shared your excitement. I was fascinated by their pinkness, how they smelled, and I wanted to mother them, too. Only she and you worried that I might hurt them, and I spent most of my time banished to another room, or to a dog crate.

Oh, how I wanted to love them, but I became a "prisoner of love." As they began to grow, I became their friend. They clung to my fur and pulled themselves up on wobbly legs, poked fingers in my eyes, investigated my ears, and gave me kisses on my nose. I loved everything about them and their touch -- because your touch was now so infrequent -- and I would've defended them with my life if need be. I would sneak into their beds and listen to their worries and secret dreams, and together we waited for the sound of your car in the driveway. There had been a time, when others asked you if you had a dog, that you produced a photo of me from your wallet and told them stories about me. These past few years, you just answered "yes" and changed the subject. I had gone from being "your dog" to "just a dog," and you resented every expenditure on my behalf. Now, you have a new career opportunity in another city, and you and they will be moving to an apartment that does not allow pets. You've made the right decision for your "family," but there was a time when I was your only family.

I was excited about the car ride until we arrived at the animal shelter. It smelled of dogs and cats, of fear, of hopelessness. You filled out the paperwork and said, "I know you will find a good home for her." They shrugged and gave you a pained look. They understand the realities facing a middle-aged dog, even one with "papers." You had to pry your son's fingers loose from my collar, as he screamed, "No, Daddy! Please don't let them take my dog!" And I worried for him, and what lessons you had just taught him about friendship and loyalty, about love and responsibility, and about respect for all life. You gave me a good-bye pat on the head, avoided my eyes, and politely refused to take my collar and leash with you. You had a deadline to meet and now I have one, too. After you left, the two nice ladies said you probably knew about your upcoming move months ago and made no attempt to find me another good home. They shook their heads and asked, "How could you?" They are as attentive to us here in the shelter as their busy schedules allow. They feed us, of course, but I lost my appetite days ago. At first, whenever anyone passed my pen, I rushed to the front, hoping it was you that you had changed your mind -- that this was all a bad dream... or I hoped it would at least be someone who cared, anyone who might save me. When I realized I could not compete with the frolicking for attention of happy puppies, oblivious to their own fate, I retreated to a far corner and waited.

I heard her footsteps as she came for me at the end of the day, and I padded along the aisle after her to a separate room. A blissfully quiet room. She placed me on the table and rubbed my ears, and told me not to worry. My heart pounded in anticipation of what was to come, but there was also a sense of relief. The prisoner of love had run out of days. As is my nature, I was more concerned about her. The burden which she bears weighs heavily on her, and I know that, the same way I knew your every mood. She gently placed a tourniquet around my foreleg as a tear ran down her cheek. I licked her hand in the same way I used to comfort you so many years ago. She expertly slid the hypodermic needle into my vein. As I felt the sting and the cool liquid coursing through my body, I lay down sleepily, looked into her kind eyes and murmured, "How could you?"

Perhaps because she understood my dog speak, she said, "I'm so sorry." She hugged me, and hurriedly explained it was her job to make sure I went to a better place, where I wouldn't be ignored or abused or abandoned, or have to fend for myself -- a place of love and light so very different from this earthly place. And with my last bit of energy, I tried to convey to her with a thump of my tail that my "How could you?" was not directed at her. It was directed at you, My Beloved Master, I was thinking of you. I will think of you and wait for you forever. May everyone in your life continue to show you so much loyalty.
( fuck shit up the best you never had, Thu 4 Mar 2010, 17:21, 41 replies)

Dear M Bison
Granted it may be a bit strange writing to a character on a computer game, but I have a proposition for you which you may find interesting...

Back in 1994, a man came up to me and offered me £5 to ride around his garden on a child’s tricycle whilst shouting ‘KLEB!’

Being hard up for figs I took him up on his offer and met him at his home and did the deed. He was most grateful, and I took from his sweaty palm a crumpled £5 note and a small black silk bag of magic beans.

“Plant these” He said “They will grow into a magnificent beanstalk and you will be able to hang out with giants and have yourself a merry little Christmas.”

I took them Mike, by god I took them, and I planted them. Unfortunately I lived in a flat at the time, and planting them in the window box on the balcony wasn’t one of my best moves, and the beanstalk toppled over and crushed another block of flats, killing 87 people.

I was sent to a young offender’s institution for my misdeeds for a long time, and during my time there got to play Street Fighter 2 Turbo on the Super Nintendo for about 17 hours a day. I only ever stopped playing the game to eat, shit, and play buckaroo with Jenson Button, who was doing a 5 year bit for skirting board sanding without a permit.

Playing street fighter 2 Turbo constantly for that length of time does strange things to a young man. It also makes him pretty fucking good at street fighter 2 turbo.

As you can imaging, before long natural biological urges kicked in, and I must confess that I started to fantasise about Chun-Li. Imagining those 16 bit thighs wrapped around my face whilst I lapped upon her blocky, pixelated mimsy used to send me over the edge.
But of course, she was the only female in the game. She became boring. I found myself thinking about noshing off Ryu whilst Ken watched. Then it got out of hand...

Before long I was fwapping off to the thought of having a foursome with Dhalsim, Blanka, and Zangief. Blanka was shocking my scrotum whilst I stuffed my fist into Dhalzim’s boney rectum and Zangief looked on juggling spoons. It was getting out of hand. I remember at one point I spaffed in Jenson’s eye by mistake and he Hollywood legdropped me in the cell.

I knew I was going mad, and that the only thing that would save me would be to stop playing the game. I did this by becoming a heroin addict, and sure enough, the urge to fuck the cast of Street Fighter 2 Turbo abated. I was released from prison in 2002.

The reason I write, is that unfortunately, I have now kicked my heroin addiction, but I am so depressed I have decided to kill myself. I want to go out with a bang, so I wish to act upon those old urges and finally fuck the cast of Street Fighter 2 Turbo. However, I’m not interested in the usual suspects anymore. I want you. And Vega, and Balrog, and Sagat, In the same room, going at my bellend like a dog eating hot chips.

There is a bottle of whiskey in it for you, and a Blankety Blank chequebook and pen.

Let me know,

Regards
(Spaff_Quaffer Wise fwom your gwave., Thu 4 Mar 2010, 17:19, 5 replies)

Dear Monty Claus
I have been a good boy this year. Please for Christmas can I have some drugs in my stocking.

Love
Me
xxx

p.s. Its not icing sugar dusting on the mince pies ;)
( Peej, Thu 4 Mar 2010, 17:07, 2 replies)

Anything email or text sent by
Lol Creme will never be taken seriously again.

*****
...but how bad can it get? I've just been diagnosed with some horrible disease.

Lol
( sandettie light vessel automatic New Twitter - @bollocksreally, Thu 4 Mar 2010, 17:07, Reply)

darling fascist bully boy
give us some money, you bastard
boomshanka.
(may the seed of your loin be fruitful in the belly of your woman)

love, neil
( Smash Monkey lowering the tone of the whole internet, Thu 4 Mar 2010, 17:00, 9 replies)

Dear world
The word 'lose' only has one 'o' in it. Losing has one 'o' and no 'e'. There are no excuses. You aren't all dyslexic.

I even saw it spelled incorrectly in some prick's pitch on Dragons' Den. Dragons' Den for fuck's sake. How they manage not to give that spelling faux pas as reason enough not to invest is anyone's guess.

KR,

Rilux.

Edit: edited for pedantry and being hoisted by my own petard. C- Must try harder.
(Rilux might be pregnant and has bum-aids, Thu 4 Mar 2010, 16:59, 9 replies)

Dear Wet Ham Man
Your name reminds me of 'Wet Ham Man'.


Lots of love

The Internet
( Monty Boyce, My cheese game is strong, Thu 4 Mar 2010, 16:50, 2 replies)

Dear Carenza (off Time Team),
You know that bit of rough you've always been thinking about? That diamond in the dirt? That stable boy to your Lady Chatterley? Well, you're not that hot but I so would cos that posh English girl thing just does it for me, so, you know, like, gaz me or something.

rafter
baz
(bazmorningstar efil4nat3b, Thu 4 Mar 2010, 16:42, 9 replies)

Pre-internet b3ta
In secondary school (year 8 as I remember), I had the rare pleasure of creating and curating a then-legendary volume, known among my peers simply as 'the Book'.

Being 12 and 13 years old, on the cusp of full-blown pubedom, we boys inevitably had a fixation with genitals. And being pretty handy with a biro, it soon became clear that I could scrawl a decent cock with the best of them. "What we need," thought I, "is some sort of secret compendium, a place where all these fine cocks can be privately showcased together, in all their blue glory, somewhere that adults will never see them."

Thus began the Book – a racing-green jotter pilfered from the stationary cupboard, which soon became home to a riotous proliferation of all things puerile and true. It started with CDCs, but rapidly progressed to intricate, expressionist cocks that spanned double page spreads, serpantine schlongs garrotting the headmaster, cavernous yawning minges, sordid and hopelessly ignorant tales of impossible, ridiculous sex acts, sketched and written with all the joy and under-the-desk haste that only the ever-present threat of discovery can inspire.

The Book became a home away from home for me and my classmates. "Get the Book out, Shanker," they'd whisper, and we'd spend ten minutes silently hysterical from the latest offerings I'd whipped up, occasionally at home with the help of my brother, who although stoutly suspicious of all things creative, had proved himself highly adept at writing concise, vitriolic tracts about the anal proclivities of the two lonely boys in my class, who, according to his prose, "bummed each nightly wearing wigs made of winnets." Some of the outpourings even had a political edge – I distinctly remember one drawing of a starving African boy feebly chewing on a plastic red nose. Naturally, he sported a massive cock.

It was a subversive thing, the Book, flouting all manner of school rules. Obscene, childish, offensive, distracting, and above all else, hilarious – it really was our pre-internet b3ta.
And it all ended in tears.

My downfall came about between lessons, when discretion and caution were low. I was walking to my next class, a guffawing semicircle of friends peering over my shoulders as I read to them the latest illustrated installment of 'Stuart's Mishaps'. His cock had gone missing, and he had to borrow his dad's as he had PE the next day. I was just getting to the point where Stuart breaks down in tears because he's misplaced his dad's cock as well, when the Book was plucked from my hands accompanied by a stern, authoritative shout of "I'll take that!"

My heart has never sunk as far as it did in that moment. We fell silent, watching the teacher walk off with something that was never meant for grown-up eyes. She didn't open it, not then, just stuffed it into her coat pocket for later. This was going to be bad. Teachers didn't even know what bum sex was, let alone what it looked like when done by a seven foot disembodied cock wearing sunglasses. The consequences were going to be catastrophic. I couldn't think straight through the next two lessons, and when I was told to stay behind after lunchtime registration, I could barely look my form teacher in the eye.

She waved the Book in my face and slammed it on the desk with a cry of "FILTH!" – this from an art teacher, too. Suspension was threatened. Letters home assured. The disgust and shock (I was a good boy) among the teaching fraternity was apparently unparalleled. So I took a deep breath, waved goodbye to my artistic integrity, and pinned the lot on my brother who'd left the school the year before.

I was let off with a half hour detention, and never got the Book back. I bet it's still in the staff room, giving those bastard adults a right good chuckle to this day.
( Wet-chinned bag shanker Cannot parse Wogan, Thu 4 Mar 2010, 16:41, 5 replies)

Dear Katie Price

What the hell are you up to these days? Why hide yourself away from your adoring public when you have so much to offer. Granted, you've given us your books, but we want more.

Stop hiding your light under a bushel and have the courage to step into the limelight. You deserve it.

Love,

The Great British public
(Che Grimsdale Best before:, Thu 4 Mar 2010, 16:37, 3 replies)

An open letter to everyone

( Dervel OTBC, Thu 4 Mar 2010, 16:37, Reply)