Dear Mr. Danza,

Didn't I see you on an episode of Cops? Yeah, you were the fucking moron who was so out of shape from eating 20 years of Big Macs, you couldn't make those porky, spider vein-encrusted little legs of yours move fast enough to catch some punk kid whose only crime was having stollen a single innocent gram of hash from his grandma's toilet paper cabinet while she was knocked out on an overdose of warm milk. That's right, the whole shit-stained world heard you desperately choking for breath as your polyester disco duds split wide open when you stumbled on that big bad curb. You didn't even have time to wipe that special sauce from your Brimley stache, did you? PATHETIC. Fuck that noise -- Bonnie, if you're out there, grab a clue, pack your make-up bag, don't flush, and leave this so obviously-supreme being to his pompous 2-car garage, eternally unfinished basement and pet-less existence -- be that slutty little lesbian you always wanted to be. At least you'll get to USE those regulation handcuffs instead of just talking about them. And as for you, Mr. Danza -- do us all a favour and stick to desk work. Spineless sexless materialistic FUCK.

Rock on,
KillerQueen

Dear Joker,

Piss off. Get it together -- my hemorrhoids are screaming in jealousy that they're not making me more nauseous than your lame nipple story. Obviously you watch WAY too many episodes of Friends -- no wonder you're such a weenie, psychologically sucking back all those boobie-shirts week after week and knowing damned well that you're never going to score with chicks that babe-a-licious during your entire wretched existence on this shit-happy planet. But apparently your life dangles in my grip (and you don't even want to IMAGINE the repercussions of that statment alone), so I will give you three prime pieces of advice that won't help you, but will make me feel even more superior than I did before I laid eyes on your sucky little plea for help:

1. Go under the knife. If you won't help the world out by getting your vas deferens torched, the least you can do is shave this overly-disgusting and putrid example of Darwinism-gone-wrong off your body. I certainly wouldn't fuck you.

2. Substitute bathing with what British men are REALLY notorious for -- farting. That's right, excellent hygeine practices are definitely not in YOUR books, so you might as well make the best of a fucked-up situation and blow some cuppers on the lads you hang with (you know, the boys you had cum-shot contests with when you were 17?). A few Dutch ovens, a handful of blue-flames and you're laughing. We aren't. And I certainly wouldn't fuck you.

3. Buy some batteries.

The mere thought of laying eyes on your horrid birth defect is lowering my sex drive as we speak. I'll have to find myself a cheap Albino for the afternoon to purge my mind of your insipid little freak show.

Rock on,
KillerQueen