Situation Normal. Atmosphere Breathable. Brainstem Injected. Dialogue Engaged.
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Wednesday, September 07, 2005

Dead Letter Shrapnel - Sid

Good afternoon, heathens and degenerates. (I say that with affection.) As most of you are aware, I've mailed out several letters from dead people in heaven to earthbound souls such as ourselves. You know, as a prank. This one is the 1st I've written from the fiery pits o' hell.

Return Address
Sid Vicious
Hell (9th circle)

Addressee:
****** *******
**** * ******* **
Hoffman Estates, IL *****


Dear ******,

Listen up yeh daft knobby bird. I’m not doin’ this twice. See, I’m deader than the stink off the Queenie’s panties, but I still gotta write some wee cunt still breathing to give her some kinda fookin’ spiritual learnin’. I ‘spose thass you then. What shite. I gotta have dope, see, even down here in the fiery pits o’ hell, so here I am with a fookin’ feather quill writin’ this gob down so ol’ two horns’ll gimme my fix. So fuck him and fuck yez too.

Roit, roit. So what’m I gonna say to yeh? Oh roit, I know. This’ll do. Here goes another steamin’ pile. Eat this up, lassie, and take it to heart.

Why’re yeh listenin’ to them leechin’ bastards done ripped off me sound? Just cuz I wuz a mean shite with a crap attitude and scads of good luck (for a time) don’t mean I’m fair game for every nancy little rich suburban tommyboy with dodgy hair and clean tattoos. Tell them fookers to try disco or maybe some balladry. Nasty mean punk choons like mine should only be played by poor dirty scamps takin the piss outta socialism. Least thass what Johnny always said. He was the smart one. I gotta say he was right. Listenin to johnny-come-latelies like Blink 180-fucking-2 makes me want throw myself from Big Ben an splatter on the walkstones. Songs about girls and parents are weak trite shite. And no self-respecting punk makes a song you can hum along to. Punk’s for screamin, killin, and shitting your leather pants. Thass it.

Do me a favor, love, and go jab them scabby cunts with dirty needles. Needles full of ammonia an dope. Put ‘em down all messylike, for the sake of honesty. You wanna know what punk is? It’s dirt starvin poor. It’s broken glass, it’s fookin riots, it’s a ragged throat scream of rage. It’s givin up, deciding life is load of shite. It’s bout not giving a tin fuck about nuffink.

Tell them namby pamby tinkerbells to fuck off or ol Sid’ll come back and give em a rough ride. I’m a mean bastard with me turkey knoife.

I fookin mean it.

Anarchy an blown speakers, lassie. You unnerstand, doncha?

Sid Vicious
1:30 PM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm

8 Comments:

September 08, 2005 8:02 AM, Blogger Anonysis said...

Good Read. There are so many who need to read this. It would clear things up a lot. Roit? Make me chuckle inside.

 
September 09, 2005 11:43 AM, Blogger clothosfate said...

hahaha... you did that well, I could 'ear it in me 'ead.

Roit on!

 
September 10, 2005 11:25 AM, Blogger The Everglades said...

You've re-coined the phrase "insta-classic" with this one.

Blake

 
September 10, 2005 1:38 PM, Anonymous Anonymous said...

That was a roit good read ya daft scribbler, ya.

-Wino McHackenpuke

 
September 11, 2005 8:35 AM, Blogger Kerouaced said...

Nice. I think a book of these letters is in order...

 
September 11, 2005 11:28 PM, Blogger Chesty said...

So that's where my letter from David berkowitz came from - you really had me skared!

 
September 13, 2005 10:36 AM, Blogger Dave Morris said...

Bloody hell. Good stuff.

 
September 16, 2005 11:19 AM, Blogger Imogene_Pix said...

Nice! Very nice! I'm forever a Pistols fan so this was great!

 

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