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