jojo

I wrote Jojo a letter before she was even born. Now she's a big girl with her own personality, and she even knows how to play hide and seek with me on skype. Ask me how crazy I am about this little girl? Absolutely crazy.

the $233.95 spider

"This is a hysterical email exchange by David Thorne and someone he owes money to. The spider is now for sale on ebay. It was originally used in a payment attempt for a bill, but was sadly refused." [via]



From: Jane Gilles
Date: Wednesday 8 Oct 2008 12.19pm
To: David Thorne
Subject: Overdue account

Dear David,
Our records indicate that your account is overdue by the amount of $233.95. If you have already made this payment please contact us within the next 7 days to confirm payment has been applied to your account and is no longer outstanding.

Yours sincerely, Jane Gilles

+++++


From: David Thorne
Date: Wednesday 8 Oct 2008 12.37pm
To: Jane Gilles
Subject: Re: Overdue account

Dear Jane,
I do not have any money so am sending you this drawing I did of a spider instead.
I value the drawing at $233.95 so trust that this settles the matter.

Regards, David.











+++++

From: Jane Gilles
Date: Thursday 9 Oct 2008 10.07am
To: David Thorne
Subject: Overdue account

Dear David,
Thankyou for contacting us. Unfortunately we are unable to accept drawings as payment and your account remains in arrears of $233.95. Please contact us within the next 7 days to confirm payment has been applied to your account and is no longer outstanding.

Yours sincerely, Jane Gilles

+++++


From: David Thorne
Date: Thursday 9 Oct 2008 10.32am
To: Jane Gilles
Subject: Re: Overdue account

Dear Jane,
Can I have my drawing of a spider back then please.

Regards, David.

+++++


From: Jane Gilles
Date: Thursday 9 Oct 2008 11.42am
To: David Thorne
Subject: Re: Re: Overdue account

Dear David,
You emailed the drawing to me. Do you want me to email it back to you?

Yours sincerely, Jane Gilles

+++++


From: David Thorne
Date: Thursday 9 Oct 2008 11.56am
To: Jane Gilles
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Overdue account

Dear Jane,

Yes please.

Regards, David.

+++++


From: Jane Gilles
Date: Thursday 9 Oct 2008 12.14pm
To: David Thorne
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Overdue account

Attached










+++++


From: David Thorne
Date: Friday 10 Oct 2008 09.22am
To: Jane Gilles
Subject: Whose spider is that?

Dear Jane,
Are you sure this drawing of a spider is the one I sent you? This spider only has seven legs and I do not feel I would have made such an elementary mistake when I drew it.

Regards, David.

+++++


From: Jane Gilles
Date: Friday 10 Oct 2008 11.03am
To: David Thorne
Subject: Re: Whose spider is that?

Dear David,
Yes it is the same drawing. I copied and pasted it from the email you sent me on the 8th.
David your account is still overdue by the amount of $233.95.
Please make this payment as soon as possible.

Yours sincerely, Jane Gilles

+++++


From: David Thorne
Date: Friday 10 Oct 2008 11.05am
To: Jane Gilles
Subject: Automated Out of Office Response

Thankyou for contacting me.
I am currently away on leave, traveling through time and will be returning last week.

Regards, David.

+++++


From: David Thorne
Date: Friday 10 Oct 2008 11.08am
To: Jane Gilles
Subject: Re: Re: Whose spider is that?

Hello, I am back and have read through your emails and accept that despite missing a leg, that drawing of a spider may indeed be the one I sent you. I realise with hindsight that it is possible you rejected the drawing of a spider due to this obvious limb ommission but did not point it out in an effort to avoid hurting my feelings. As such, I am sending you a revised drawing with the correct number of legs as full payment for any amount outstanding. I trust this will bring the matter to a conclusion.

Regards, David.











+++++


From: Jane Gilles
Date: Monday 13 Oct 2008 2.51pm
To: David Thorne
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Whose spider is that?

Dear David,
As I have stated, we do not accept drawings in lei of money for accounts outstanding.
We accept cheque, bank cheque, money order or cash. Please make a payment this week to avoid incurring any additional fees.

Yours sincerely, Jane Gilles

+++++


From: David Thorne
Date: Monday 13 Oct 2008 3.17pm
To: Jane Gilles
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Whose spider is that?

I understand and will definitely make a payment this week if I remember. As you have not accepted my second drawing as payment, please return the drawing to me as soon as possible. It was silly of me to assume I could provide you with something of completely no value whatsoever, waste your time and then attach such a large amount to it.

Regards, David.

+++++


From: Jane Gilles
Date: Tuesday 14 Oct 2008 11.18am
To: David Thorne
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Whose spider is that?

Attached

virgin: a passenger complaint letter

Here we reproduce a complaint letter sent to Sir Richard Branson, which is currently being emailed globally and is considered by many to be the world's funniest passenger complaint letter. [via]

"Dear Mr Branson

REF: Mumbai to Heathrow 7th December 2008

I love the Virgin brand, I really do which is why I continue to use it despite a series of unfortunate incidents over the last few years. This latest incident takes the biscuit.

Ironically, by the end of the flight I would have gladly paid over a thousand rupees for a single biscuit following the culinary journey of hell I was subjected to at thehands of your corporation.

Look at this Richard. Just look at it:

I imagine the same questions are racing through your brilliant mind as were racing through mine on that fateful day. What is this? Why have I been given it? What have I done to deserve this? And, which one is the starter, which one is the desert?

You don’t get to a position like yours Richard with anything less than a generous sprinkling of observational power so I KNOW you will have spotted the tomato next to the two yellow shafts of sponge on the left. Yes, it’s next to the sponge shaft without the green paste. That’s got to be the clue hasn’t it. No sane person would serve a desert with a tomato would they. Well answer me this Richard, what sort of animal would serve a desert with peas in:

I know it looks like a baaji but it’s in custard Richard, custard. It must be the pudding. Well you’ll be fascinated to hear that it wasn't custard. It was a sour gel with a clear oil on top. It’s only redeeming feature was that it managed to be so alien to my palette that it took away the taste of the curry emanating from our miscellaneous central cuboid of beige matter. Perhaps the meal on the left might be the desert after all.

Anyway, this is all irrelevant at the moment. I was raised strictly but neatly by my parents and if they knew I had started desert before the main course, a sponge shaft would be the least of my worries. So lets peel back the tin-foil on the main dish and see what’s on offer.

I’ll try and explain how this felt. Imagine being a twelve year old boy Richard. Now imagine it’s Christmas morning and you’re sat their with your final present to open. It’s a big one, and you know what it is. It’s that Goodmans stereo you picked out the catalogue and wrote to Santa about.

Only you open the present and it’s not in there. It’s your hamster Richard. It’s your hamster in the box and it’s not breathing. That’s how I felt when I peeled back the foil and saw this:

Now I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking it’s more of that Baaji custard. I admit I thought the same too, but no. It’s mustard Richard. MUSTARD. More mustard than any man could consume in a month. On the left we have a piece of broccoli and some peppers in a brown glue-like oil and on the right the chef had prepared some mashed potato. The potato masher had obviously broken and so it was decided the next best thing would be to pass the potatoes through the digestive tract of a bird.

Once it was regurgitated it was clearly then blended and mixed with a bit of mustard. Everybody likes a bit of mustard Richard.

By now I was actually starting to feel a little hypoglycaemic. I needed a sugar hit. Luckily there was a small cookie provided. It had caught my eye earlier due to it’s baffling presentation:

It appears to be in an evidence bag from the scene of a crime. A CRIME AGAINST BLOODY COOKING. Either that or some sort of back-street underground cookie, purchased off a gun-toting maniac high on his own supply of yeast. You certainly wouldn’t want to be caught carrying one of these through customs. Imagine biting into a piece of brass Richard. That would be softer on the teeth than the specimen above.

I was exhausted. All I wanted to do was relax but obviously I had to sit with that mess in front of me for half an hour. I swear the sponge shafts moved at one point.

Once cleared, I decided to relax with a bit of your world-famous onboard entertainment. I switched it on:

I apologise for the quality of the photo, it’s just it was incredibly hard to capture Boris Johnson’s face through the flickering white lines running up and down the screen. Perhaps it would be better on another channel:

Is that Ray Liotta? A question I found myself asking over and over again throughout the gruelling half-hour I attempted to watch the film like this. After that I switched off. I’d had enough. I was the hungriest I’d been in my adult life and I had a splitting headache from squinting at a crackling screen.

My only option was to simply stare at the seat in front and wait for either food, or sleep. Neither came for an incredibly long time. But when it did it surpassed my wildest expectations:

Yes! It’s another crime-scene cookie. Only this time you dunk it in the white stuff.

Richard…. What is that white stuff? It looked like it was going to be yoghurt. It finally dawned on me what it was after staring at it. It was a mixture between the Baaji custard and the Mustard sauce. It reminded me of my first week at university. I had overheard that you could make a drink by mixing vodka and refreshers. I lied to my new friends and told them I’d done it loads of times. When I attempted to make the drink in a big bowl it formed a cheese Richard, a cheese. That cheese looked a lot like your baaji-mustard.

So that was that Richard. I didn’t eat a bloody thing. My only question is: How can you live like this? I can’t imagine what dinner round your house is like, it must be like something out of a nature documentary.

As I said at the start I love your brand, I really do. It’s just a shame such a simple thing could bring it crashing to it’s knees and begging for sustenance.

Yours Sincererly

XXXX"


* Paul Charles, Virgin’s Director of Corporate Communications, confirmed that Sir Richard Branson had telephoned the author of the letter and had thanked him for his “constructive if tongue-in-cheek” email. Mr Charles said that Virgin was sorry the passenger had not liked the in-flight meals which he said was “award-winning food which is very popular on our Indian routes.”

Post-Traumatic Postcards

"Dear M.

I can’t wait until you’re married so I can tell you I love you, and not worry you’ll take it the wrong way. It’s a shame being a grownup is so complex we can’t be kind to one another without fearing the repercussions.

xo, L."


++++++++++


Apologizing for the mistakes you’ve made isn’t easy, unless you limit yourself to a paragraph. . [link]

feeding my obsession with the prison subject

"In the late '90s, pop-culture historian Bill Geerhart had a little too much time on his hands and a surfeit of stamps. So, for his own entertainment, the then-unemployed thirtysomething launched a letter-writing campaign to some of the most powerful and infamous figures in the country, posing as a curious 10-year-old named Billy. (...)

As it turns out, no group hates to disappoint a child more than convicted killers, all of whom responded promptly to Billy's questions about dropping out of school. Their letters range from criminally insane to downright sensible, offering snapshots of the personalities behind some of America's most hideous crimes. Recently, Radar asked Billy to follow up with his mentors as a college student."


Read all the letters here.

[Via]

another stolen post

Have a happy period

This is an actual letter from an Austin woman sent to American company Proctor and Gamble regarding their feminine products. She really gets rolling after the first paragraph. It's PC Magazine's 2007 editors' choice for best webmail-award-winning letter.

Dear Mr. Thatcher,

I have been a loyal user of your 'Always' maxi pads for over 20 years and I appreciate many of their features. Why, without the LeakGuard Core or Dri-Weave absorbency, I'd probably never go horseback riding or salsa dancing, and I'd certainly steer clear of running up and down the beach in tight, white shorts. But my favorite feature has to be your revolutionary Flexi-Wings. Kudos on being the only company smart enough to realize how crucial it is that maxi pads be aerodynamic. I can't tell you how safe and secure I feel each month knowing there's a little F-16 in my pants.

Have you ever had a menstrual period, Mr. Thatcher? I'm guessing you haven't. Well, my time of the month is starting right now. As I type, I can already feel hormonal forces violently surging through my body. Just a few minutes from now, my body will adjust and I'll be transformed into what my husband likes to call 'an inbred hillbilly with knife skills.' Isn't the human body amazing?

As Brand Manager in the Feminine-Hygiene Division, you've no doubt seen quite a bit of research on what exactly happens during your customer's monthly visits from 'Aunt Flo'. Therefore, you must know about the bloating, puffiness, and cramping we endure, and about our intense mood swings, crying jags, and out-of-control behavior. You surely realize it's a tough time for most women.

The point is, sir, you of all people must realize that America is just crawling with homicidal maniacs in Capri pants... Which brings me to the reason for my letter. Last month, while in the throes of cramping so painful I wanted to reach inside my body and yank out my uterus, I opened an Always maxi-pad, and there, printed on the adhesive backing, were these words: 'Have a Happy Period.'

Are you ------ kidding me? What I mean is, does any part of your tiny middle-manager brain really think happiness - actual smiling, laughing happiness, is possible during a menstrual period? Did anything mentioned above sound the least bit pleasurable? Well, did it, James? FYI, unless you're some kind of sick S&M freak, there will never be anything 'happy' about a day in which you have to jack yourself up on Motrin and Kahlua and lock yourself in your house just so you don't march down to the local Walgreen's armed with a hunting rifle and a sketchy plan to end your life in a blaze of glory.

For the love of God, pull your head out, man! If you have to slap a moronic message on a maxi pad, wouldn't it make more sense to say something that's actually pertinent, like 'Put down the Hammer' or 'Vehicular Manslaughter is Wrong',

Sir, please inform your Accounting Department that, effective immediately, there will be an $8 drop in monthly profits, for I have chosen to take my maxi-pad business elsewhere. And though I will certainly miss your Flex-Wings, I will not for one minute miss your brand of condescending bullshit. And that's a promise I will keep. Always. . .

Best,
Wendi Aarons
Austin , TX"

stolen from her.

Dear bad mood,

You have been horrible those past two days.
Because of you, I wish I could turn into stone anybody who addresses me, or even look slightly in my direction.

I fucking hate you. Go away soon.

Sincerely,

Me

++++++++++++

Dear Lexapro,

You know I love you, but you have done more for me in the past. I might be worng, but I feel like you're just not doing as much for me now as you've done before. You have been stronger, and you've had my back in worse times.

Would you please just kick in already? I need an extra push.

Love,

Me

A letter to Jojo

Dear Jordin,

I’ve been meaning to write you this letter for a long, long time, ever since your mom found out you were growing inside of her belly. I’ve waited until now, her 38th week of pregnancy because every time I attempted to write something addressing you I couldn’t stop crying. Specially about a month or so ago, when I found out I wasn’t going to be there to see you being born.

Anyway, here I am. Nice to meet you – I’m your auntie Carol.

I live in Brazil now, I just moved back home. I met your mom almost six years ago. She was so young she couldn’t even buy a pack of cigarettes. I couldn’t even buy beer. I know, I know, I shouldn’t be talking about cigarettes in a letter to a newborn, but I would like to introduce you to an idea you’ll probably be used to by the time you learn how to write your own name: I’ll probably be the one grown-up talking about subjects and saying things around you that no one else will. Not because they don’t like you, or because they don’t want you to learn, but because your auntie right here has got very little sense. I embarrass your mom very often.

So back to the cigarettes – don’t smoke, those things are bad for you and they’ll make your teeth look really yellow as if your mom’s boobs were producing coffee. Just don’t do it. And if you drink, do it moderately and save yourself some trouble. SO - when I met your mom, she was the most quiet, most fish-out-of-the-bowl person in the room. It just so happens that I was growing into a social butterfly, and I started making conversation. I took her to a party with me where she met some crazy Russian friends I had, then she spent the night at my apartment and she’s been my sister ever since. That's it in a nutshell.


You know, Jojo, you’ll meet tons of people in this life as you get older, and you’ll become close to a lot of them, but from most you’ll end up growing apart. Sometimes because of age difference, others because of geography, or maybe for things you won’t be able to explain… believe me, life will give you plenty of reasons to leave people behind. But very few of them - maybe one or two - will become your insides. And to those, Jojo, you should hold on. That's what your mother is to me.

This person will know you inside out. She will know if you are mad, or sad, or tired, or hungry, all of those things just by looking at you. This person will laugh with you, even cry with you if she has to. Your mom and I have done both a lot. Mostly laugh, and sometimes for no reason at all. You’ll laugh at jokes that no one else will understand, and those are usually the funniest ones. Your mom and I have plenty of those. We have also cried, and those times only brought us closer.

When we found out she was pregnant, I have to be honest – I wished you were a boy. You know, we girls get to an age where we become annoying and we usually start worrying too much about what we wear, about what we look like, and we may become spoiled and next thing you know, that little girl who was the cutest thing on the face of the planet becomes a monster dressed in very skimpy clothes.

But you, as you started growing in your mom’s belly, you actually started growing on me. I know that being your mom’s daughter will automatically give you an edge and I’ll end up adoring you. Your mother is truly like no other, Jojo. She’s one of the most inspiring women I have ever met, and she has so much to share with you. She’ll teach you about being different from everybody else - you will never blend in, because your mom is not that type. She’s Akira. She’s smart, she’s wise beyond her years, she has a desire to learn from the smallest things that I have never seen before. She’s also kind, sometimes too kind. I often tell her she gives people too many chances, but the thing is, after saying what I have to say – and I say a lot! – I always end up learning from her.

The day she found out you were a girl, I went out to my favorite store, Target (you should go, they are great and affordable; save your money to travel and to live life) and bought you a basket full of clothes and baby things. Not one thing in that basked was pink. I wanted to buy you blue things, and yellow things, and green things, because I knew if there was one person in the world who would appreciate that, that would be your mom. Then the baby shower came and people showered her with pink stuff, as one would expect, but I know that when she sees you with your tiny colorful onesies, she will be laughing inside thinking of the days we talked about how we know you won’t be the average girl. I know you will be different; you will be outstanding like her.


I’m sorry I won’t be there to see you the day you decide your mom’s womb is too small for you. One of the saddest days of my life was the day I had to see your mom walking out of my apartment crying, with that big old belly, after saying goodbye to me, knowing that I wouldn’t be able to feel you move in there like you always do. Your mom and I would sit on the couch for hours in a row waiting for you to move around. She would poke her belly to wake you up and that always freaked me out. The first day I actually felt you move against the wall of her belly, you scared the bejesus out of me. I had never felt a baby kick like that. But then I got used to it, and I started learning how to find you in her belly, and I would try to figure out if that was your elbow, or you knee, or your head.

Now the next time I’m there, I’ll actually be able to see you and pick you up, without the membranes and months that were between us. I’ll probably make weird noises and faces just to see you smile, and I know I shouldn’t do that, after all I am the auntie who goes against the grain. But I won’t resist, so please forgive me in advance. With time, I’ll get to know you, you’ll get to know me, and maybe your mom will let you spend some time in Brazil and you’ll learn Portuguese. I want to offer you the world, Jojo. Know that I’m always here for you, whenever you need. Whether you're five, twenty five or fifty. After all, you are the first little girl I learned to love even before I met you. You already have with you a BIG part of me.

Love,

You auntie Carol

another open letter

"An Open Letter to My First Five Girlfriends
June 16, 2004

Dear Holly, Kathy, Kelly, Nicole, and the other Kelly,

Look, I'll come straight to the point. I'm sorry I didn't know where the clitoris was, or, more to the point, where your clitorises were. I was a horrible wreck of dry humping, fingering teen lust who pinned you to couches and carpets and danced all around your deserving buttons of love without so much as grazing them, without even inquiring as to the location of your hidden high-school treasure, without even thinking that you might not be liking the way I was swizzling my hand around in your nether regions.

You were patient with me. You let me slip you the tongue in the field behind the shopping center. You allowed me to reach second base in the bathroom at Phil's party—you remember, the one where we drank all that peach schnapps and watched The Wall on Phil's mom's big-screen TV. Heck, you sat still in the back of Scott Parsons' sweet-ass Honda Prelude while I rooted around in your shorts like a frat boy working a couch for spare change.

While I'm at it, I'm also sorry for letting Brandon smell my fingers. That was immature and uncool, and even though you never found out, I feel badly about it. Really, I do.

To be honest, you should be pissed at my dad. We never "had the talk." I had no diagrams to work from, no explanation of the intricate workings of the little man who steers the canoe. Everything I knew about sex was gleaned from Cinemax's presentation of Emmanuelle in Bangkok and this old Betamax porno Bobby stole from his dad. I watched the latter one three times. Other than making me uncomfortable to be around my dentist, it didn't help.

I asked my father why he never clarified the finer points of clitoral massage with me way back then, but he just said that wasn't really part of polite conversation and he'd prefer not to discuss it. So I asked him if he knew where Mom's clitoris was and he hung up on me. I took that as a no.

Anyway, sorry about that. I'd have done you right if I'd had any idea what we were both missing.

Warmly,
Emlyn Lewis
Boston, MA"


Other open letters to people or entities who are unlikely to respond - here.

open letter

An Open Letter to a Guy I Work With Who Always Comes Into My Office To Tell Me He Sent Me An Email Right After He Sends Me an Email.

by Jason

Monday, November 5, 2007

Dear Louis,

You’re a very nice man and I do enjoy working with you. The fact that you own a donkey and a rooster makes me laugh. I don’t know many people who own a donkey and a rooster who don’t also live on a farm. You’re sincere and there is not a whit of vitriol in your body. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you mad. Often you share your lunch with me when you can’t finish it.

That’s why this is difficult for me.

Every time you come into my office I already know what you’re going to tell me. You’re going to tell me that you sent me an e-mail. And usually, just about the time you’re walking into my office, the boingy sound that I set up to alert me that I have received an e-mail is boinging. Or it boings right while you’re standing there. Then we say the same things: You say, “I just wanted to let you know I sent you an e-mail!” I say, “Yup, just got it.” And then you say, “Great, thanks! Just wanted to let you know!”

I know you’re a bit older and not technically inclined. I know you still use words like “facsimile” and “teleconference.” But here’s the thing with e-mail. When you send me one, I get it. That’s the whole point of it. Really. It’s why they invented it. So you can send me stuff electronically, and I can get it.

I want you to know I dream of killing your donkey.

Sincerely,
Jason"

via Your Daily Awesome

A Love Letter to Ann Coulter

This is fabulous. And she's the devil. Crazy bony-ass-man-looking bitch.

Here's the transcript:

"Dear Ann:

You used to be fun; at least funny. At least gently and amusingly insane, but girlfriend, you’ve changed! The thousand-yard stare you’ve acquired in the last couple of years says lonely nights, too much wine and insecurity about the future of your career. Where to now, my sweet fascist? Another one of your silly books? More hilarious appearances on Hannity & Colmes? Bill Maher has to be tired of you by now.

You’re anything but stupid and by now , you must see the writing on the wall. You’ll never have a real place with the Beltway in crowd, as they see you as a northeastern, hickoid, pro wrestler, Nascar type with a degree from Cornell. I mean, really, Ann; where can it go from here? Ann, I think I have the answer, in fact, I know I do.

I want to hire you, Ann. I want you to come and work for me. I want you to be my “Ann Friday,” my housekeeper, beekeeper, floor, chimney and minesweeper, my window-washing, grocery-buying, dinner-cooking, obsequious, submissive concubine-domestic.

You will laugh at my jokes, celebrate my victories and lament my failures. You will praise my friends and vow great harm upon all who oppose me. You will treat me like a god, a guru, a mentor – and the best night in the sack you’ve ever had. You will carry my bags, wash my cars, walk my dogs and turn your savings over to me. You will massage Susan Sarandon’s aching shoulders, whip up vegan delights for Hanoi Jane Fonda, and loofah Barbra Streisand’s stretch marks.

But most of all, Ann, you will just shut the fuck up.

I can offer you a life of obedient servitude on my compound; in your time with me, you will learn much. You will learn that America is made up of people from all races, walks of life and sexual orientation and that it’s all OK. You will learn to be patient and kind. You will learn the meaning of the word “respect” and memorize every line of Caddyshack. You will listen to The Ramones, Black Sabbath and the Brides of Funkenstein. You’re a figure of fun and I plan on having fun with that figure. You will learn who your daddy is, that’s for sure.

But mostly, Ann, you will just the fuck up.

Come on, Anne, ya fuckin’ psycho; let’s do this!

Henry"