Tuesday, 20 September 2011

Glenda Jackson mail 2: the Sequel

Well, Glenda Jackson didn't reply to my last e-mail about the mushroom, which hurt me deeply, so I decided, in my infinite wisdom (and spare time) to write another one, asking for information. This e-mail is as follows:

Dear Ms Jackson and whomever else may read this,

Many months ago I wrote to you regarding a problem which me and a number of my fellow Hampstead-dwellers have faced recently; the disappearance of the large red fake mushroom from opposite the Spaniard's Inn. I originally sent an electronic-mail detailing the problem and trying to highlight the trauma felt by those who passed it everyday and have sorrowfully noticed its loss, such as myself, who live in this constituency, and was told to send another e-mail with my postcode to prove that I lived within this glorious constituency. Yet since then no information has been forth-coming, leading me to seriously consider moving away to somewhere new, a land where my MP will care about the everyday plight of the common man who are under his or her care, a land of the free, a land of love. 

Yet, being practically Hampstead born and raised (except for the born bit and quite a lot of the raised bit) I have felt some reluctance at moving away, and thus have decided to give you, my MP, who cruelly left be feeling betrayed and abandoned earlier, one more opportunity to show that you DO care for us plebs who have given our lives and our souls to you in dedication (though, of course, in a completely non-Satanic and non-pagan way, damn those heretics!). Besides, there's always a possibility that you didn't receive my distress letter, which, though showing a certain incompetency in the system, is forgiveable. 

THUS, I would like to request some information under the Freedom of Information Act, which i presume that one such as yourself is aware of, otherwise this would be a situation requiring the introduction of a certain acquaintance of mine known as the awkward turtle. The information I request is as following: 

-What is the MP of Hampstead and Kilburn's stance towards the idea of National Service?

-Should a situation arrive in which King Arthur and his many knights return to England and the land of the living from Avalon, as Geoffrey of Monmouth prophecied, would the MP of Hampstead and Kilburn vote towards remaining with the current system of government or accepting him as our leader once more?

-Are there an designs in place in the constituency of Hampstead and Kilburn to ensure the safety of its residents from a possible invasion by Mole-people from underground?

I would appreciate if the information could be returned to me in electronic mail  to the address REDACTED, BITCH

My address is REDACTED, BITCH, and my name will be at the bottom of this electronic mail, you know, so there's a sort of build-up to the climax, and you'll be eagerly awaiting it.

Not there yet.

Yours flamboyantly, yet rather elegantly,

Not yet either,

Christopher Shapiro

So, bitch legally has to reply withint 20 days with the information I requested, which is jolly-well fun. Unless she believes that to find out all that information and send it to me it'll cost over 400 pounds, but that's just silly, and we don't do silliness. 

Tuesday, 17 May 2011

Another sarky letter

Well, for ages I've been receiving letters from Foxtons asking me to sell my house, and I decided that, as I have received multiple letters over multiple years, to not reply would just be rude. But then I realised, I could be even ruder if I DID reply. And thus this abomination was born:

Dear Mr Rafter,
I'm writing to you about your recent letter to me asking me to sell my property on REDACTED, BITCH. It is one of a plethora which I have been receiving for over 2 years now, and I have finally decided to respond to these letters, as I was raised by my parents to reply to all letters sent my way. I apologise for the fact that I didn't write to you before, but I merely assumed that the letter was a one-off, then a two-off, and so on, and that there was little urgency for my property to be sold to provide for these poor people looking for places to live. Yet I have a dilemna, as much as I hate to see other people dissatisfied, I do not feel that I am in a position to sell this property to them.
I realise that I sound cruel, but I cannot sell my property. Not to you, and not to your "Corporate tenants urgently seeking properties". The reason for this is twofold. Firstly, the property I live in is rented by a landlord, the identity of which is most assuredly not me. I'm sure you've been so desperately eager to house your poor, starving company, that you've neglected to check who actually owns the property, rather than the tenants, and for this I forgive you, as your humanitarianism has clearly been the cause of this oversight. Instead, I commend your altruism, and wish more people were so blindly eager to serve others with such zealous abandon, as you are.
The second reason that I cannot sell you this property is one which I'm sure was also overlooked by you and your staff, and thus is completely forgiveable. Though you may smack your palm to your forehead and think of yourself as a massive fool or a complete bletherskate for not realising this, do not, for clearly you are driven by pure humanitarianism, and are not merely some corrupt, money-grabbing parasite. This small, almost inconsequential fact, is that I am currently 17, and thus not in a position to legally own ANY property in the United Kingdom (or Northern Ireland). Despite the fact that you've been sending these letters to me since I was 15, when I was still unable to even buy myself a pint and a meal, the first I passed off as a clerical error, the fact that I continuously have been receiving letters from you shows that your blind devotion to the greater good of humanity clearly hid this fact from you, as you were over-keen to help others. However, I heartily inform you that you have been getting closer, as my 18th birthday happens to fall upon the 28th of this month of May. Your choice of whether or not to send me a gift is optional.
There is one more matter which I would like to talk to you about, and that is addressing letters to me and my sister, as you occasionally do, under the assumption that we are married. Though my sister is a beautiful and charming young lady, I find that she is not my type, as I prefer my women to be slightly taller, darker of complexion, not possessing the same face as I do and genetically unrelated to me. Yes, I realise that I appear rather picky, but I am much more lenient on the first two points, as women of all complexions and heights can be attractive. 
Thus, to summarise this e-mail; I cannot sell my house because I am a tenant and a minor, and I shy away from incest. I am terribly sorry if any of this news has upset you or inconvenienced you, but I do hope that you can find this company a home, yet if you cannot, I would recommend putting it up for adoption, and would only resort to euthanasia as a last resort, as even the mangiest and unloved of companies deserves the sacred gift of live. Again, I apologise for not informing you of these facts earlier, and do not at all blame you for not checking your facts, as you clearly were so single-mindedly determined upon helping others and not merely looking for a commission like certain ladies of the night scrounging about for a spot of benzoylmethylcgonine in its freebase form.

Yours apologetically, 
Christopher Shapiro.

Do note, that the freebase form of benzoylmethylcgonine is crack cocaine. I will inform you kiddies if he replies. 

Tuesday, 26 April 2011


When one's creative juices are flowing like the stormy seas being poured forth from the cup of the Gods over the lands, I believe one should write. Or type. Or somehow release these magical energies into a neanderthal's left boxing glove. No, not his good pair, the slightly small ones made of sabre-tooth fur.

 Okay, now that we've got all that sensical tedium out of the way, let's talk about what really matters in society today. Puns. Puns are fun, that's why they rhyme. Don't even ask why Reich and bike rhyme, that way doth Madness lie. So unless you like their hits such as "Baggy Trousers" "House of Fun" and "It Must be Love", then i definitely wouldn't recommend it. If you do, well can you ask them why dyke also rhymes with that? And I mean the canals, not the lesbians.

Anyway, who do you think coined the term "dike" for lesbians? Let's look it up. No, wait, even better, and much more logical and rationally, let's guess. Maybe it's because in the Netherlands all the lesbians congregate to the dykes for lesbian activities such as golf and scissoring, so they were called, in Dutch "Dikengathereren". When the English and American peeps came over to Dutch-land to fight the power of love, they shortened this word to "dike", and thus the term was born. You're welcome.

Now, let's return to the original topic of this post: Jesus. Jesus is a great man. He fought bravely for what he believed he should fight for. Ahh, yes, Jesus, aka AAron Aguilera, a wrestler who during his time in the WWE made up 'Los Conquistadores' with Uno. Didn't expect that shit of a knowledge bomb, did ya?

Okayokayokay, this time, something actually substantial. Let's go for silly similes. Or silliles. Not to be confused with the Sill Isles, just off the Window Peninsula or the Sillilillies, a particularly foolish plant. Wordplay is fun. As is other stuff that rhymes with it, such as birdplay, curdplay, Kyrgplay and the much under-appreciated Microsoft Zune. I kid, nobody likes the zune. I don't even know what it looks like/is. Seriously.

You may have noticed that at the beginning of each paragraph i mention something, but by the second sentence i get distracted. Let me tell you why. When a man and another man love each other very much but not in a way where they want to put various things in each other, they usually eventually end up buying a small Chilean man together, cruelly naming him Jorge (no, Jorge!). Now, like a giant wood in summer with a couple of tits perched on it, this is slightly dirty. Except the simile was much dirtier. Especially considering that birds rarely bathe, and when they do it's in those little bird-bath things filled with rain water and other bird's shit.

Okay, enough for now, I'm not sure if anyone will read all this random shit. But my creative juices are flowing, all around my mouth and starting to drip down my chin. Now I have to do that thing where you kind of wipe it away with your wrist, but you're holding the juicy fruit in that hand and fencing against a young Singaporean Rapscallion armed with a fine Toledo blade with the other.

Don't do drugs, kids. And don't do kids. Young goats have enough on their plates.

Monday, 4 April 2011

I'm bored, so i wrote a song!

...about Gordon Brown. Actually I just changed a few of the lyrics to Golden Brown.

Gordon Brown, texture like snow,
Always sad- for all that he knows.
During the day,
laugh though he may
Always a frown with Gordon Brown.

Everytime, just like the last,
Troll like face shows his scars past,
outside he's hard,
like Charizard.
Always a frown, with Gordon Brown

Gordon Brown, quite a temptress,
Though he failed to charm Nick Clegg.
So did he go
on the morrow
Always a frown, with Gordon Brown

Always a frown, with Gordon Brown
Always a frown, with Gordon Brown
Always a frown, with Gordon Brown
Always a frown, with Gordon Brown

And there you have it. A song about Gordon Brown. With a pokemon reference.

I miss him. Sometimes at night I think about him and just hug my pillow tighter that much tighter....

ANYWAY, I enjoyed doing that, so I'll probably end up doing another parody thing with someone else. Maybe even the G Meister himself again, you never know. 

Tuesday, 29 March 2011

SUCCESS! (partially)

That's right, my letter to Glenda Jackson has received recognition! Admittedly not from her yet, but from her office. Something about Parliament anyway. Well, here's the reply:

Dear Mr Shapiro,

Thank you for contacting Glenda Jackson. Unfortunately, we do not have a record of your postal address. We request this for two reasons. Firstly, to confirm that you are indeed Glenda's constituent as Parliamentary protocol prevents us acting on behalf of a non-constituent. Secondly, when we contact another agency or Department with an enquiry, they usually respond in writing and we would like to pass their response on to you.

Given that your email indicated a high level of personal distress, I suggest you contact http://www.britmycolsoc.org.uk/Who may be able to give you mushroom related advice.

Best Wishes,

Mrs Rebecca HenneyParliamentary Assistant to Glenda Jackson MP
T: 020 7219 4008
M: 07507 864 873
F: 020 7219 2112

Good, eh? However, as you may have noticed if you clicked on her link, it led to a website about real mushrooms, which, as we all know, are infinitely less cool. Here's my reply, it's short and boring, but I'm hoping it'll get the job done.
I live in [CENSORED, I LIVE HERE, DON'T YOU INTERNET RAPISTS BE FOLLOWING ME. THAT'S RIGHT, I'M LOOKING AT YOU] . And I'd like to clarify that the mushroom in question whose disappearance I am outraged at was in fact a plastic mushroom, not a biological one. Thank you very much for your time.Chris Shapiro

So we now just play the waiting game... again...

Also note that I tried to be polite and not go way over the top, because I want my suggestion taken seriously. Just because it's jokes.

Saturday, 26 March 2011

Abusing Democracy

Well, I realised that this weekend I had a slew of homework to do, I though I should write a letter of complaint to my local on a matter which has affected me deeply. Here is the letter I sent:

Dear Ms Jackson,
I am a concerned member of the Hampstead and Kilburn society, who has recently been outraged by a travesty that has occurred in the area. This cruel abomination has wreaked untold havoc upon my life, and a journey which I make twice a day has become a painful odyssey, though for me it used to be a calming and relaxing part of my day. As a result of this horror I have felt much more stressed out and depressed than I ever used to! I know I am not the only person to be affected by this loathsome offence, as I have discussed the matter with many people who have also had their minds torn asunder due to the severity of this inhumane atrocity. I would rather live under a Napoleonic dictatorship than be part of a society which allows such a sordid and vile thing! I believe such an act should be punishable in the same way that disregarding the Geneva Convention is, and that the perpetrator of the crime should be forced to recompense all those affected by his reprehensible offence!
I think you know exactly what I'm talking about. Yes, the red mushroom which previously stood on the wall opposite the Spaniard's Inn just before the phone box has been removed! I am sure that this isn't the only letter you will receive about this, as I am well aware that the Spaniard's Road is used by a plethora of people on their daily journeys, who used to enjoy their routines but now must make Herculean efforts to repeat it daily. This hellish torment must end, and I must regrettably inform you that if this travesty is not addressed, I would be unable to bring myself to vote for you again. I feel as though I am suddenly being interrogated by some sort of Spanish Inquisition, and as I did not expect this, it is doubly troubling. 
I believe that this vile act of vandalism must be repaired! Though I accept that to rebuild such a monument will surely take time, if it is not replaced by September, I will be forced to move out of the constituency, and maybe even the borough itself. I do not mean to place such a burden upon your shoulders, one which even Atlas would be unable to carry, but it is these weighty issues which you, as an upstanding and proud member of the community, has chosen to tackle, and I commend you for it! 
Many thanks, Chris
 Yeah, so I'll tell you all how that goes. Apparently she's legally obliged to reply to me, which makes it all the more fun. And apologies to Dan for not including him in this, I thought it would just take too long, and we do need this subject to be addressed as soon as possible. This took precedence over coursework. Plus I can do this without being a hypocrite because democracy is stupid and too romantic a political notion to work properly, like communism, but much, much, much, much, much, much, much, much, much, much, much, much, much, much, much less stupid. Because everything is.

Sunday, 20 March 2011

Literally pure filler

Well, since I haven't done a blog post for almost a month and am currently so hungover that I'm trying to book a flight to the Dignitas clinic in Switzerland [EDTIOR'S NOTE: not to be confused with whatever abomination this is] (don't know why I linked either of those), I thought I should do one before the full month. In a humble gesture towards Matty, Ben and Dan, who've all done stupid blog posts, I'm going to do a combination of them all, and write about one of my days last summer, in a really sarky tone, which is completely fictional and has undertones which imply that I'm a disturbed psychopath. Not that you get generally normal and fine psycopaths. Hmm, that could open itself up to a massive tangent... but it won't.

SO, last summer I went to...um... the unforgettable...Canada (it's the middle way between Poland and America), and loads of DEAD BABIES WHICH I SEE EVERYWHERE kept implying to me that they wanted to know what happened (obviously they were implying it, I'm not just a massive cock who thinks that jokes are all subtle implications of something. A cigar is never a cigar either). So I decided, completely originally and not at all in a way which piggybacks off of an age-old idea, to write about my best and worst day, because since I left nursery school (for strangling the hampsters) I've missed doing stupid redundant exercises about my holidays.

Well I say it's my worst day, it's still a day which I will cherish, because it's helped form me in a way which isn't overused by everyone and so incredibly cheesy that lactose-intolerant people can't even be near. So, I'd been staying with a friend I met on this online forum for a few days, and I was meant to head on to a far-removed shack in the woods owned by another friend I'd met online, though I met this friend here. Anyway, so in the morning I woke up needing the toilet, so I had to make my way to the outhouse, carefully avoiding all the dead squirrels we had tortured and left to die in the garden the night before(as you do), and as I was doing this, I tripped on an amputated squirrel arm, and fell straight into the mud! But it was really great and I got in touch with nature, so I was not at all annoyed.

Anyway, after I left the house, on my way to get the bus, I passed a really close friend of mine I'd had chats with on this internet forum, and I decided to run away from him to avoid an awkward conversation, because I'm like that. Luckily, he's in a wheelchair, so I was soon able to escape him, but I realised that in the process of running, I'd become lost. I checked my phone for GPS, but being a massive idiot, I'd let it run out of battery! Let me stress how much of an idiot I was here. I was in a foreign country where I didn't really know anyone well, except from the internet, and I'd forgotten to do this basic single thing which would have made my life SO much easier. Wow. So. Fucking. Dumb.

So, I kept on asking people where the bus stop was, but people didn't seem like they knew, they'd avoid looking into my eyes and would mumble "sorry, I don't know" as I wandered around, dead half-eaten (by me) camel-baby slung across my shoulder. So I started walking around, but I couldn't find it myself! Eventually a homeless person, who later introduced himself to me as Crack-pipe Rick, stopped me as I was following the helpfully placed signs which said "bus stop" and indicated a direction, and told me that the government were lying to us with those signs, and not to trust them. To me, I assumed that his explanation was probably more logical and likely than the idea that I couldn't follow a simple fucking arrow system. Anyway, he told me to follow him to the bus stop, so I did, because that isn't how at least 90% of missing people are found dead in a river. We got to the stop, with a brief detour as he stole all my money and raped me-which I have to admit, I enjoyed- but as the last bus had already gone, I decided the best and most logical thing to do here was to tie myself down to the bus stop and sleep. However someone unzipped one of my bags and just took all the stuff out of it, and unfortunately for my later pleasure, it was my camera which he stole, full of pictures from the squirrel re-enactment of the Spanish Inquisition from the previous night.

I didn't sleep well because i kept on rolling onto my bag, and the cat which I kept in there to vent my frustrations, sexual or violent, on kept on miaowing really loudly. Eventually a bus came, which I promptly got on, which was swell. I was planning on catching up on my beauty sleep on this bus, as I was well tired from running away from my crippled compadre, but there were loads of interesting people on the bus who I spoke to. I met a black man who helpfully told me all about the break mechanism and all the terrible scenarios that would play out if they failed, an asian woman who told me she was an aspiring actress before offering me a handjob for twenty dollars or head for fifty, and a group of drug addicts who were going to knife a businessman for money for their next hit. IT WAS SO AWESOME.

Anyway, when I got off the bus my friend called me [ED: please don't complain about continuity here] and told me I couldn't stay in his cabin tonight, which was a weird call, because I heard a woman in the background screaming "Help me! Please! Don't kill me! What are you going to do with that knife?" So I wistfully smiled and said sure, I'd join him tomorrow, and went around looking for somewhere to stay. As I was short of cash, I decided to whore myself out as a nice, healthy 17 year-old boy. I tried 3 or 4 people, but they all asked me how old I was and if I knew that prostitution, especially child prostitution, was illegal, upon which point I promptly ran away. What dicks. Eventually though I got a client, and I just slept over at his house.

I was going to do my good day after this, but I'm such a massive dick that I won't, I'll just do it later. Now I have to go pluck all the feathers from a sparrow which got caught in my trap, then throw it in water to see how its birdsong changes.