Dear Apple

Time for some fresh ideas. I've designed a new advertising strategy, which runs as follows:


Can I have a job that pays millions?

Awaiting your call,
Davis.

Dear World (III)

WHAT THE FUCK WILL WE DO WITHOUT STEVE JOBS OH SHIT IT'S ALL OVER MASS SUICIDE THIS IS ARMAGEDDON


Just so we're clear, I feel compelled to add (for the sake of sanity if nothing else), that the fetishisation and worship of technology - primarily for purely materialistic purposes - will be the true downfall of our 'civilisation'. The deifying of corporate CEOs runs it a close second.

In response to the mass-buying of Apple products in tribute to the late Executive, a spokesperson for the company just issued the following statement: "Thanks for your money at this difficult time. It's what Steve would've wanted."


Also in the news today: BBC announces that 2000 jobs will be cut over the next 6 years; a stranded ship begins leaking oil off the coast of New Zealand; and the number of deaths in Syria incurred in recent pro-democracy protests rises to 2900. PLEASE, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, everyone GET SOME FUCKING PERSPECTIVE before it's too late. PLEASE.

Sorry, Steve - cancer's a bitch and all, but your future dream is a shopping scheme. We owe you nothing. You are not what you own.

iTrulycouldn'tgiveafuck,
Davis.

PS - To you, dearest Facebook and Twitter users: I will personally chin the next one of you who posts an 'inspirational' platitude from any corporate CEO, particularly one such as, say, dead, rich cunt #stevejobs.

Dear R.E.M.

So, that's it, then; the end o' an era. No longer shall we endure the teetering, furtive worry of 'How Will This One Pan Out...?' with each new record, nor the shrieking clamour of flippant, clueless judgement from people who don't know the first fucking thing about the band upon their every release. (Alright, there was a handful of absolute duffers on each of those last three, but let's face it, most musicians would still give their arpeggiating right-hand for songs as well-written as High Speed Train, The Outsiders, Accelerate and Sing For the Submarine).


This could be the saddest dusk I've ever seen, but the time is right, sirs; you leave with your dignity intact, your permed/shaggy/slap heads held high and a solid last album in the bag which neatly summarised the best parts of the last 30 years. Mercifully shorn of ill-informed 'User Comments' bleating on about how you "got rubbish" after New Adventures in Hi-Fi (WRONG), ceased to be relevant after Bill Berry's departure (WRONG) and have simply put out a series of "crap albums" ever since (WRONG), here now is my requiem. You were the only band who I genuinely once sabotaged a legitimate chance at sex for by suggesting that the lady in question and I instead watch the video for Drive (I still maintain that I made the right choice, for both her and myself). You were the only band to make me spontaneously burst into tears at a live gig - not once, but twice. You were, for years, the only band.

You were the final thing earthly thing Kurt Cobain wanted to hear before leaving this world - and wrote Losing My Religion, for fuck's sake. For these two facts alone, immortality should be not just assured, but divinely ordained. I'll skip the part about love; it seems so shallow.

Chronic town, poster torn, reaping wheel; boxcars are pulling out of town. So, farewell then, boys: it's been unforgettable, unbeatable and - above all - indelibly emotional. My hands, tired, my heart aches; I'm half a world away.

Mournful but eternally grateful regards,
Davis.

Dear Justin Bieber

I just wanted to congratulate you on your truly inspired performance in your debut film, Never Say Never. The film was a comedic triumph, a raucous satire in the vein of Bob Roberts and This is Spinal Tap about an undeniably talented but hilariously misguided ego monster-in-waiting's bid to "live his dreams", complete with a supporting cast of sycophants, faintly sinister 'big bro' Svengalis, hand-rubbing moneymen, screaming idiot fans, grown adults who are old enough to know better (outstanding work getting Usher and Ludacris onboard) and fall-down-laughing moments of spontaneous "prayer".

Personally, I can't wait for the sequel, when our eponymous hero's bollocks drop, he takes to masturbating 15-20 times a day in a bid to relieve the frustration of his hermetically-sealed existence, then becomes embroiled in a downward spiral of drugs and alcohol when he realises that the industry is a gigantic sham predicated upon expedient manipulation tactics, ultimately concluding that songs like Baby are nothing less than an embarrassment for someone over the age of 16 to be singing.

- Sorry, what? It's a documentary...?

... Fuck me. (*)

Regards,
Davis.

(*) n.b. Don't actually fuck me.

Dear Mackenzie Hall "specialist debt recovery and trace solution provider" (that's MACKENZIE HALL)

Cheers for your letter which arrived in the post this morning, hankering after some money owed by someone who may (or may not) have lived at my current address in the recent or distant past. I do feel that, before progressing any further, I ought to fully outline my position and say that I don't like debt collection agencies; they are, without exception, scum-sucking, bottom-feeding, leeching cunts. Having dealt with your kind before on several occasions, I consider you nothing less than a nutty, greasy skid-mark on the underpants of humanity. Luckily, you included an email contact and 'Address ID' number so that the recipient is able to contact you and stop further communication if it turns out that they're not the named 'Client' (which I'm not).


Frankly, I was so pleased with my response that I've decided to include it below for the enjoyment of my three readers. Looking forward to your reply, especially given that your company - MACKENZIE HALL - is, according to a cursory scan of Google, renowned for its spectacularly abusive service level, and has been rapped on the knuckles by the OFT for business practises which "fail to meet satisfactory standards" (presumably those governing the basic laws of human decency).

**********************************************************************

Dear Sir/Madam,

I've just received a Reduced Settlement Offer letter for the above-listed address ID, but unfortunately (for you, that is - I can just throw the piece of paper in the bin) the named person, a Mr John-Paul Taggart, no longer lives at this residence. In fact, it's someone I've never heard of, so if you could stop any further communication, as mentioned in the letter, that would be ripper.

I'd love to help you to track down the person in question but, as I say, I've no idea who they are or whether they in fact ever lived at this address - based on his faintly ridiculous name, I'm inclined to think he may actually be a fictional rock'n'roll detective of some kind. Besides, having dealt with companies such as yours in the past, I find it's far more enjoyable to make you do your own legwork when it comes to this sort of thing - personally, I think that if you're going to make money leeching off the misery of others, you should have to work as hard for it as possible. But that's just me.

I did however particularly enjoy the fact that the original creditor, apparently owed £445.39, is prepared to accept a final "reduced settlement" offer of £44.54 - some 10% of the original amount - which simply confirms my suspicion that companies such as yours operate on a principal of bullying and borderline fraud.

Warmest heartfelt regards,
D. McLelland, Esq.

Dear 'Evangelist Reinhard Bonnke', Facebook Ads

- No, cheers, you're alright mate, ta.

Regards,
Davis.

Dear Stiles from 'Teen Wolf'

I wish I was you.

You wore shades to Latin class. You opened your locker and lots of stuff fell out. You MC-ed the greatest keg party in the whole of high school lore, and made sure that no angle was left unworked when it came to merchandising 'The Wolf'. You were the best Hawaiian-shirted friend that a discontented male lead in an 80s teen movie could possibly have, and were responsible for more copycat deaths by van-surfing than any other character in history.


Alas, I know, deep down in my heart, that it can never be. I will never try to purchase beer with such flagrant audacity. I will never wear a blue shirt which simply reads, "Obnoxious". I will never carry off the phrase "WHAT ARE YOU LOOKING AT DICKNOSE" with quite as much aplomb.

But I shall keep trying, Stiles; I shall keep trying. Because I will never, NEVER SAY DIE.

Reverent regards,
Davis.

PS - There's some imposter currently pretending to be you on MTV. Now would be a good time for a lawsuit.