An Open Letter to Model Keeley Hazell
Dear Miss Hazell,
You don't know me, but I have hope that this missive will soon change all that. You see, I have admired you greatly, from afar, for several entire days now, and have determined that you are the most attractive woman on the planet.
This is indisputable, for several concrete reasons, which I will now enumerate.
1. You are British.
2. You have enormous breasts.
3. You are British and have enormous breasts.
Also, I think your eyes and smile might be nice, if memory serves. I'm definitely going to look into that ASAP.
The reason I have taken it upon myself to write you, however, is not for the sake of mere flattery. No, Miss Hazell, it is to inform you that I, yes, I, MW himself, am your perfect lover.
If you have any reason to dispute this (which I can't imagine that you would but I'll continue for the sake of decorum), I will now refer you back to various comments you made in an interview that I heard while researching you via internet videos that I totally did not download just to gawk at your huge breasts. In it, you said "Page Three" as "Page Free" and it was totally cute. I now quote:
That's so strange! Neither have I! See, already, we have so much in common. It's like we went to high school together or something! Hey, do you like ice cream? I like ice cream too! What are the chances?!?!
God, it's like the stars lined up just for us, because, get this, Miss Hazell: we haven't met yet. The story of this romance was written by fate, my dear. And it wants us to probably make out and take showers together all the time, even when we should be at work. I can see it now.
My darling, this is just getting ridiculous. Ask any of the people I've paid to say so and they'll tell you that my nickname is college was Mr. Right. Seriously. It was because I'm right-handed, and also because of my pseudo-fascist political views.
People often tell me I have a personality! It's as if our genitals were made to fit one another, don't you think?
Miss Hazell, I think you've said the most important thing there is to say here. I mean, you're reading the letter of a bloke (see, I know British, too) who has a blog on CRACKED.com. The CRACKED.com.
If that isn't proof enough for you, here's a glimpse of the type of sparkling and witty conversation that you'll get between sessions of my sticking my face in your chest and pretending to be a motorboat:
(NOTE: This is a real snippet of conversation between me and a friend of mine from last week.)
A FRIEND OF MINE: So, I'm listening to that song by The Toadies, the one that has the part that goes, "DO you wanna DIE???" You know that song?
MW: Toadie-ly!
That shit came right off the top of my head. No preparation. My potential for spontaneous humor is limitless, Miss Hazell. As is my potential for satisfying your every carnal need.
Miss Hazell, I assure you, I am hideous. As proof, here is an entirely unaltered photo of me, taken about a year ago.
Rest assured, fair beauty, this is of me on a particularly good day. That eye can swell up to far greater sizes than even that, sometimes overtaking the entire left side of my face.
Prepare to be blown away, my dearest. I wear shoes.
I am certain now that I have wooed you completely, Miss Hazell. I await your immediate reply.
Your greatest admirer,
MW
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