DEAR DEE LEPPARD
We get letters. Boy, do we get letters. Every single day, the poor mailman trudges up the rickety back stairway to our perch bearing seven or eight Glad Heavyweight trashbags full of letters that actually glow from the hatred, venom and teenage lust within.
"Scorching Fire, warlike Angel of heaven/Please come to our bedrooms!" —Lori & Jenny Rm. 7609
RICK JOHNSON
We get letters. Boy, do we get letters. Every single day, the poor mailman trudges up the rickety back stairway to our perch bearing seven or eight Glad Heavyweight trashbags full of letters that actually glow from the hatred, venom and teenage lust within. The mailman calls it "hazardous duty." We call it "work"!
People always ask us who we hire to write these crazy letters. If only! Then we could fire the guy! Daily! But honest injun, cool brutes—we unconditionally guarantee we could never make up stuff this wacky. You should see the ones we can't print!
For well over a year, close to half of the mail has been on the subject of Def Leppard. You know, the half that aren't about the fantasies of freckle-faced little schoolgirls in Indiana concerning perverted acts of gross depravity with assorted members of Duran Duron, their management, roadies, families, pets, and more flexible pieces of furniture.