A random letter received and printed by Wired Magazine:
A letter for publication. Please let me know promptly if there is some sort of problem publishing this in your next issue. I'm old, unwell, and won't be around forever.
Dear Editor,
Today I received an electric mail from "Erection Problems" telling me that I had the apparently unique chance to make my "squib" a "real space rocket" and raise me up to "the seventh sky of sexual satisfaction."
WHAT THE HELL?!
Of all the impertinent things to offer a man.
We can put an alleged man on an alleged moon, but we can't seem to protect ordinary, law-abiding chaps from great big stinking servings of crass opportunism and depraved filth whilst they try to eat their mid-morning muffin.
Who is responsible for this, and can they be punished immediately? Please advise.
Yours sincerely,
Oscar Brittle
Killara, Australia
Before I proclaimed him my new hero, I thought I’d better check Oscar out a bit. Google tellls me that he doesn’t really exist, but is actually the creation of a three guys (see http://www.unswpress.com.au/isbn/9781742230115.htm) who launched a letter-writing campaign under Oscar’s name. That may actually make me like him more.