Dear Richard Hammond

Hi there hot stuff. Oh, hi.

After five minutes of consternation, I actually have no idea what to say to you. Without you thinking that I’m not a crazy insane stalker.

So, I’ll leave it at that.

I want to have your babies I’ll go now.
Bye,
Peas.

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Dear Richard Hammond

Thought I’d start over and write you a poem. I’m not good at poetry, but you’re very good at having beautiful teeth.

You’re British,

I think that’s lovely, it makes my groin skittish

You stand next to an Audi with your hand slung in your jeans pocket

My eyeball nearly jumps out of its socket

My libido begins to rocket

My poetry sucks, please don’t knock it

You have dashing white teeth and your hair fluffs up on the side

It’s so cute, it makes me want to be spanked on the hide

And commit sexual genocide

Let’s run drive [in a cool car] away and drink pints together in Dorset

You are well fit

Oh Richard Hammond you make my heart sing

I don’t care if you shortish and if you think I’m a ming….ah.

You even make leather necklaces look hot

And that’s saying a lot

Your funny little sayings get me all giddy

And for you I’ll always try and look priddy

Sometimes I wonder what your underpants look like

Even if they were Y-Fronts I wouldn’t tell you to take a hike

In fact. I’d want you to ride me like a bike. Just do it. Like a Nike.
show me your spike sing to you on a mic.

The End.

Love,
Peas

PS: I won’t charge you the five hundred bucks I charge my other clients to do a personal poetry reading just for you, in private, while naked, if you want.

………………………………………..

Dear Richard Hammond

You rock and I am deeply in lust with you.

Love, Peas
………………………..

Dear Richard Hammond

I am writing on behalf of the AQWV (Association of Questionable Volkswagens), and because of your knowledgeable reputation, I’d like to ask for your comment on how undercarriages just fall off vehicles that are of Germanic disposition and are seemingly sound, if not flawless, in design.

The hydraulic blastic-converter seems to have malfunctioned to the undeniable point whereby the crankshaft is exposed to the compressed oscillation of the gudgeon pin.

The other members of our faculty are just about losing a piston ring, and I myself, the owner of the vehicle, is throwing her poppet valves out of the cot.

I believe you would be able to supply us with a plausible conclusion as to our tachometric problems.

Kind regards,
Peas O’Toast
President

PS: I only wrote this letter as a front and to get your attention. I think you might’ve married the wrong bird, and I think we should both readdress that. Together.

PPS: When you almost died, I almost died.

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Dear Richard Hammond

Hello. I love hamsters.

Just wrote you a sheaf of stalky letters referring to aspects of your body and your beautiful British disposition.

Won’t send them, so just know this: My number one fantasy of you includes a lot of sweaty banging in the bucket seat of a German sportscar, along the country roads of Shropshire.

Look, I also like someone else at the moment – but even so:

If only you could see what I could see.
Kthksbye,
Peas