Dear Will Ferrell,

I was watching some SNL reruns the other night and, although many of your impersonations and personalities were sub-par (Harry Carey, WTF?!?!), I noticed you have an uncanny talent for playing pompous idiots. I'm sure you're out searching for meaningful roles now that you're out of sketch comedy, but I wouldn't discount trying out for a pompous idiot part. If you're able to get the lead, I'd suggest surrounding yourself with lots of less talented actors playing pompous idiots. If one's funny then more is funnier right!? Hell, maybe even throw in an actual retard! I think it would be best if your foil in the movie is played by a slightly less masculine, in appearance or speech (both would be ideal), pompous idiot. Who knows if you even read fan mail but this is just something I had to put down on paper.

Best of luck,

Matthew Gallagher

Dear Steve Carrell,

I know you're probably busy with the new season of The Office but I noticed a subtlety in your acting style that I thought you might be interested in. This is free advice, so totally take it with a grain of salt, but if this TV thing blows up start acting like a socially inept nice guy in ANY movie you get a role in. This might be a stretch, but if you can bring that combo to the forefront of your performances I know millions of people will pay to see it over, and over, and over again. Type cast schmype cast, I say do what you're good at and if you aren't good just force it down their throat. They typically don't notice.
Keep it real,

Matthew Gallagher

Dear Tim Allen,

Three words, Santa-Fucking-Claus. Or some Christmas shit, I don't know whatever. Since Home Improvement went off the air, and forgive me for being blunt here, you've sort of become washed up. Christmas is a huge time for movies and who wouldn't want to see a Christmas movie AT CHRISTMAS. Trust me on this; this could be your bread and butter for the next 8 to 10 years. Christmas isn't going anywhere, Santa Claus isn't going anywhere.... why shouldn't you be the first genius to capitalize on this infinite well of humor and box office dollars? Sure you may have to wear a fat suit, and the jokes may be low brow (even compared to Tool Time standards) but know that you'll always be able to drown that shame in money, year after year, right around the holidays.

Dear Ben Stiller,

Dude, you are soooo awkward!!! I loved Zoolander but I think the comedy genre is starting to move away from the cliché "idiot character" and shift more towards the awkward slapstick formula. You should have your agent scouting for scripts that involve you being awkward. You should definitely be in awkward situations as well. This type of a role is great because it gives you so many opportunities. You can be awkward with parents, awkward with girlfriends, awkward with ex-girlfriends, awkward with kids, and even awkward with inanimate objects (This is a shot in the dark but what about a movie where you're awkward in a museum?!? Brilliant right?). Anyways I love all your stuff and hope you can appreciate a fan who's looking out for you.

Slapstick, dude, I promise,

Matthew Gallagher

Dear Jimmy Fallon,

Thank you for stopping. I'm glad that you aren't even in supporting roles anymore.

Looking forward to your next cameo on SNL,

Matthew Gallagher

Mitch Warner's new book was hailed by the New York Times as "the definitive modern novel; Warner's tale shatters everything previously held by academia as proper practice in literature." He was seen as the new Mark Twain and Nathaniel Hawthorne, but better. He found immense success both off of sales of his book, television appearances, speaking engagements, book tours, and the odd radio show (mostly NPR). After two years on the road starting in 2004, Warner and his agent decided that it would be best to take his book tour overseas to the UK, where he was rapidly gaining name recognition as the best modern American author.
They set up accommodation at the London Bridge Marriot. They arranged first class tickets on BA flight 2026 out of Houston, Texas right after his final speaking engagement in the States. Everything was set up and seemed perfect, right to the point where Warner got word that a film studio wanted to buy rights to his book in order to turn it into a multi-million dollar film. The nine-digit payoff made it extremely easy for Warner to accept. Everything, as you can see, seemed to be going right, up until Warner landed at London Gatwick.
The immigration agent glanced at his passport and sneered. "Fucking Americans," she said.
Warner didn't know how to respond.
"Suppose you're over here to see the bloody Queen and take some fucking pictures, aren't you? Clog up the fucking streets with your American smugness, aren't you?"
"I'm over here on a book tour, actually," Warner said.
"What's that? I don't speak American." The agent viciously stamped his passport, threw it at Warner, and spat in his face. "Welcome to the UK, you fuck."
Feeling slightly scattered, Warner decided to not speak to anyone or show his passport until absolutely necessary. He got his bags, got on the train to the main terminal, and walked up to the train ticketing booth. "I'd like a ticket to Victoria, please."
The agent cocked his eyebrow. "American?"
"Oh God no," said Warner. "Canadian, eh?"
The agent leaned forward and whispered, "Liar." He issued a ticket, his eyes burning with rage. Warner was never more glad for the safety and comfort of two inches of thick glass between him and another person.
Warner grabbed the ticket from the agent and was about to walk off when the agent stopped him. "Yes?" asked Warner.
"I hope the Cockneys stab you," the agent said. "Next in queue, please."
Warner left the booth feeling even more shaken. He managed to get to the trains without speaking to anyone, though some British people sniffed the air and looked at him in disgust, seemingly smelling the American on him. The train ride was fairly short, about half an hour, and Warner wisely chose a car that was empty save him and one man who was holding a croissant and murmuring to himself in French.

The last time Warner was in Victoria station, he couldn't help but wax philosophical on the amazing center of humanity that presented itself before him. He remarked on the hustle and bustle of both trains, the Underground, and busses just outside, not to mention the obscene amount of commuters who filled the station to the brim. Today, though, Warner saw it as a viper's nest, full of people who, for whatever reason, wanted to do grievous harm to him for absolutely no reason. Warner had heard that Pakistan was the center of anti-American activity, but apparently the media hadn't been to London recently.
He walked to the taxi bank, got in a cab, took a deep breath and said, "Marriot, please."
The driver glanced back in the mirror, appraised Warner, started up the cab and drove off.
London went by all around him, and Warner spent the time appraising areas where he could blend in and not have to say anything. At last, the driver spoke. "What part of Canada are you from?"
"Oh, I'm from Texas," said Warner, his mind lulled into unreadiness. If the cab's screeching halt hadn't flung him from his chair, Warner would have cursed.
"Get the fuck out of my cab before I come back there and fuckin' stab you," said the driver.
Warner happily obliged the man and got out of the cab, stumbling into an alleyway. He immediately regretted it. "Stepped into the wrong alley today, you did, me lad," said a deep, gravely, Cockney accent. "That'll be 20p for a mini-stabbing and a full quid for a full stabbing."
Warner looked at the short but powerful man covered in knife wounds and gulped. "Can I just not get stabbed, please?"
"Sorry mate, that's not on today's menu and-wait, you're American."
Warner gulped again and nodded.
The stabber spat on the ground. "Wouldn't sully me knife with your polluted blood. Get the fuck out of here before I stab ya."
Warner chose to ignore the irony in the man's statement and fled the alley.
He walked about a mile before he happened across Buckingham Palace. Before Warner had the time to think, two red-suited guards leapt in front of him, kicked him to the ground and began questioning him. "What are you doing in London, you Colonial?" asked one of them.
Warner spat out blood and said, "I'm on a book tour!"
"Lies! We know you're here to assassinate the Queen to pave the way for your tyrant to take over! We see through your deception, Yank. To the Tower with him!"
Warner would have protested, but one of the guards hit him in the back of the head with his rifle, knocking him unconscious.

When Warner awoke, he was tied to a pole in the main courtyard of the popular tourist attraction, the Tower of London. Flanking him were the two guards from the Palace and a hooded man made up to look like an executioner. There was a giant, roaring crowd in the courtyard, dressed, for some reason, in medieval peasant garb and screaming for his blood "The prisoner awakes!" yelled the executioner.
"Wha?" Asked Warner before one of the guards hit him in the stomach with his gun.
"The prisoner will only speak when directly addressed!" The guard shouted.
"Prisoner!" shouted the executioner. "Say the word ˜colour!'"
Warner stammered out a weak "Color."
"You did not pronounce it with a ˜u!' Another crime against the Crown! Prisoner, what is the sport called wherein one kicks a black and white ball across a pitch in order to score goals?"
"Soccer," stammered Mitch.
"It is football! Another crime against the Crown! Prisoner, your days are indeed numbered. Prisoner, did you in fact vote for the tyrant king George W. Bush, the man responsible for heinous crimes against the people of Iraq, his own country, the environment, God, and lovers of all things decent?"
Warner barely managed to hold his head up, but somehow he found the strength to say, "Jesus Christ no! I'm a registered Democrat! I've marched against the war in Washington! I've donated to Democratic candidates all over the state of Texas! By no means am I a conservative Christian! I am, in fact, a liberal Jew!"
The crowd stopped screaming in rage and started mumbling.
The guards gulped and looked at each other.
The executioner calmly walked over to the guards, slapped them both in the face, took away their rifles, and knocked them both unconscious. He then walked over to Mitch Warner, famous author and now torture victim, took off his mask to reveal the ticketing agent from Gatwick, and said, "Terribly sorry about all that, mate. We thought you were a Bush man. Look, why don't we head over to The Hung Drawn and Quartered for a pint? It's on me."
Mitch Warner, now a horribly confused torture victim and famous writer, passed out and wouldn't wake up for two days. When he did, though, he found thousands of letters reading variations of "I'm sorry" scattered around his hotel room.