Dear Jessica Alba’s Agent:

We’re of the opinion your W-2 should be public record. It would be nice to put a number to your annual income when we’re discussing what a massive overpaid waste of space you are.

The Love Guru sucks ass AND bombed. Of course it did. A movie trailer with that much hockey pretty much guarantees a flick is going to be unwatchable, and that’s before you even factor in a washed up Mike Myers sporting a sack full of fart jokes.

Here’s our question: What exactly would you say you do?

History tells us reading scripts and providing input on what douchebags knock up your clients are not part of your job description. Your only duty — as far as we can gather — is cashing checks generated from the “Well, it looks fucking terrible, but I’ll sit through it because Alba’s in it” phenomenon.

We’re just fed the fuck up with your lack of effort. Sure, we could throw a dart at a pack of street performers and pick one that could out act Alba, but that’s not the point, is it? The point is she’s a renowned piece of ass and it can’t be that difficult to slip her in a decent flick here or there.

You’re telling us you couldn’t get her an audition for one of the three big superhero flicks this summer? You let penis deflators like Gwyneth Paltrow, Liv Tyler, and Maggie Gyllenhaal beat her out? What do the chicks in those movies have to do anyway? Look frightened like 95% of the time? You couldn’t just tell her you were working on her doing another flick with Dane Cook prior to every scene?

You have to understand, we want to see Jessica in movies. We really do. It’s just we refuse to see any of the following:

• Movies entitled The Love Guru.
• B horror movies about evil organs with a mind of their own.
• Movies about Hayden Christensen trying to act while in a coma.
• Movies with Dane Cook in the credits.
• Movies with crappy looking stone superheros.
• Movies where half the scenes contain a shirtless Paul Walker.
• Movies about hip hop dancing co-starring Missy ‘Misdemeanor’ Elliot.

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Dear Whoever Stole My Laptop,

Not cool. And you suck.

Not only have you deprived me of my computer, but you’ve also deprived NextRound readers of the two or three semi-clever things I thought to myself over the last couple of days. You’ve also done irreparable damage to the financial condition of several adult websites who depend on the copious amount of pageviews I provide to pay their bills.

I imagine you didn’t consider the ripple effect that would take place when you decided to permanently borrow my laptop bag, but the injured parties are numerous and growing.

I hope you can sleep at night. But if you can’t, I’ve got the first two seasons of “Always Sunny in Philadelphia” on my hard drive and they will totally pass the time.

Regards,

Maske

Dear Mr. Ferrell,

We write this letter with your–and our–best interests in mind.

Go away for awhile. Please. Go the fuck away. Disa-fucking-pear. Pull your best Tom Beringer. You’re rich. Buy some remote island. Go house sit in Mexico for the Girls Gone Wild dude. He’s not going anywhere. You have kids, right? Spend some time with them. Do some nameless charity work. Check yourself into rehab. Take up chainsaw art. Just do anything that gets you off our TV and out of our theaters.

“Semi-Pro” bombed on a weekend where it had no major sporting event to compete with. There’s a reason for that. It’s the same reason George Costanza invented the “Leave ‘Em Wanting More” doctrine. Overexposure is an executioner, especially to people in your business. That’s why you have to go away. That’s why you have to disappear right now. In order to salvage your career. So we remember you the way we should. If you don’t you are guaranteed to cross over the “Ben Stiller Threshold”, where audiences will be so tired of you and your played out routine you’ll be done for.

It may already be too late. The “Semi-Pro” promotions were so sweeping and ludicrous you may have already sealed your fate. Bud Light commercials, Old Spice Commercials, your face plastered all over the NBA All-Star game, the swimsuit spread in SI, a horse game with Bill Walton? Geezus, we’re pretty sure the condoms we didn’t buy at the convenience store the other day were even endorsed by Jackie Moon.

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