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Don't play with fire...

Las Vegas, NV

April 4, 2001


To Whichever Cocksucker it May Concern
That Runs The Piece of Prarie Dog Shit
Web Site That is Terribly Happy:


My lawyers said I shouldn't do this. They offered to handle this little "incident" with extreme prejudice. They said they knew some guys who know some guys who could have turned your little keyboard-tapping thumbs into soup spoons.

Lawyers, you see, don't understand my world. They are not made of magic and illusion and puppydog tails.

Did I say puppydog tails?

Forget I said puppydog tails.

Lawyers are NOT among the Chosen. They do not know secrets and lies and the power that I alone wield.

I told them that I would handle this myself. Me. David. David Goddamned Copperfield.

Yeah. That's right. With the mitten hands. You know why they're wrapped up like that? Because I just killed David "Mexican Jailbait" Blaine. With my bare hands. I shoved his face in the fire and now he's ugly and disfigured like that one other magician... Uhhh, Penn Gillette.

You think the ladies are gonna like him now? Not likely. You think the networks are going to give him a primetime special now that he looks like a melted Burnt Umber crayon? Nope, I don't think so either.

You'd better pray I never get my fireproof hands on you.

Did you think I wouldn't see it? Did you think you could just post something on your little shit-stained Web site and I wouldn't know it was out there? I am a master of illusion. I know. Who do you think you're dealing with? Harry Blackstone? NO! And you wanna know why?


And me?

I'm not!

I'm David The Fuck Copperfield! And I don't play dead!

You dare write about me? You have the little brown Mexican balls to steal photos from the Web site that I paid for with hard-earned money, just so little you get your little jollies with your little pedophile chat room friends at my expense?

Do you know what I had to do for that money? See, I think that's the problem here. You don't know how hard it is to be David Copperfield. You don't know how many years I spent playing crappy clubs, pulling scarves out of my ass, blowing guys for money in the...

Did I say "Blowing guys for money?" I meant to say, "Blowing audiences' minds with my illusions."


I worked hard, you little bitch. VERY hard. For too many years for some little jerkoff on his little pussy laptop to belittle my life's work.

But you know what? I was all ready to let all this go. Have your little worthless Internet fun. Sell some ads, I don't care. Make a little money off The David. Sure, why not? I mean this is a big magic gravy train illusion I ride. Why not let some filthy hobos ride along, right?

And then I got this telegram:


I read website with you and crying and call my name. I tell you already, no good with us, i leave for prague and then stuttgart, don't call me. and on website you say 'claudia! no!' and i embarrass. no do this. i tell Rufolo and he get very angry. tell you no more, cannot live with man and small wand in bedroom, no satisfygoodbye.



That's when I lost it. You can mess with me. Hell, I'm used to it. I'm a magician. You think I don't get people on the street asking me to pull some flowers out of my pants when I'm just trying to buy the newspaper? You think my Dad didn't ask me if I was gay every time he saw me perform to music? You think it's easy to squit like this all time?


I was cool with your little hippy grass roots Web site. But then you had to get Claudia involved.

Let me explain something to you. Claudia and I belong together. Claudia and I were created on a mystical plane and then broken apart from the same slab of crystalized amniotic fluid, then placed on opposite ends of the Earth to one day find each other and be in love forever. It's fate. It's not an illusion. It is the ultimate act of magic.

And you just ruined it.

Oh God. My life. It's... over... and...

NO! I have a CBS special to perform! The show. It must... go on. For Claudia.

This whole Web site bullshit (and I can say "bullshit." I'm not on the air yet. Fuckhead.) has been so stressful for me that they had to cart my ass to the hospital. Me! David Copperfield! For "exhaustion!" Exhaustion, my ass! I almost burned my cock off trying to get that stupid fucking tornado of fire to do a Figure 8!

Now everybody thinks I'm snorting blow alongside Brandy, Whitney Houston, Matthew Perry and Martin Lawrence. I called my publicist, Lonny the Fag (that's not his real name. It's a private joke and none of your fucking business why I call him that. Let's just say the words "Lonny" and "blow" and "Matthew Perry" could all be used easily in the same sentence) and ripped him a new asshole. I mean, not that he would notice a thing like that what with his proclivities and...


Forget I said that. The point is, this has been an ordeal for me. You have infringed on my personal life. You have attempted to steal my identity and ruin the reputation I worked so hard to maintain with the rumors section of my popular Web site, (now with great Flash animation!).

You made me feel this small:

Don't even ask me how I'm floating like that. I'm not in the mood.

I want you to know that I'm not going to sue you or try to shut your site down. I'm just going to let you rot in your silly little online world. When (not if, but when) you burn in Hell, I hope that little David Blaines run around on motorbikes spraying you with Super Soakers full of piss and pureed rat shit. That is my sincere wish. In fact, from this day forward, when I get down on my knees and pray to God at 4 a.m., after I've sent whatever hot woman I bedded that night off in a cab, that is what I'll pray: "Please God. send that Omar son of a bitch to a blistery fiery Hell very, very soon and when he gets there, please let that no-talent little bitch David Blaine get replicated a hundred times and each of those replicated David Blaines should be carrying a big Super Soaker 200 full of my piss and many, many gallons of pureed rat shit. And then they spray this Omar prick all over the face and then he has to write about it on his little goofy happyface Web site and post pictures of it. Thank you God for this blessing. Thy will be served. Please bring Claudia back. Amen."

Yeah, that won't be so great for you, will it? Yeah. Illusion that! One last thing. Look at me. Look in my eyes.

Don't ever write about me on your site again. Don't even think about my name. Or I. Will fuck. Your shit. Up.

Got it?

And what kind of name is Omar anyway? Ha ha. That name is stupid. Change it to a real name. Like DAVID COPPERFIELD! That name is golden, baby. Is your last name partly a mineral? No? Loser.

Sincerly , but still pissed off,


P.S. You better not really change your name to DAVID COPPERFIELD or I really will sue your ass.


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