Dear Theo:
You dick.
So you don’t want me on your team any more. Fine. I’m totally cool with that. I don’t understand it, especially since your starting rotation is starting to resemble the studio audience of The Lawrence Welk Show. But I’m completely accepting of it.
What I need to know, however, is exactly what I did to piss you guys off so much.
It can’t be the drinking. Because ever since the “Ruth Buzzi” incident, which I’m not at legal right to discuss, I’ve hit nothing stronger than Sierra Mist.
It can’t be the “walking around pantsless at the Lucchino Mansion” episode, because, as the enclosed videotape will show, I was the last attendee to drop trou, some seven hours after Gammons’ naked cannonball from the third floor balcony.
Finally, it certainly can’t be that evening I beat John Henry unconscious with a pimento loaf. As I’ve explained a hundred times, I thought he was a prowler, and my reaction was pure adrenaline; protecting my family at all costs. I will admit the fact that it occured in Henry’s own home certainly weakens my position to a degree, but that’s my story. And I’m sticking to it.
So why don’t you tell me, wonder boy. Why the sudden desire to part with the guy who strapped on a cape and came through like Batman when you needed me most? I’ve gone to war for this team, winning all three clinching games of the single most spectacular postseason ever, and I don’t even get a f–king invite to the holiday party? What up with that?
Don’t make me blow the lid off some of the sordid dealings going on at Yawkey Way, my friend. God forbid I have one too many “Night Trains” and call ‘EEI and start blabbering about “bring a hooker to work day,” “pin the tail on the orphan” and the bizarre Rico Petrocelli cloning experiments.
Not that I would tell anyone about these things. But I could. Think about that tonight as you snuggle up with your Return of the Jedi comforter.
Hoping an emu munches off your balls,
Derek Lowe
PS: Casablanca is really not that cool a movie, dude. Totally predictable. Also, according to amazon.com, Disorderlies sells more copies. Your uncles are the Fat Boys’ bitches. Chew on that, assclown.
