Open Letter to the Little Girl Who Was Crying after Arod's Home Run

Buck up, Spanky. Your daddy's rich and your mama's good lookin.

But it's gonna get worse.

Your heroes, the Angels... we're gonna make 'em our bitches.

No matter how much you love them, no matter how closely you follow them, no matter what you do in life, we're gonna make 'em our bitches.

Look... kid... it's not so bad. We know.


When you were three, they made us their bitches. That's how it works.


Don't get crazy. They'll disappoint you anyway. They all do, eventually.

Years from now, you recognize one of them in an elevator, and he'll pick his nose. Or worse, he'll grab your butt. Maybe he'll spout crazy politics. Or beat his wife. If you're lucky, they'll merely get made our bitches this week.

You're wondering, "Why should I bother to cheer?" You're right. There's no answer. But here's the deal, sweetheart: We have no choice. None of us. It's in our DNA. It's in our programming. Our grandparents drank the Kool-Aid, installed the buttons, and the rest was nature.

In the end, we'll get ours. Maybe not this year, but eventually, we will be somebody's bitches.

Maybe it'll be the Angels.


That day, write us an open letter.


Postscript: IF ANY OF YOU PEOPLE HAVE A MIND TO SHOW THIS BLOG ENTRY TO THAT LITTLE GIRL, WE WILL SEND ALPHONSO TO YOUR DOOR, AND HE WILL PULL OUT YOUR BRAINS WITH AN ICE CREAM SCOOP. THINK ABOUT IT. DO YOU WANT TO SEE THIS ON YOUR FRONT PORCH?