Open Letter to Brian Cashman: Jesus needs bodyguards

Dear Madam or Sir,

We need some stinkin' badges!

Fortunately, the bug-eyed, bullet-vested toad-licker gauchos of Venezuela are rabid soccer fans who disdain all sports that require hands, such as that stewpid American pig-game: beisbol. Ariba, ariba! How else can we process the latest news from the land of the eternally-dying-but-never-dead Hugo Chavez and some damn fine coffee?

Washington Nats catcher Wilson Ramos has been kidnapped.

Let's think on this. Let's say you live in the Kidnapping Capital of the World, and you want to bag a ballplayer, hoping to collect enough ransom money to buy a blanket for your burro -- or upgrade to an iPad II. Who would you nap? A  Nat? Or a New York Yank?

Hmmm. Tough one. The saddest, poorest team, or the richest, most successful team? Yes, it's agony trying to decide. Well, the criminal masterminds down there managed to snag the flesh-property of the one team in baseball that doesn't accept collect calls. Yep. They blew it. They'll be lucky to ransom the guy for a shot of tequila and some Spanish fly.

We dodged a bullet.

So, we happen have a young catcher from Venezuela named Jesus Montero. I assume he has 24/7 armored security, with air support? If not, I am prepared to dispatch Alphonso — still wound-licking our quick October exit — to South America immediately, to provide the condomlike protection Jesus will never forget, without serious therapy.

Mr. Cashman: We need motorcycle thugs with Fu-Manchus who celebrate their arrivals into small towns by dragging the mayors through the streets. We need armies of helmeted giants with smartass dwarfs riding papoose on their shoulders. We need Gaddafi's team of Amazon lady wrestlers. We need Telly Savalas and Lee Marvin and Charles Bronson and George Kennedy (and this time, let's not lose Trini Lopez in the parachute drop!) We need to send a message: We have 27 World Championships. Don't mess with Jesus.

SIDENOTE: Do we have anybody guarding Jeet? I've been to Tampa. It's a Satanic hell hole, full of voluptuous meth tramps looking to body-wench their way into the Captain's graces, using their painted talons to tear apart his heart like a hungry trucker biting into a McRib.

Sir, we are under attack. Guard Jesus with all your soul.