Open Letter to Mr. Cliff Lee: You blew it

Dear Madam or Sir,

So, is the little lady still crabbing about the Harry Trumanesque vocabulary of Yankee fans? Reason I ask... I gotta believe Philly is no "Girls' Club Day at JC Penneys" on the day after its human centipede baseball team just crapped away another season. Nope. I bet you're hearing vintage verbiage, as Sarah Palin would say.

Hell, I'll throw a few words at you myself, pudboy, nutbeaver, darningdick.  Or how about this: You and Halladay will be the Newt Gingrich and Herman Cain baseball, which is to say you'll eat a lot of rubber chicken and sign autographs at a lot of airport Ramadas, but you'll never have to wonder whether to sell your World Series ring for a new liver, because you won't have one (the ring, I mean). And it's all because you figured Phily was a faster and simpler ride -- if not a PG-rated one -- to Red October.

Well, turtleteat, if you have signed with us last year, instead of going rogue, we both would have escaped the first round - baseball's version of Afghanistan: "the graveyard of empires." You would have pitched game two, and if necessary, you would have been out there for game five, and we would have won. You'd still be pitching. We'd still be playing. Win-win. The only person who would be whining would be your wife, because some cab driver was doing Dice Clay.

Well, what's done is done. No complaints at this end. Misery loves company, they say. We're all sitting in the bleachers now, with the Redsock and the Ray fans. Enjoy the games. Just wear earplugs.