Letters – Vols. 5, 6, 7 and 8

Dear Brad Johnson,

I love you. You rock and I know this is mean-spirited, but I hope Daunte Culpepper doesn’t finish his knee rehab in time for 2006. I hope you understand that even though I think you’re awesome, I still cannot break my rule of putting Vikings players on my fantasy team. Due to past performances, I cannot afford to get burned. I know you understand.

– From The Girl Who Owns 3 of Your Football Jerseys and a Boatload of Your Football Cards, But is Totally Not Obsessed With You

Dear Michael Vick of the Atlanta Falcons,

A guy who runs for more yardage than passing for it is nothing more than a glorified running back, NOT a quarterback. When your first instinct is to immediately take off running, it means you haven’t matured enough to the point to find a secondary receiver when your first option is covered. When you pass for 300+ yards in two consecutive games, maybe then I will stop bitching about you and your lack of passing ability. Also, try getting your passer rating position above #30 before you start talking trash.

Someone Who is Sick of Hearing all of Your Unearned Hype, Dammit

Dear Mark Brunell of the Washington Redskins,

Oh, I’m sorry. I thought that after having your piss-poor 65-yard throwing performance last week, that maybe, if it wasn’t too much trouble, you might be able to do better for me this week. I didn’t realize that after weeks of being a great player, you’re now going to suck. My mistake.

The Person Who is Now in Second Place in her Fantasy Football League and Not Happy About it

Dear Mike Tice,

I have two words for you: flea flicker. This play is the best play in the world, and yet you steadfastly refuse to implement it. Come ON – it’s even fun to say! FLEA FLICKER. If you do not do this on Sunday, I will be forced to write you a scathing letter. With bad words. C’mon, it’s easy: Johnson to Bennett back to Johnson to Williamson. I’m telling you – it’s GOLD!

– Armchair Coach Wannabe

Suicide by play-by-play

My hatred for baseball announcer Joe Buck knows no bounds. I had to physically leave the room last night during the All-Star game because my brain could not stand his incessant prattling. The man would not shut up for even a few seconds, especially when he was mouth-frothingly spewing his inane diatribe about Kenny Rogers’ off-field behavior (that would be Kenny Rogers the pitcher, not the fried chicken entrepreneur).

Hey Joe, I’ve got an idea: why don’t you announce some of the play-by-play action once in awhile? With some spaces of dead air known as “silence” in between? Hmmm? How would that be?

P.S. Hey Monday Night Football: if you want to kill me, assign Joe Buck to do the broadcasts with John Madden. Seriously, that would be great. Then I would no longer fear death, but instead, would WILLINGLY SEEK IT OUT.