I ain’t in the business of giving love to anyone but Mrs. Tracy and the occasional hussy, Hee Sop, so you can cut that shit out right now. What I am in the business of is winning baseball games, pounding Budweiser and maybe yanking off if I get a chance. I don’t have time for panty-ass bullshit, and I don’t have time for you to rattle off numbers like you’re the goddamned IRS. You are a Los Angeles Dodger because you’re a ballplayer, and the best ballplayers wouldn’t open their mouth if there were 80 pounds of shit in it.

I appreciate the desire you’re showing by fighting for more at bats. I can respect that sort of thing. I played two years for the Cubs back before you knew what rice was, and I had to bust some kneecaps to get my ass off the pines and make something of myself. But the one thing I never did — never — was cross my manager. If Joey Amalfitano or Preston Gomez ever heard my candy-ass bitch once, I would’ve been shipped to Beijing faster than you can count. Sure I was pissed and sure I wanted to scream some days when I wanted to show what I was made of, but I wasn’t the manager. They were.

You’ve got talent, kid, there ain’t no denying that. And we’ve been plum fucking tickled to have you in Dodger blue. But this sort of horseshit tests my wherewithal and seriously saps my charisma to the bone. So enjoy your time in the bigs kid, pound down them Budweisers and shut the fuck up.

Sincerely,
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