What do you want me to do, Seattle Mariners? Here I have sat, lo, these many months, biding my time and watching as you trot out a sad array of broken men to crouch behind home plate and swing with all the force and accuracy of a CPA at the Six Flags batting cage. I have seen Mike Hargrove scan the bench during another tragedy wrought in the miniature of a Miguel Olivo at-bat, wondering who that studious young man is with his nose stuck in a book. And then I hear the dull thwack of a baseball hitting a mitt, and solace only comes in the form of a bus ticket to Tacoma.

And now I see that you have traded Randy Winn. For shame, Seattle. For shame.

Randy Winn is a bottomless reservoir of talent. Randy Winn is a former All-Star and perennial MVP candidate rivalled only by Shannon Stewart. To trade him to San Francisco for players of this inferior caliber is truly reprehensible. “Yorvit Torrealba” is nothing but an anagram for “VERBAL TIT ARROYO.” This is not a coincidence.

And I am led to believe that Jesse Foppert is pitching with the ulnar collateral ligament of a dead man! What sick experiments are being conducted deep in the bowels of SBC Park? Are the enlarged head and torso of Barry Bonds being grafted onto a set of younger, more flexible legs as we speak? Do the screams of Pedro Gomez echo through the steam tunnels and catacombs at night as he bears witness to the most ghoulish of horrors?

You think you know me, Seattle. You see my .314 career on-base percentage and you have certain expectations. I bet you even expect me to call this “Pay Wiki.” Do you think that I am a simple man? I am not. I am a flower in full bloom. I am a beautiful sonnet writ in flesh by God’s own quill. And during every inning caught by the aged Pat Borders and Dan Wilson, rather than stare glibly out at the luminous grass, I have been enriching myself, through correspondence classes offered by the great University of Pho3nix.

I trust, Mike Hargrove, that you are learned in the works of Barthes and Saussure, and have applied their semiotic theories to the color commentary of analyst Dave Valle. In calling me a “struggling catcher,” an “injury-prone catcher,” a “career minor-leaguer,” and “just a bad baseball player,” he is attempting to create a correlative isological relationship between the lekton and the tinganon that is clearly unsubstantiated by even the simplest ontological analysis of relational linguistics. To attempt to encapsulate the complicated person that is Wiki Gonzalez with such a primitive system of limited signifiers is an affront to the nature of language itself. This I know now.

In addition, I have been studying gender politics in 19th-century czarist Russia, Serbo-Croatian romantic poetry, the philosophy of Carlos Castaneda, introductory Objectivism, something called “Zingalamaduni: The City as a Beehive,” and basic HTML.

Perhaps I will put these skills to use, Mike Hargrove, creating a Web site in which members of the public may create and edit pages expressing their displeasure at my mistreatment at the hands of the cruel Seattle Mariners.

Ayn Rand would surely approve.