Dear Barry Bonds

Dear Barry Bonds,

I heard and saw your picnic table press conference today and I was moved. I was moved right to the bathroom so I could avoid crapping my pants. You and your antics make me sick. Real sick, like “what do you mean you’re not supposed to drink the water in Mexico” sick. You’re “tired” and it’s the media’s fault? You have to be kidding me. First of all, it’s not the media’s fault, it’s your fault. It’s all your fault. While you may not break the HR record, you will always, in my heart of hearts, hold the record for biggest dick head in ALL of sports. Had Hitler played wide receiver for the Bears, you might be in second place but he didn’t. He was far too short and no quarterback would want to throw to a guy with that ridiculous mustache. Second, I refuse to accept the notion that you’re tired. Tired from what? Being intentionally walked as a career. Oooooooh. Tell you what, I just took my garbage can down my 90ft driveway. In an hour, I’ll go get it. Do the math Barry, well have some other guy do the math for you while you blame the media that math is too hard, that’s 360ft and I was dragging a garbage can. Where the hell is my 18 million a year. We both did the same amount of work and I can pass a drug test right now if I had to. You want to know what tired is? Try working for a living and making just enough to get by. I make less money in a year than you inject in your ass every day, but you don’t see me sitting at a picnic table crying about how the media is making my family tired.
Maybe I am being too hard on you. While you may be one of the greatest ballplayers of all time, you are probably the dumbest. Perhaps ‘roids shrinks your brain as well as your nuts. I fancy myself a bright dude, so let me help you figure things out. First of all, everybody knows you’re on the juice. I know it, all six of your wives know it, your son knows it, and my son knows it. Just admit it and take the responsibility for it (by that I don’t mean blame somebody else). Second, don’t blame the media for the fact that you have trouble rehabbing your knee. Blame the steroids and the fact that you’re 40 and a bitch. Roger Clemens is still nasty at 42 because he is not a bitch. Nolan Ryan was nasty until 46, also not a bitch. Get the picture here. While you may look like a big tough guy with a huge head, you’re still that skinny prick from the Pirates that used to steal 40 bases a year. When I look at you all I see is a big pussy walking around with a frozen Starbucks coffee drink and one of those stupid little Paris Hilton dogs. So my advice to you, and this is coming from a guy whose left shoe is slightly brighter than you are, is simple. Hang ‘em up. Go bother the ever living shit out of your family and leave me alone. The sports world is a better place without you. I would rather watch highlights of the WNBA than see your juiced up mug all over my TV. Enjoy some time with your family because if the Balco trial goes my way, you’ll be getting locked up soon. Just wait till you’re in pinstripes and you meet your new cell mates. You may be big, but they’re way bigger in the slammer. Bigger, meaner, and horny as hell. You think you tired know, just wait until old T-Bone gets done “intentionally walking you”.
In closing Mr. Bonds, I hope you never play baseball again, I hope your nuts fall off, your knee blows up, and you wind up in the slammer.

You’re a fucking joke,