Dear Randy Johnson,

God damn you. God damn you to your NASCAR God. I hope your Miller High Life ends with you alone and crying into a throw pillow upon which an embroidered Calvin is urinating on a Ford sign.

Here is some advice for you, Randy Johnson. Take a fucking shower. Seriously. Get some soap, pick up some Pert or, if you’re feeling really bold, Pert Plus, walk down the dirt path outside of your trailer to the community shower, and clean that up. Clean it up, Randy Johnson.

Or, wait. Are you a time traveler? Are you from 1983? Did you just finish a wild game of Spy Hunter at the local penny arcade, jump into your DeLorean, and arrive at last night’s game? I bet you barely had time to undo the tight rolls on your stonewashed jeans and straighten out your perm before making your start.

Let me tell YOU something, Randy Johnson. Your ass better not retire until the Cubs have beaten you at LEAST one time. How in the hell can you be 13-0 against any team? The law of averages would suggest that you have to have lost at least one game to the Cubs in your career.

This is my curse to you, Randy Johnson. I demand that you continue to play the game of baseball until you either (i) lose to the Cubs, or (ii) die right out there on the mound. You will be stapled, taped, and sewn together for the rest of your days until you are defeated. And I will be there. And I will laugh. And on that day the earth will open wide and swallow us both whole.

You suck.