Yesterday, FORMER GENERAL MANAGER OF THE NEW YORK METS Steve Phillips was suspended for a week (HT: Ethan) from the Brett Favre fellatatorium ESPN because he went hogging with a bat-shit-criminally-insane cave troll. In Steve’s defense, he’s always had a thing for people built like mistress Brooke Hundley.

The not-really-shocking-because-Phillips-apparently-fucks-everything-that-can’t-crawl-away-fast-enough revelation yesterday got me thinking. “Is THAT all it takes to get someone off the ESPN baseball broadcast?” Because I care so much about all of you, I decided to do what I could to further help ESPN’s baseball broadcast, and I composed this letter:

Hi Jon Miller,

My name is Kermit. I guess you could say I sort of work in the same field as you and Joe Morgan, in that we don’t often know what we’re talking about, but we refuse to shut up, anyhow. Joe and I got into a pretty heated argument on Sunday about the fact that on-base percentage is an actual, useful tool to gauge the talent of a baseball player. I also brought up the fact that he hasn’t been honest with you about our relationship. You see, I’m the guy he’s been doing broadcasts with for a while now, and I’m not just some random guy who hung out in the parking lot with him during Ryne Sandberg’s Hall of Fame speech. I’m actually a close enough friend to tell him that his suits are WAY too big. I care about him a lot, and I’ve asked him to come clean with you about everything, from when we did our first broadcast together in St. Louis while watching the game on TV in Joe’s hotel suite (isn’t it cute how Joe calls him “Pool-Holes”?) to the fact that we have continued to broadcast together, see each other, and schedule what we call “Thursday Night Baseball” even since you found out. Joe’s upset because I told him I was going to tell you everything, but it’s important that you know this. We text all day when he’s at work and when he’s on the road, we talk via hotel phones, at least when Joe is able to figure out how to use them. The texts have mostly been about whether or not The Big Red Machine could beat the 1998 Yankees in a game of Calvinball. I have some of the texts saved if you want to see them, but be warned that Joe’s contain a LOT of misspellings, and for some reason he thinks “tomorrow” is spelled with three “a”s.

But it’s more than that. Some of the texts and most of the calls are more about our friendship. We talk about his life, like about how flattered he was when someone made up a website completely about him or that time Dave Concepcion and Tony Perez held him down on the locker room floor while Don Gullett farted into his mouth. But he talks to me about serious stuff, too, like that he thinks you look just like Benjamin Franklin when you wear your glasses and that when you over-pronounce the names of Latin players, he thinks you’re just showing off, because you have “a lot more book-learnin’” than he does. That he enjoys broadcasting with me more because I have more of a passion and drive to really do something with my life instead of ending every single one of my sentences with a question mark or an exclamation point.

I’m not telling you all of this to hurt you in any way, but simply to show you that I am a real person in his life and that I care deeply about his happiness. I was raised in Chicago, so Joe assumes that I’m either a gangster or worked in the stockyards, but I do know something about job loyalty, and I know ESPN discourages you from breaking up broadcast teams. But I also know ESPN respects two things: (1) bone-crunching football highlights set to Nickelback songs and (2) that broadcasters should have the opportunity to be with whomever makes them happy and can give them what they need. Right now, Joe needs a partner who’s not afraid to tell him that he has hot dog bun crumbs in his mustache and that the “IBB” on my scorecard doesn’t stand for “I’d bang Bench.” I’m coming out now because I’m sick of hiding and sneaking around behind your back. After I brought up our next planned time to do Game Three of the World Series in the back parking lot of the Hardee’s in Fort Wayne, Joe told me that maybe we should should just talk there and lay low for a while so you and Chris Berman won’t find out about me. It was then I realized that Joe hasn’t even begun to tell you the truth. I may be a Cubs fan, but I’m not stupid, and I hope you can understand we never wanted you to find out about us this way. I want you to meet me and I want to tell you anything you want to know. My cell number is XXX-XXX-XXXX. Check the phone records. You can see I’m not lying. And to top it off, Joe has a big birthmark on his crotch right above his penis and one on his left inner thigh, so you know I’m not being fake. Long story short, I saw the marks when we painted our balls with Reds logos and took turns teabagging Oscar Gamble. Whether Joe chooses to stay in a humorless, chemistry-lacking, factually-inaccurate broadcast out of loyalty to his network or whether he moves on and is with someone whom he says makes him feel like less of a “dumb-dumb head” than he’s ever felt, that’s up to him, but at least everything’s now out in the open.

Respectfully,
Bad Kermit