Friday, September 12, 2008

To My "Friend"

It's me, Pat. I just wanted to let you know how much I'm going to miss you.

Which is not at all.

I hate you with every fiber of my being. I can't believe that I've had to have such a close association with you for so many years. Back in the Notre Dame days, I thought it would be great to even be in the NBA; if I'd have known you were going to be such a jerk I'd have played volleyball like my mom wanted me to. I'd have even played football over having to deal with you. Touchdown Jesus knows they need the help.

It's not so much that you aren't comfortable, which you aren't. It isn't even that you're way to small for 6-foot-9 guy, which you are. It's that smug look you'd have on your stupid padded face after I'd invariably have to come back to you.

In a way, you're like a crippling drug addiction, without all the fun. I can't stand you but for whatever reason, I kept coming back. For that I hate you.

A lot of retired guys will put a bunch of you around their house. I wouldn't dream of that. I'd rather sit on a mound of broken glass, used needles, and salt.

Get bent. Literally.

Pat Garrity

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