(nice pants you fuckwits)

Dear bobpuller (the metaphor, not the person),

Your misery consumes me, Twain. I am finding it exceedingly difficult to enjoy the White Sox promising beginning to the 2012 season. Inevitably as I look through box scores and standings my eye always drifts to the Twain and it has become arduous to regard anything else through the refracted light of my tears of joy.

At last, Twain fans finally have a team they deserve. Twaindom has been so humble in their successes, over the past eight or so odd years, that now with your organization firmly implanted at rock bottom, that contemptible even keel nature of yours will serve you well while coping with such ample and abundant failure.

Imagine my surprise that only two years after christening your abominable den of horrors, the wheels have proverbially fallen off the HO scale track. Both of your princes of darkness have fell victim to ailments, your magical moustachioed gentleman is nothing but a fraud, your ace's no-hitter was as empty as it could possibly have gotten and little Nick Punto won a fucking World Series with your sister franchise in the National League. How does that feel Twain? Your patented elbow-grease contributed to another franchise standing at the top of mountain and here you stand, in your BVD's--at the base of Olympus, with nothing but freckles in your hands.

I see you have a new crop of canker-ridden pests forcing their way onto the Major League roster. Patriotic names like Revere and French names like Plouffe but it matters little because they will not cause the same trepidation as the like of Lew Ford, Brendan Harris or Danny 'fucking' Gladden.

I would argue that the sole purpose of your organization's existence was to act as a counterbalance and a pestilence to Ozzie Guillen and in turn White Sox fans everywhere. Well, I'm here to tell your cordially diplomatic fanbase that the fun is over. Guillen is gone and so are the piranhas. You have once again taken your rightful place in the pantheon of major league baseball afterthoughts. If only the Twain had worked a playoff series victory into that decade long contract with Satan, perhaps you could have experienced a modicum of real emotion.

The future looks bright and anything can happen…you tell yourselves. It's all because you are the Twain and you will never understand how life really works outside of your frozen tundra hell hole but I am here to tell you…nice guys always finish last.

Best Regards,

Rhubarb

P.S. Suck it natetheskate.

P.P.S. Inferstructure!

P.P.P.S. It is NEVER too late for contraction.