Alex Rodriguez's 600th home run was endlessly pimped by ESPN, YES, and the collected New York tabloids, to the point that the Yankees' taut anticipation of this historic event was posited by the fretful NY press corps as the source of the team's struggles. (You know, those struggles where they lose two games to the Blue Jays in the midst of another playoff-bound season. We should all struggle so much.)

When he finally connected for this historic dinger, the Yankee Stadium crowd gave him a standing ovation, something he rarely receives, even in The Bronx. But in the rest of the sports world, the event was greeted with either yawns or "enough already"s. Why is that? It is, after all, an historic accomplishment, one only attained by six other humans. No batter will reach this lofty goal again for a while, unless JI- JIM THOME can hang around long enough to hit the mark.

Is it the Steroids Issue? Yes, Rodriguez used them at some point in his career, and he is often taunted with screams of A-Roid (among other variations on his nickname). But I honestly think that, while PED hysteria reigns in newspapers and on talk radio, most fans don't give two doots about them. While the ethics of taking steroids are debatable, anyone who roots for a team has rooted for someone (knowingly or not) who used them. If it's a crime, we're all complicit. Those A-ROID! screams stem more from a desire to make fun of him than actual outrage.

Therein lies the reason for the apathy: Nobody cares about A-Rod's 600th homer because nobody likes him. Last week, Ken Tremendous encapsulated it in one amazing tweet: "'Alex Rodriguez is my favorite baseball player of all time!' said nobody."

I find this alternatively hilarious and tragic. Alex Rodriguez is one of the best to ever play the game. We may never see a better all-around player. He'll break a ton of offensive records before he retires, and he will undoubtedly make it to Cooperstown.

And yet, every step of his career he has been overlooked or reviled for one reason or another. Many of these reasons are unfair. He was hated for his enormous contract when he signed with the Rangers, as if any human being would have turned down the money he was offered. He was hated for his "failures" in the postseason, even though other Yankees failed just as badly or worse. He was hated for not displaying the Jetery Jeterness of his beloved teammate, even though he's a far superior player.

But there is one other negative about Rodriguez that, while also unfair, is still true: he's a Giant Douche. It's unfair because it's beyond his ability to change. But it's true because, c'mon, just look at the guy. If you saw a picture of him and knew nothing about him, you'd still proclaim, "There stands a douche."

He's certainly not the first Giant Douche to play baseball. Joe DiMaggio was apparently a miserable human being. Ted Williams was such a douche that even the slavish sports press of his day made it public knowledge. More recently, we have examples like A.J. Pierzynski, Shane Victorino, and Jonathan Papelbon, all world-class douches.

There are many kinds of douches. Most are the brash, un-self-conscious type. Or they're the exact opposite, blissfully unaware of the damage they cause, like a douchey bull in a china shop. The one characteristic they share is not caring about how they're perceived by the public at large, either because they don't realize it or don't care.

Rodriguez is a very different, very special type of douche, perhaps the only one of his kind. He gives off a distinctive douche aura immediately obvious to all who see him. And yet, he is so intent on proving himself not a douche that he actually makes himself appear even more douchey in the process. He wants to be loved, which should be a good quality in a person. But somehow, when filtered through the Alex Rodriguez Machine, this desire comes out twisted.

We all know the very public instances of his douchiness. But here is a story about Mr. Rodriguez that I feel illustrates it perfectly. I have to say I did not witness this story as it happened, but I know the people involved and can vouch for their truthiness.

This incident occurred at an office where I used to work on the Upper West Side. A-Rod apparently lives somewhere in the vicinity. He was out walking in the neighborhood and realized he needed to use the bathroom. As you probably know, it's really hard to find public rest rooms in Manhattan, because they don't exist. If nature calls and there's no Barnes and Noble nearby, you're pretty much screwed. So A-Rod ducked into our office and asked to use the facilities.

Unfortunately for him, the receptionist didn't recognize A-Rod and refused to let him use the bathroom. He pleaded his case to no avail, until a higher-up in the company saw him, kowtowed, and gave him permission to take care of business. On his way, he grabbed a copy of the Daily News from our waiting area.

A considerable while later (long enough to assume he was not just going Number 1), he emerged and thanked the company for its belated hospitality. But before he left, he left the copy of the Daily News on the secretary's desk. He had it open to a page featuring his photo, just to let the receptionist know that she had almost prevented an enormous superstar from taking a squeege.

That is a very special kind of Douche right there.

<script language="jerryscript">

function atbat
(if (runner on) {base = any} 
return bunt)
;

function lineup1
(if (constructing lineup) {day ends in Y}
return pick names out of hat)
;

function lineup2
(if (need number 6 hitter) {got a feeling he's gonna bust out}
return Francoeur
[else {return Francoeur}])
;

function pinchhitsituation
(if (lefty on mound)
return Cora)
[else {scan bench, return Cora}])
;

function lateinninglead
(if (ninth inning save situation or five-run lead in eighth)
return K-Rod
[else {return whoever's arm hasn't turn to spaghetti yet}])
;

function disagreementwithplayer
if (dont see eye to eye with player) {could be hashed out behind closed doors}
return talk shit about player to press)
;

function postgamepressconference
(if (blow out loss)
return nonsensical cackling);
[else {shake head, return guffaw})
;

It was, for the most part, a weekend to forget for the Mets. Particularly Sunday, when Jon Niese, Elmer Dessens, and Oliver Perez conspired to make a mockery of any Belief in Comebacks. As far as playoff dreams go, I am a die-harder. If fandom were World War II, I'd be one of those guys still hiding in a cave in the South Pacific with grenades 20 years later. But this weekend was the straw that broke this camel's back. I've passed from disgust to acceptance of yet another lost season.

However, there is one thing I will take with me from this otherwise soul crushing series against the Diamondbacks. During Friday night's comeback win that wasn't, at the conclusion of the sixth inning, SNY cut from the action on the field to the Shea Bridge in centerfield. Then, as the kids say, hilarity ensued.



If the 2010 Mets give me nothing else--and all signs point to them giving me nothing else--they will have given me this.

My cousin recently embarked on a trip to Germany, and regaled me with pics of the streamlined opulence of a Lufthansa flight. I told him I'd always heard that Lufthansa was highly esteemed by all kinds of travelers, both business and pleasure. But I couldn't remember how I knew that, until a past employment memory came flooding back to me in one terrifying swoop.

About 10 years ago, I was laid off from the first full time job I'd held, post-college. Between that and losing a girlfriend to Jesus (another long story), it was not a happy time. I was simultaneously terrified and woefully naive about my prospects.

Eventually, I spent about 15 months without a regular job, although I wasn't idle for most of that time. In fact, I probably worked harder at that time than I ever have before or since, because I had to hustle desperately and snatch at the vaguest hint of meal money. I lost a ton of weight, due to a deadly combination of running around like a maniac and serious drinking.

I did temp jobs, mostly at ad agencies, but occasional one-day gigs at odd locales like the UN. I did a lot online writing that earned me no money but I figured would help me gain some exposure, and some that actually did pay, like penning commentaries for NPR2, a very early satellite radio version of NPR that passed into the ether. I taught at a shady test prep school in Chinatown that paid me in cash, which enabled me to buy Christmas presents that year.

In one especially fallow period, a friend of mine suggested I work for her company. This firm did market research in airports. All I had to do was wear a shirt and tie, go to the international terminal at JFK or LaGuardia, and get people to take a survey about their airline experiences and preferences. 

Simple enough, except for one inconvenient fact: It was the worst job in the world for me. I've had worse jobs--much worse--but I've never had one that was worse for me, personally.

I'm not the kind of person who can just walk up to a complete stranger and bully them into answering questions. I don't enjoy asking other people to help me. I don't even like to ask people to move out of my way; I'll find any way to go around someone before I resort to saying "excuse me". If you asked me to craft my idea of a perfect hell, it would involve me having to confront random people.

However, I was not in the position to turn down any kind of work. So I said yes, knowing full well it would be torture.

Every time I went to the airport, I had to check in with security. This was pre-9/11, so all I really had to do was say who I was and who I was working for. I also had to trade my driver's license for a security pass, which always made me feel uneasy. I was then waved into the gate area, where the real fun began.

Airports are weird places, and they become exponentially more weird the more time you spend in them. After a while, it all looks like an old timey Western back lot set, where all the shops are just facades held up by flimsy pieces of plywood. When you walk past the departure gates over and over, and all you can see are runways and swampland, you think you might be trapped in some post-apocalyptic industrial wasteland.

The food doesn't taste like real food. You don't notice or care about this if you just need to grab a bite on your way to catch a plane. But if you eat your lunch in an airport every day, you start to suspect you're being poisoned. I'm sure eating this food so often shaved years off my life. And keep in mind that the international terminal at JFK, where I spent the bulk of my time, has the best food in the whole airport by a huge margin. I shudder to think what would have happened if I had to work, say, the Delta terminal.

The air tastes strange in an airport. I have no idea why. It just does.

The strangeness of my surroundings, coupled with my complete unsuitability for the position, made for an anxious work environment. My friend came with me to do her own surveys, but I was more or less unsupervised, and so I would do anything to avoid doing my real job. Anything. I'd go to the newsstand and read entire chapters of books I had zero interest in. I'd buy The New York Times and do the crossword. I'd buy a criminally overpriced cup of coffee and drink it as slowly as humanly possible.

But I was also paid by the survey, not by the hour, and so eventually I had to get to work. Since many of the survey questions were geared toward business travel, I tried to zero in on folks who looked like business travelers. I always kept my clipboard visible, so my subjects would not feel ambushed. I would make eye contact, smile, and try to make it as obvious as possible, as soon as possible, exactly what my intentions were. If someone didn't return my gaze, I passed them over. If they did, I'd move in and make my pitch.

None of my worst fears were ever realized. I was never abused or mistreated in the slightest. People would refuse to participate, but would always do so as politely as possible. I found that many business travelers welcomed the chance to talk to another human being who wasn't a stewardess, even if our "conversation" was transparently venal.

And yet, I was always extremely nervous every time I approached someone. I felt as if my insides were shrinking away from my skin. Every fiber of my being rebelled against it, and the voice in my head kept screaming WHAT ARE YOU DOING?! YOU SHOULDN'T BE DOING THIS!

It didn't get any easier as I went along. My fears only plateaued, and then rose again as I considered this horrifying prospect: What if I never get another job? What if I have to do this the rest of my life? This feeling was ridiculous, of course, and I knew it was ridiculous. But knowing a fear is ridiculous and being able to shake it are two very different things.

The fact that no one else shared my anxiety or panic, or ever acted discourteous to me, actually made things worse. Like I was the one guy in the thriller movie that knows THE TRUTH and is desperately trying to make everyone else realize it, to no avail.

Of course, I did eventually find a new job that was more suited to my temperament and phobias. I barely think about that time in my life anymore, for many reasons. But if I ever get a call from a survey firm, or approached in the street by someone with a clipboard, I give them a few minutes of my time. Because I always imagine that the poor bastard doing the surveying is just as terrified as I was during my airport days. It's the least I can do. I mean, it is literally the absolute least thing I can do.

Greetings, fans! John Sterling here, voice of the Yankees! If there's one question I get asked more than any other, it's "Why are you still alive?" After that, the question I get asked the most is, "How do you come up with your famous personalized home run calls?" Often followed by, "What possessed you to come up with these home run calls?" and "Who lets you come up with these home run calls?"

Each home run call I develop takes days, sometimes even weeks of trial and error. When the Yankees acquire a new player, I sit down with my little yellow notepad and come up with a few "punny" riffs on his name. I then stand in front of my full-length wardrobe mirror and bellow them at the top of my lungs, as I twitter and shake like Julia Roberts in Steel Magnolias (still one of my faves!).

Then, if the downstairs neighbors haven't called the cops again, I judge the way they sound on my own Sterling Scale, with 1 Sterling being poor and 32 Sterlings being just grand! If I have a friend over for dinner, I'll seek feedback from him as well. I know I've hit the mark if he says he's not hungry anymore or turns green and runs to the bathroom.

I don't take this process lightly. After all, I am the voice of the Yankees, the most celebrated franchise in all of American sports. I understand that my choices should reflect the history, tradition, and mystique of this team. Of course, not everything can rise to the majestic heights of ROBBIE CANO, DONTCHA KNOW! or A THRILLA! BY GODZILLA!, but striving to achieve such grandeur remains my goal.

The most important factor when choosing my home run calls: Will it allow Suzyn Waldman any time to speak? If the answer is yes, it's back to the drawing board.

Of course, not every idea makes the cut. Here's a list of a few proposed home run calls for Yankee greats, past and present, that were not up to my usual, exacting standards:

Chuck Knoblauch: IT'S ANOTHER KNOB-POLISHER!

Jason Giambi: GO TO THE MATTRESSES! THAT'S A VICIOUS HIT BY THE GIAMBI-NO CRIME FAMILY!

Jorge Posada: HEY THERE, GEORGIE BOY, SWINGING AT THE PLATE SO FANCY FREE!

Bernie Williams: THAT BALL'S BEEN BERN-ED BEYOND ALL RECOGNITION! ANOTHER SKIN GRAFT-TACULAR HOMER FOR WILLIAMS!

Paul O'Neill: EVERY TIME I SEE YOU HOMERING I GET DOWN ON MY O'NEILL'S AND PRAY!

Chad Curtis: HE HIT THE BALL INTO THE STANDS WITH HIS BAT!

Brett Gardner: THE CONSTANT GARDNER! STARRING RALPH FIENNES AND RACHEL WEISZ WHICH I HAVE NOT YET SEEN BUT IS IN MY NETFLIX QUEUE!

Curtis Granderson: The entire original soundtrack to the 1953 musical Kismet

I've been blessed to call so many great moments in Yankee history. But if I have one more wish, it's to record an album of my home run calls with a full orchestra. Nelson Riddle will have to arrange, of course.

What would my own home run call be? I'm glad you asked. I think it would go something like this.

Sterling steps up to the plate, wearing his custom-made wool pinstripe Botany 500 suit. Two men on, two out, we're in the bottom of the ninth, and the Yankees trail by two. Theeeee pitch is BELTED TO DEEP LEFT-CENTER FIELD! THAT BALL IS HIGH! MMM-IT IS FAR! MMM-IT IS GONE! STERLING POUNDS ONE! THE JOHN BACKS UP--A HOMER, THAT IS! A STERLING SILVER PERFORMANCE! JOHN JACOB JINGLEHEIMER SCHMIDT, HIS NAME IS MY NAME TOO! STER-LING UP SOME TROUBLE! JOHN JOHN, THE PIPER'S SON, HIT A HOMER AND AWAY HE RUN! YOU'RE SOME KIND OF MONSTER-LING! MATTHEW, MARK, LUKE AND JOHN, BLESS THIS HOMER WE JUST WON ON!

Or something equally as quiet and dignified.

Yesterday, Barry Petchesky at Deadspin wondered why Chris Paul's public and prolonged demand to be traded from the New Orleans Hornets was not getting the same amount of "outrage" as LeBron James' Decision/Hank Scorpio-esque unveiling in Miami. There is a very simple reason: While Chris Paul's gambit is a total dick move, it is also totally lame.

The NBA free agent frenzy is, for all intents and purposes, over (the fact that Tracy McGrady is the most coveted remaining free agent would indicate so). The weeping and gnashing of teeth over L'Affaire LeBron has subsided, at least until the basketball season begins anew. With football training camps opening within the next week, NFL talk is starting to dominate the sports talk-o-sphere (C).

In other words, there's no damn reason at all to be hearing from Mr. Paul. But clearly, he saw what LeBron did and stomped his feet and thought, "I shall not be out-douched!"

You could argue that what Chris Paul did was worse than what LeBron did. After all, LeBron's free agency was anticipated by every human being on the planet for years (at least that's what ESPN says). As crappily as he handled the whole thing, everyone and his mom (especially your mom) knew he might leave Cleveland. Paul's demands to be traded, on the other hand, came out of nowhere, and were seemingly motivated by little more than LeBron's histrionics.

However, while LeBron certainly deserves scorn, Paul only deserves laughter. Because what LeBron did, when he did it and how he did it, was a supremely shitty thing to do. But what Paul idid is just funny.

Coming on the heels of LeBron's move, Paul's machinations had the feeling of a shameless attempt to exploit a fad that's already passed. It's like releasing a third or fourth lambada movie in 1990. Or rushing into the studio to record a swing album in 2001. Or pretty much the entire Golan-Globus filmography. If LeBron is Rambo, then Paul is Cobra.

The overall lameness of Paul's move is accentuated by the fact that he didn't have a leg to stand on. The Hornets had neither the incentive nor the imperative to trade him. Paul couldn't opt out of his contract. Basically, he had zero power in this situation, but operated as if he was in total control. Depending on your perspective, that either takes an enormous amount of balls or an amazing lack of brains.

Paul seems to realize this now; on Monday, he had meetings with the Hornets, and made statements afterward that indicated he was throwing in the towel. Because when it comes to the offseason, no one wants to be the free agent equivalent of Delta Force 3 or Death Wish 5.

It's been a brutal July thus far, on pace to be the hottest one in history. (Strangely enough, all those Brave Truth-Tellers who screamed about global warming being fake when it was sort-of cold in April are nowhere to be found.) I'm trying my best to beat the heat by thinking cold thoughts. This is a psychological technique known as Self Delusion.

While trying to find some Cold Thought Fodder, I ran across this video, and I'm so glad I did. This is an excerpt from an episode of Jean Shepherd's America about Alaska.



Jean Shepherd, radio host, author, and raconteur (who I've written about here before), had a PBS program that ran for two widely separated seasons: 1971 and 1985. The later season was decent, and is readily available on DVD via eBay and similar outlets. The earlier season, which predated the VCR, is not in general circulation, except for a few episodes that were rerun in 1985. That's is a shame, because I've seen many of these episodes and they are AMAZING.

The reason I've seen them is because I did some research for Excelsior, You Fathead!, the Jean Shepherd biography penned by Eugene Bergmann. Part of this research included a trip up to WGBH in Boston, which produced this series and a few other once-off programs starring Shep (including a bizarre show from 1961 in which Shep stood on a wharf in Boston Harbor and just riffed for a half hour, much like he did on his nightly radio show). I had the privilege of delving into their vast video archives, and came back truly stunned by what I saw.

The original series of Jean Shepherd's America is a wonderful, vibrant time capsule. It was shot on video, which was still in its infancy back then (the producer, Fred Barzyk, told me the poor cameramen were weighed down by bulky nigh-prototypes). But because it wasn't shot on film, which can age poorly, the footage appears as if it was shot yesterday. The episodes are all pretty much like the excerpt above: Simple shots of quiet, everyday occurrences, with Shepherd's inimitable narration.

There's a mind-blowing episode ("It Won't Always Be This Way...") about new planned communities and mobile homes. It ends with chilling footage of ghost town on the site of an old mining boom town, as Shep talks about how mankind always moves on, looking for bigger and better things, and how one day this whole planet may be similarly abandoned as we seek greener pastures out among the cosmos.

My description is not doing it justice. If there is a just god, he will make sure everyone gets to see this in some format, some day.

I also can't think of Shep and The Cold without thinking of the poems of Robert Service. In the winter months, Shep would devote parts of shows, and sometimes entire shows, to reading this now-obscure but once ubiquitous verse. Service's poems all depict depraved goldpanners trying to make a buck or start trouble in the frozen Yukon wasteland, who all find death in some gruesome manner or another.

My father was a huge Jean Shepherd fan, and this was one of his favorite features of the show. He loved to recite the first line of Service's poem "The Shooting of Dan McGrew" in a deep, Shep-like vibrato: A bunch of the boys were whoopin' it up in the Malamute Saloon...

Ironically, my father died five years ago this summer in snowy, faraway land (very long story). So I think he would take perverse pleasure in hearing this Shep rendition of another Service poem, "The Ballad of Blasphemous Bill", which comes from his program on January 15, 1965.



And just for good measure, here's Shep doing another one of his favorite routines: singing loudly (and badly) along to a ragtime piano rendition of an old timey tune.

Writing is hard. Writing on a deadline is especially hard. I don't envy reporters who have to file daily or even weekly, because some days, the mental pen runs dry and there's not a hell of a lot you can do about it.

So I almost wanna give Dan LeBatard a mulligan on this article from last Sunday's Miami Herald, entitled "Miami Heat's 3 Live Crew has rapper Campbell jazzed" (which would have escaped me entirely, but for a tweet from @scharpling). Look, it's the summer and who can concentrate on writing, especially in Miami? Maybe he just decided to throw a bunch of crap in one piece, hope to connect the pieces, and move on.

But when a writer does verbal contortions to connect Luther Campbell to LeBron James, I can't let that go uncommented upon.

LeBatard's premise: By joining the Heat, LeBron has proved himself a rebel and provocateur, much like Luther Campbell did when he "shocked" America in the late 80s/early 90s. Yup. Here's the money quote:

Rebels and pioneers and villains create many emotions. Indifference is not one of them.

Oof.

LeBatard tries to tie Campbell to LeBron by several unstable threads. For one, he tries to compare the completely over-the-top and tone deaf introduction of LeBron and Chris Bosh in Miami to the Miami Hurricane teams of the early 90s.

Campbell was at the center of those epic and hated University of Miami football teams that changed college football's landscape from marching bands and sis-boom-blah to something a lot more fun and envied and despised and different. It was an insane time and an insane team, a controversial rap star on the sidelines, putting cash bounties on Notre Dame players as the violent and fast Hurricanes team he cheered devoured college football with the kind of teeth and hunger you see when piranhas are feeding.

This seems as good a time as any to tell you about my ephemeral run-in with George Steinbrenner.

I grew up in a Cop Town north of New York City. It seemed like everyone I knew as a kid, their dad was either a policeman or a fireman in the city. (My dad was a notable exception; for most of my childhood, he veered between insurance, finance, and alcohol-aided unemployment.)

One of my best friends was a huge Yankees fan. His dad was a cop. His dad also worked the security detail for George Steinbrenner. My memory is vague on the finer points of the nature of this work; I think he may have been The Boss's driver at some point. I don't know if this work was actually part of his NYPD duty or something on the side. My guess is the latter.

When we graduated from elementary school, my friend's dad got us tickets for a Yankee game. Somehow I squeezed my mom for enough money to buy a program while I was there (our family finances were mired in the Dirt Poor range at the time), because on the few occasions I got to go to a baseball game, I HAD to score it. I don't know where I picked up this filthy habit, but it still haunts me. For four years, I brought a scorebook to every Met game I went to for the same purpose.

Midway through the game, my friend's dad decided to give us a treat by bringing us "behind the scenes" in the Yankee offices. A security guard waved us through a couple of imposing glass doors, and then a blazer-wearing tour guide showed us around the "backstage" area, which looked more or less like any other office, except with pictures of Mickey Mantle and Babe Ruth everywhere.

He then walked us through the slim hallway that backed the press booths. We stopped briefly behind the WPIX booth, where Phil Rizzuto and Lou Piniella (post-managerial stint) were manning the mics. I waved at them and Scooter waved back. I felt weirdly excited about it.

We were then brought back into the office area, and into a big office. It had a very large desk in it, and it had a fantastic view of the field, with wall to floor windows. But apart from that, it was relatively sparse: a modest bookshelf, a few chairs, and that was pretty much it. Not even any art hanging from the walls. Its only opulent feature was a couch shaped like an old fielder's mitt, which I decided was the greatest thing ever.

A TV was on in the office. I saw that Don Mattingly had just singled. I'd been carrying my program around this whole time, attempting to keep up with the game. So I leaned on the desk to mark this down on the scorecard.

"And this," the tour guide said, "is Mr. Steinbrenner's office."

I recoiled from the desk in abject terror. I felt like I'd just grabbed Genghis Khan's spear. I'd toyed with the prize possession of a terrible, wrath-filled warlord. My friend later told me I leaped a good five feet from the desk. I thought that somehow, Steinbrenner would know I'd touched his desk. He'd just feel it, sense his aura being disturbed, and come storming up there to punish me in the most gruesome way possible. But the tour guide just laughed and we moved on.

I don't remember anything else from that game, except that we left early because it was a night game and not an ideal era to be out too late in The Bronx (even if you were accompanied by a cop). Because I was too scared that somehow, George Steinbrenner was going to find out I'd leaned on his desk and...I don't know, fire me?

I was way too old to be thinking such things, and I knew it, but the notion would not leave me. The specter of Steinbrenner was far too strong.

Now that I've made my decision to go to the Miami Heat, I have a special message for my fans back in Cleveland: I hate you, every last one of you. Your town was like a noose around my neck, and you and your stupid love and admiration was the tightest loop of all.

How much do I hate you? I strung you along for weeks, letting you think the Cavs were still in the running for my services. I scheduled an hour-long TV special about my decision, to make everyone think "there's no way he'd do something like that and rip Cleveland's heart out". And that's exactly what I did. Oh man, that was sweet!

Did you think I was actually going to stay? Jesus, are all of you that stupid?! I've been counting down the seconds to free agency since the day I was drafted. I've been bigger than that town since the day I was born. I said was a Cowboys fan. A Cowboys fan! I wore a fucking Yankees hat to an Indians playoff game against the Yankees. How could I have made my contempt for you dumbasses more obvious, without literally shitting on every single on of you?

You know why I disappeared in the playoffs this year? Because the thought of winning a championship for you people made me gag.

Am I bigger than Miami? Of course I am. If a better situation than Miami comes along, I'll opt out of this contract so fast you won't believe it. But at least Miami won't give a shit when I do. That's what makes this deal even better for me: I gave up Cleveland--a city that loves its teams even though they break its heart over and over again--for Miami, one of the worst sports towns in America. Oh, irony, you taste so sweet upon my lips!

God, I feel so free! You can't imagine what this is like. And you will never know what this is like, because you'll stay in that horrible town of yours until you drop dead of a heart attack or fall into a burning lake or however it is you people end your miserable lives.

This weekend, I'm off to party in South Beach, another place you'll never be. I'm going to film this entire party on expensive HD cameras, put the best footage on a DVD, and mail copies to every single one of you. Then, I'm gonna send a guy to each of your houses to force you to watch it at gunpoint.

But first, I have to burn all of my Cleveland clothes, and take a shower to wash the stink of Failure-Town off my body.