Note from the Blog Custodian: Since “paddytheduke” the normal blog contributor is away on some type of diplomatic excursion to “Mischief Reef” in the South China sea, he has given his full blessing for the ensuing post. Mr. Johnny Americana, an ambitious old friend of “paddytheduke’s,” has requested the use of this platform to profess his adoration to ESPN field reporter Britt McHenry. Mr. Americana, while pure of purpose and honorable of motive has always had the somewhat debilitating deficiency of being obsessed with image while paying no real attention to context. Mr. Americana’s letter is posted as a courtesy and we wish him the best of luck. Take it away, Mr. Americana.
Dear Ms. McHenry,
Can I call you Britt? I don’t mean to be forward but I feel like I know you already. Thoroughly and intimately. After all, you are the girl with the microphone on television and I’m the guy watching you. If that isn’t a connection I don’t know what is. I find it erectifying, rigidly erectifying, to see you bathed in all those bright lights on the sidelines, in the outfield, on the ice, at the double-wide office of that shitty towing company you got caught up at last week in Virginia. You look good wherever, baby girl! Most of the women I usually date don’t look that good in really bright light so it’s a relief to see a woman with just the right curves and a full set of teeth and no serious signs of scars or abuse. You’re like a miracle. The way you move that microphone back and forth when some sweaty athlete is hovering over you makes me want to do the thing I usually do when I see you doing it.
I’m sure you are wondering about me Britt, Brittany, Brittanica, whatever your real name is. I’m a big guy. I’m currently out of prison and I’m in the trucking business. Being a trucker I know what it is like to have to travel and interact with seedy members of the opposite sex and so, in a way, we almost have the same job. Most of my children and the vague strangers who birthed them don’t come around anymore, so you’ll have my full attention. Whatever I stew up in my boxer shorts will be all for you, is what I’m saying. I just tell you that so you won’t get jealous. I don’t know if you are the jealous type. I don’t want you to worry. I’m not the jealous type either. Even so, sometimes, when I see those professional ball players all up on you I just want to punch the shit out of them. Punch them like they punch their wives, almost, but not because I’m on steroids. I was, for a while, but Chico got busted and turned snitch. That’s another story, though. When we finally meet up for a can of beer remind me to tell you all about it. And don’t mind the acne. Most of it is on my back and shoulders, anyway. Even with a cut-off tee shirt you will hardly notice it.
I’ve always thought you’ses the best ESPN reporter. The way you can look all serious when some running back is rambling on about scoring touchdowns for Jesus is so believable and legitimate that I fell in love with you almost immediately. I was like, “Hot damn, this broad will believe anything I tell her.” I got drunk the other day and was about to get your name tattooed on my arm, but then I thought about it and figured I’d wait till maybe our second date. My neighbor, who does good ink work, is already trying to figure out how to turn the current name that is there, “Midori” into “Britt” and he thinks he can do it but it is gonna cost me like an extra fifty bucks. Luckily I can pay him in Sudafed tablets.
The problem with other television personalities that I’ve stalked… I mean, dated, is that they look so much worse in person than they do on camera. When I saw that video of you getting your car back from crap ass Advanced Towing I couldn’t believe it…You are just as beautiful in a sweatsuit ranting at a hillbilly as you are all put together at game time. Peanut Brittle, can I call you Peanut Brittle… I hope you don’t think I’m some dull idiot. In fact, you and I are a lot alike. We don’t like fat women and neither of us are college dropouts. You, because you graduated and me because I never went. Even so I’m into the arts. I write poetry. Some of it is on display in the men’s restroom of the Opelika 24-hour gas-and-go, truckers welcome, showers available. Here’s a sample…
“My heart is impounded behind barbed fence wire like so many unwanted vehicles. The loudspeaker is inaudible. The guy who pulls the cars around smells like a garbage dump. The guard dogs have fleas. Yet, I wait for you. Brit, are you brittle? I think, maybe, just a little.” (I admit it needs some spit shine.)
Frigid Brigitte, your silence speaks volumes. Let’s get right down to it. I’m not sure where you live but if you just forward your address and leave like, say, a first floor window open I’ll just head on over there and jump in. I’ll even bring the tall boys and Pall Malls and the crowbar in case you forget to leave the window open.
Yours Aggressively, Johnny Americana.
P.S. If you happen to run into Erin Andrews and my name comes up don’t believe a word she says. She’s just a hater cause the jury found me not guilty once and for all. The Fifth Amendment rules!