Open Letter to ESPN Reporter Britt McHenry from Johnny Americana

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!

Open Letter to Edward J. Snowden from Johnny Americana

From June 25th, 2013

Note from the Blog Custodian: Since “paddytheduke”, the normal blog contributor, is away on some type of liver-torturing bender, 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 solicit advice from a bona fide international spy about a career change he is seeking. 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. 

Open letter to Edward J. Snowden, International Spy, from Johnny Americana.

Dear Mr. Snowden,

I have recently seen you on the television and was wondering how I could become an international spy like you? Any suggestions you have would be greatly appreciated. It’s always good to get advice from someone in the field. I work in a cubicle, myself, cold-calling on behalf of a company that sells used and slightly damaged medical equipment. It’s boring as hell and the pay sucks unless you can get one of the senior citizens you call at random to give up their social security number. I also compile what we call “sucker lists” and sell them to anybody willing to pay for them. Point is, I’m tired of number crunching and data processing. I want to travel to exotic lands, pursue villains using the newest sports cars, the fastest boats. I have no problem knocking some unsuspecting motorcyclist off his bike, jumping onto it and pursuing some henchman. I’m versatile. I can run through open-air markets and through sewer systems. One time I jumped through the smashed window of a moving car, but that was more of a domestic dispute, well, that’s a long story and if you don’t want me to come bounding into the open window of your Camaro then just don’t steal my shit. I’m just saying. I can run on the tops of train cars. Seriously I can. Once I tried it. I had to flee a couple of hobos who told me that when riding the rails it’s always the cutest looking man who becomes the woman.

I’d like to learn how to drink martinis while I collect information about men intent on world domination. I don’t really drink martinis like you do but I could definitely learn to drink them. Shit, I’ll drink anything. I look good in a tuxedo and once in Atlantic City I won a hundred bucks playing blackjack and got a free breakfast, alcohol not included. I wasn’t wearing a tuxedo but a tuxedo tee-shirt. I think it still counts.

The best thing about your job is that they build you gadgets that you can use for the exact appropriate situations that call for them. I don’t like all this new fancy computerized hacker stuff. Give me something that explodes and I’ll escape. I love stuff that explodes. We used to mix water softener and gasoline in bottles of Colt 45, wick them and throw them off the old water tower. Fucking ka-boom, spy man.

I see they call you “The Leaker.” I want my own spy name too. We call our roommate “The Leaker” as well but that’s just because he gets drunk and pisses himself on the couch after he passes out. We don’t care that he pisses himself but we wish he would do it in his bedroom because after he pisses himself on the couch you can only flip the couch cushions once before you’re at the original stain. We keep flipping them though, and it seems to work.

I’ve only seen one picture of you, and I’m a little disappointed. You must be undercover, because you aren’t wearing a tuxedo, you aren’t playing Baccarat, and there aren’t any sexy female spies around you. Actually, you look kind of plain and worried. You certainly don’t seem to be seducing some curvy, leggy, beautiful double agent, some tall drink of water with a name like “Glory Hole” who is smart enough to outwit everyone around her until she falls through a trap door under which sits a pool of hungry piranha fish. But not before you banged her, so who cares, right? I hear you Mr. Snowden. You might be lacking in suaveness and style and don’t take this the wrong way but whatever department in the N.S.A. deals with tailoring and make-overs, you might want to drop in on them. They have to have a tanning bed or a gym or something in there. Where do my tax dollars go?

Mr. Leaker Snowden, I must say I am enjoying your current ruse, your massive ploy about how your government has turned on you because you stole some high level secrets, but that’s just because you want the evil genius that you are battling to think you are a rogue element, a wanted man, and so then they take you into the confidences of their evil empire and you choke the bastards off at the neck. I get it. I’m not saying it’s absolutely original but I’ve studied up on spying and it is effective. Who is the evil genius you are pursuing, or are you not allowed to say? It’s probably Rupert Murdoch because he’s a pock-marked Australian, or T. Boone Pickens with his fucking socialist wind energy or that one guy with the real creepy title, something like the “Wizard of Omaha.” I think his real name is Warren Buffett but with a nickname like that you can bet he’s building a space laser. If you can tell me what else a wizard does, I’d like to know.

My uncle says that it takes at least three months to process a “License To Kill” so once he just made one up and had it laminated. Everyone down at Rudy’s thought it was funny until he tried to bash this guy’s head in with a pool stick. I guess I can just use his until I get the real one.

Anyway, the microwave has signaled that my convenience store burrito is ready to be “eliminated” and so I will sign off. I just want you to know that I’m really good at keeping secrets. Honest. I hate people that buckle under pressure and just give up whatever confidential information they are privileged to have, and I can tell you feel the same way I do.

That being said, I will be waiting patiently for you to come crashing through my bedroom wall in the early hours of the morning with a team of expert killers to blindfold me, bundle me up, throw me into the back of a van and whisk me to a six-month boot camp of intense and excruciating training, both physical and psychological. You can water-board me, keep me up for days on end, run me for miles and shoot me full of whatever spy chemicals I need to inoculate me against enemy brutality and protect my precious bodily fluids. I await your spectacular invasion of my house and if you have to kill any of my roommates in the process I don’t think anyone would miss them and it might be good practice for you guys. Go United States of America!

Johnny Americana.

P.S. If you happen to review any of my records or files and find that I have spent some time in a mental facility, just know that I was operating undercover that time. I had been dispatched by a shadow group to gather information about stuff that’s classified. I can prove I wasn’t crazy, though. See, until they started restraining me at bedtime I used to break into the cafeteria and cover myself in tapioca pudding. What crazy person would be smart enough to act that crazy? How about that, fucker?