A Letter To Lebron

Dear LeBron Raymone "The Chosen One" " King" James,

It has been a year since you donned that purple plaid shirt and sat across from Jim Gray to announce to the world where you were taking your talents. All the world outside of South Florida scorned you for it. There were tears and fires ablaze in the streets of Cleveland. There was a letter from Cavaliers owner Dan Gilbert that seemed more like a drunken e-mail from a bitter girlfriend. You became despised.


A few weeks have passed since you and your teammates, with your abundance of talents, gave the NBA championship to the Dallas Mavericks. All the world outside of South Beach rejoiced. You became a punchline to fill ESPN airtime and for late night talk shows. TANGENT ALERT!

What happened to late night talk shows? Jimmy Fallon? Are you serious? Well, at least he has The Roots as his house band. And what's that British guy's name? What happened to the likes of Johnny Carson, David Letterman, Jay Leno? Hell, what happened to Arsenio Hall?




Okay, really, what happened to Arsenio? Did he just die after Coming to America?

(Attempt at a tie-in) In Coming to America, Prince Akeem had to come to terms with who he was and what he wanted. He could no longer allow the wishes of his family or those who admired him to determine his future...just like you, LeBron.


So, if you have time on whatever remote island you're on, take a few minutes to read this friendly letter.


Let me start this by saying: I'm here to help. And the first act of my assistance is to say in public what you've probably said in private to all those around the world who prayed and prayed for your downfall and rejoiced at your every air ball, errant pass, and offensive foul: FUCK 'EM!


This phrase, one I use liberally and with no reservation, is the perfect response to all those lonely souls in Cleveland who cried after you left them feeling like the "black girl". You know, the black girl that many black women refer to when talking about professional/successful black men. The black girl that is "there for him when he was struggling, but as soon as he makes it he drops her and goes for the brighter (lighter) option." Kanye referenced her in Gold-digger. But that oh so beautiful phrase isn't reserved for the heartbroken Ohioans. You can use it to address every Monday morning point guard calling sports radio shows, commenting on stories on ESPN, or at Scottie Pippen for allowing his personal feelings of inadequacy to inappropriately state that you might be better than Jordan, in turn, exponentially increasing the pressure you were obviously feeling.

After you've dropped the F-bomb one good time (all you need is one good time; any more than two would be uncivilized), you should do what all professional athletes do in the summer; go some where and have plenty of unattached, but safe sex. I think you need a release. Because in a few of those fourth quarters, you played like a fifteen year-old who just got his first French kiss and feel-up. It was like you were scared to move because you didn't want the world to see the little bundle in your over-sized basketball shorts. You might want to visit King of Diamonds. Nothing cures ills like "making it rain and pouring champagne" on somebody's daughters.



When you come back from Vegas or Punta Cana or Rio, then it's time to work. Next season has to be your season. You have to make a comeback. A real comeback. Not a Michael Jordan comeback. Not a Muhammad Ali comeback. You have to make a comeback like Jason. Jason Voorhees, that is. You know, of Friday The 13th fame. You need to kill EVERYONE, metaphorically speaking of course. You need to treat every team, every opponent like a group of horny campers that know about you but figure that they you are simply a myth and it's okay to desecrate your name.

And when you come back, you need to get some new friends. Your boys obviously didn't have your best interest at heart when they said, "Yeah, dawg, it would be a brilliant idea to go on national television to break the hearts of everyone that has put you on a pedestal since you were seven or eight." Someone should have said, "It's cool as hell that you can get the whole sports world to stop and watch you say where you're going to play next year, but that shit might not be a good look in the end."


Once you get rid of those dudes, then just SHUT THE HELL UP! Don't talk about what happened during the playoffs. Don't talk about how financially distraught all of us are compared to you. Don't talk about cloning yourself or about how you're gonna win twenty championships before you retire. Just play ball.

And if you happen to take my "KILL EVERYONE" comment literally, just move to Orlando, change your last name to Anthony, and claim you were molested.