You are throwing a football in the middle of a city block bustling with people and traffic. This is not Giants Stadium. You don't belong here. Judging by your skills, you don't belong there either. Besides images of pizza and beer pong and boobies and lint, I can only imagine what was going through your mind.
Your first throw fell onto the sidewalk, about 3 inches in front of a nice couple taking a weekend stroll. Your receiver must have gone REALLY wide, because he was nowhere to be seen. The couple screamed. You laughed. I loathed.
Your second throw trumped your first, rocketing about 8 feet in front of you. Into traffic. A cab swerved to miss it. You laughed again, then ran out into traffic to retrieve it – the only decision of yours with which I was in total agreement.
Sadly, I was only in the vicinity long enough to witness your third throw. You stood in the middle of the street (good boy...now staaay...) and launched another bomb back onto the sidewalk. It just missed a parked car that I secretly hoped belonged to someone named Jimmy Two-Fists.
I saw your friends following you and laughing, but I'm not sure you were ever really throwing that football to anyone at all. Which begs the question...why exactly am I wasting any more time writing this letter to you?
Gotta go.
Yours cruelly,
Not your biggest fan
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