​Dear Mike Piazza,
I know you have a lot going for you, both right now, at this moment, and throughout the grand course of your life. You are in the Baseball Hall of Fame. You are married to a gorgeous woman who once drove audiences wild in the hit melodrama Baywatch Hawaii. Roger Clemens didn’t take enough steroids that one-day to cause him to jam that shard of broken bat into your neck as opposed to just sidearm whipping it in your general direction. According to Fangraphs somebody named Michael Barrett was a worse defensive catcher than you were between the years of 2002 and 2009. You, more than likely, have bench pressed 220 lbs before.

​Dear Readers,
As all of you assuredly know—primarily because the only people who read this Internet monstrosity are my co-workers, who are all too aware of my ability to pick my nose publicly and without shame—I work in an open office, meaning that there is nothing separating me from my fellow employees in my workspace. No walls. No cubicles. Nothing to obscure my co-workers view when I decided to do something crazy, like pluck stray eyebrow hairs out of my face using nothing but my own hands or Google “GIFs of fat kids falling from tree branches,” and laugh hysterically at these young people's plight before automatically drop a peg or seven in the esteem with which I am held in their eyes.