Dear Readers,
As all of you should know—primarily because you must be as socially awkward as I am or else you wouldn’t spend your time “reading” and would be out jet skiing or playing beach volleyball all summer long like a cool mix of Rob Gronkowski and Kerri Walsh—making friends is no easy task. It takes time. It takes energy. It takes the ability to make audible comments that do not cause other people to be filled with the desire to Photoshop a picture of you wearing a soiled diaper and place it on Instagram with the caption “Kid still can’t poop in a toilet…hilarious”

Dear Readers,
As all of you should know—assuming that you both appreciate art and are not someone who is, as they say, stupid as F—the film Paul Blart: Mall Cop is a classic piece of American cinema. It is light. It is hilarious. It is, unequivocally, Kevin James’ seminal work. And considering that Hitch, I Now Pronounce You Chuck & Larry, Zookeeper, and Doug Heffernan’s 1 episode arch on the Ted Danson vehicle Becker are all a part of the man's acting cannon, I really can’t make a more complimentary statement about any body of work that has ever existed than the one I just made.

Author's Note: The second, of two, letters addressed to St. Louis Rams owner Enos Stanley Kroenke in response to his increasingly earnest attempt to relocate the team to Los Angeles.

Dear Stan,
Or Enos. Perhaps I should call you Enos. After all, that is the name that your parents gave you. After all that is, culturally, what you generally would be called by the people who know you. After all, at the end of the day Enos, you do not know me, but I certainly know you. After all, at the end of the day Enos, you and I are anything but strangers.

I have written to you before. And written about you. And thought about you. And dreamt about you. I’ve spent considerable time imagining what I’d say if I ever came across you, if you and I were ever to find ourselves face to face in a dark alley off of a random street, if you and I were ever together somewhere, anywhere, where I could tell you exactly what it is that I think of you; somewhere, anywhere where we’d be on equal ground; somewhere, anywhere where your wealth and standing would not be able to stop me from speaking my mind.

Dear Readers,
As all of you should unimpeachably be sure of—due to the fact that there are still aspects of our daily lives that irrationally make us leave the comfort of our own domiciles—we have reached the time of year where it is hot outside. In fact it’s so dang hot that milk (and by extension soft cheeses) is, until further notice, a bad choice (click red words or look above for further clarification).

It’s so dang hot that my ability to be alive has, for all extensive purposes, ceased to matter to me. That’s the effect that heat has on me: it makes me give up. It makes me lose my will to fight, to breathe, to live. It even makes me turn my back on the one thing that I thought would always define me: my insatiable desire to be proud to be an American...where at least I know I'm free. 

Dear Readers,
As all of you should know—primarily because you have the exact same priorities in your life as I do and therefore have spent the past 8ish months doing nothing but drooling in front of your computer and waiting for Jason LaConfora to tweet about what Stan Kroenke’s pooping habits could mean for potential NFL relocation—the proposed stadium on St. Louis North riverfront scored a major coup yesterday as St. Louis City judge Robert Frawley stuck down a city ordinance requiring a public vote from St. Louis residences in order for the city to use any public money to fund the new facility.