Dear Johnny

Dear Johnny,

Shut up.

I can't pick up any Boston or New York sports page or browse any sports-related website without being bludgeoned by another one of your mindless, aneurism-inducing quotes. You have spouted off about every possible Red Sox topic since you decided to take more money and bounce throws to second base in Yankee Stadium rather than Fenway. The Sox disrespected you by not blindly resigning you to a ridiculous contract at a time when your skills are clearly diminishing. The Sox clubhouse will never be the same because Kevin Millar has taken his jaw-dropping lack of talent to another team. You claimed the Sox screwed up because "they let you walk when it's time to walk," unlike the management of your current team who seem to revel in giving outlandish contracts to good players who were once great.

Here is the truth, Johnny: No one in Boston misses you. We recognize that you played a major part in ending the 86-year World Series drought and we're appreciative of that. But you played in Boston for four years. Four years. Ted Williams played in Boston over the course of four decades and it wasn't until about thirty years later that he managed to have a crappy tunnel named after him. And he was a Hall of Fame player and arguably the greatest hitter ever. You were an occasional All-Star and more famous for your goofy hair than for anything you ever did on the field.

Since I have been unable to avoid the endless onslaught of your idiotic blathering during spring training, I've finally managed to figure out who you remind me of- the love-addled junior high school girls I used to teach. In the seventh and eighth grades, every day is a romantic tragedy. It's like Titanic with training bras and eating disorders. You're in love during lunch and mortal enemies by the end of recess.

Every scrawny 12-year old girl is convinced that Timmy Abercrombie is going to regret dumping her for the hot, fully developed tart with questionable morals and parents who both work during the day. They're too young to realize that's the way life works. Johnny, you're the 12-year old girl, Boston is Timmy Abercrombie and Coco Crisp is the new, hot chick we're all in love with. We can see you staring at us from across the lunchroom. We know that you're the one prank-calling us at night. We know it was you who rang-and-ran our house the other night. You're starting to creep us out.

Let's be clear about a few things- you made the decision to leave the Red Sox. You chose the money over the team that you take so much credit for shaping. You chose the money and made the decision to end your career in Boston rather than New York. You chose the money, end of story.

And in choosing the money you made some other decisions as well. You're a 32-year old multimillionaire who needs permission to not shave in the morning. You've gone from being a marketing draw to being another personality-deprived assembly-line Yankee. You make a few more million dollars a year but you're stuck sharing a locker-room with ARod, the worst teammate in major league baseball history, instead of guys like David Ortiz and Jason Vartitek.

You obviously regret your decision and I could care less.

You're a baby, plain and simple, and I can't wait to see you fail. Your act was already driving me to drink while you were wearing a Red Sox uniform. Now that you're in pinstripes, I have no time for your antics. You feel the need to butt in about everything Red Sox. I don't care that you talked to Manny and that he said he wants to leave Boston. Know who else Manny talked to about leaving Boston? Everyone. You’re not exactly breaking any stories there, Deepthroat.

And even though you aren't likely to win many spelling contests, your claim that the Red Sox are somehow worse off without the ethereal presence of Kevin Millar is beyond idiotic, beyond moronic. Quite honestly, claiming that the Sox will miss Millar is perhaps the stupidest thing I have ever heard in my entire life. If I was George Steinbrenner and I had heard that statement, I would have immediately ordered you to undergo a CT scan to make sure that you weren't brain-damaged. Poland had a better year in 1939 than Millar did in 2005.

Instead of retiring a Red Sox and getting a chance to open up Damon's Daiquiri Stand on Yawkey Way, you took the money and will now get the chance to be booed by 18,000 more fans the 500th time you fail to hit the cut-off man. Congrats.

So, on behalf of all of Red Sox Nation, shut your mouth. It's time for you to do what every new Yankee does and plant your lips squarely on Derek Jeter's ass. Pucker up, has-been.

Sincerely,

Jamie Chisholm