Happy Birthday, Jose Canseco!
Dear Mr. Canseco,
Jose. Jose. Jose. What have you done with yourself? As you celebrate your 39th birthday, I’m sure the last thing you want right now is somebody coming out and preaching to you but you look like you could use some good advice. I’m going to give you a couple of good pieces.
- Stop holding onto the limelight, let it go. One part Mike Tyson, one part Michael Jackson and one part Anna Nicole Smith do not a pretty picture make. I call it a Jose Canseco cocktail. Time to go gently into that good night.
- Lay off the smack, it rots your brain.
- Next time, sign the damned autograph.
I’m sure there are plenty of occasions that number three can apply to but the one that was your downfall occured in a pizza parlor in N.Y.C. My friend Jeff was, to quote Ice Cube, drunk as hell but not throwin’ up. He saw you getting a slice of lasagna and a slice of ham and pineapple (who the hell eats ham and pineapple?). You remember now? Ah yes, all he wanted was your autograph on his slice of pizza. He would have settled for you just taking a bite of his pizza but nooooooooo, you were too big a man. Oh, what a big man you are. Little did you know Jeff is a licensed practioner of voodoo. He learned it from the three-tape series, Hooked on Voodoo Phonics. It came free when he signed up for the Swedish Chef Culinary Institute that he saw on an infomercial. That very night after he met you, he went home and passed out. Then he woke up and put a curse on you. Now look at you, you’re royally palookaed. Way to screw yourself, Jose.
Happy Birthday, you cursed bastid.