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Dear Memphis,

Dear Memphis, City of:

I want you to know, first, that this letter is passionate and heart-felt.

I write concerning your heroes and native sons and daughters. Specifically, I am writing to suggest, humbly, that you stop having them. In your particular circumstances, it is proving to be self-destructive and, indeed, saddening.

This is all, obviously, in the wake of The University Memphis Men's Basketball Team's loss to Kansas in the NCAA Tournament Championship Final. To clarify, the team lost on a miraculous three-point shot by Mario Chalmers with two seconds left to play. In fact, let's see Mario's Miracle again.

Everything about the great things in Memphis seems to fall just short every time. Three Six Mafia was hood-rich, but had to win an Academy Award and prove their existence absurd. You all are so ashamed of Justin Timberlake that Trash McGee and the other piano players at Silky O'Sullivan's are more venerated by Memphians than poor J.T. Elvis got fat and died. The Grizzlies are the Grizzlies. Even Beale Street can't get it right. Ten years ago, Beale had a lawlessness that extended beyond the charm of its cooler cousin, Bourbon Street. Now, they have cleaned up Beale Street, but a 19-year-old co-ed cannot even get a decent drink there anymore.

Near misses, Memphis, all of them.

But the near miss, Tiger Fans and other Memphians who are already not caring about the U of M again, are more heart-breaking than the sure defeat. I say, decide today that you will no longer allow Desoto County sunshine to invade the dark recesses of your city. Embrace your fate and let its signature gloominess define you. If you shoot for the stars, Memphis, you'll only have farther to fall.

Just ask any Ole Miss fan.