Dearest Sir Ross Bjork,
First of his name, raiser of funds and sic semper tyrannis of my Alma Mater,
I am inking this scroll on the dreary 16th day of February in the 18th year of our Lord Bianco in order to vehemently and indubitably express my extreme agitation and unrest with your bumfuzzling predisposition towards the drudging churls in the Swayze slums of right field.
Upon meticulously reviewing your inane efforts to badger favor with the nincompoots that set up cattywampus shantytown establishments, i.e. distribution of sugary crullers and peonic pie slices, I must declare this tomfoolerish behavior quite unsettling.
Oh no my good sir, your taradiddles have not passed unnoticed by the upper echelons of the denizens of left field society such as myself, and thusly so, the day of your comeuppence has drawn nigh to this very moment.
HOW DARE YOU SIR. HOW DARE YOU.
A man of your stature and upbringing, slumping to and coddling the dregs of those right field urchins that toss their gubbins of third-rate swill into the air after a triumphant coup from our troupe of debonair seamed sphere swatters. Or have you consigned to oblivion the blueblood purveyors on which your position was bequeathed! You cater to those ragamuffins that soon rather engage in fisticuffs and snickersee over the crowning dilly dilly than actually survey the contest before them! You truly have shown your stature of a foppish gentleman of four outs; without money, wit, credit or manner.
And all the while you condone the brash and impudent mockery directed at the opposing team’s fielder of the right variation, I myself take pride in more civilized slander at the fielder of the left variation. Some of my most scintillating scorns are as follows, and I mosty assuredly swear to you that they did bring about some of the most whimsical brouhahas among my fellow left field aristocracy!
Thou throweth akin to Brent Schaeffer!
Thou runneth akin to Eli Manning!
Thou swingeth akin to Charles Barkley on the latter nine!
Thou could not catcheth the black plague notwithstanding a sickly rat nibbled your nipple!
Your mother was a bullish dog and your father smelt of the Pike house floor after rush!
And lest we disregard the pillars on which the megalopolis of which Swayze was built!
Lob thy seamed sphere in the muck!
Throwest the quartern mishap thus begetting a stroll for our swinger!
I duly hope and assume you will take my letter to heed and bring about changes forthright.
Sincerely yours, an utmost member of the left field politic,
POST SCRIPT: If there be any right field serfs that wish to offer a response, thou mayst doeth so below.