Dear Frank Thomas,
You were my favorite baseball player as a child. I had your posters on my wall, I patterned my Little League batting stance after you, and you served as an inspiration for all of us children who shopped in the Husky section of Sears but still wanted to be a professional baseball player (well, you and Mo Vaughn at least). You had an awesome nickname, one which I would gladly bestow upon my own penis if it had more girth. You played for the White Sox, and Dr. Dre wore your hat. I own roughly every Frank Thomas baseball card produced from the years of 1990 through 1995.
Those cards are now worth a combined three cents. Eat a bag of dicks buddy. Eat a huge satchel of cocks.
Now, I can accredit only part of my rage to the fact that my repeated allowance investments in you have gone to absolute shit. Much of it has to do with the fact that you've assumed the mantle of "world's laziest baseball player" over the last ten or so years, culminating in your "breaking up with her after she dumped me" split with the Blue Jays this weekend.
Just as a hint, batting .173 is generally a ticket to Shutthefuckupsville, not a license to whine and complain that you're not getting enough ABs. And let's not even note the fact that three of your whopping 10 hits this year were home runs. Last person to hit like that was late-era Mark McGwire, right after he took monkey steroids and popped the whiteheads on his cockshaft. Not that I'm accusing you of anything.
Also, I strongly doubt that you even own a baseball glove, or have owned once since the mid '90s. Therefore, you are closer to softball player (like Psycho Sid) than baseball player.
So in conclusion, Frank Thomas, you suck, and I'm glad you got dumped. Oh, and you owe me the 60 or so bucks I spent on your cards as a kid, which is worth roughly ten grand now. Good thing you have a ton of time on your hands to write me a check.