Dearest Milorod,

I’m sorry to have to confront you in this manner. Let me just go ahead and say that, although we’ve never shaken hands or had a tumble in the sack, I know we are meant to be together.

I’ve been watching you for a while now; outside the stadium and outside your ratty, one-bedroom flat where you find and finish off half-smoked cigarettes, topping them off with your seemingly endless supply of deep fried, cheese-stuffed peppers. Your facial features make me pant and sweat. I know you like your chicken / veal / porkl all smooshed into one big “super meat.” I know when and where you’re most vulnerable (asleep) and I know how you smell. The thought of these things comforts me while we are apart each day.

Scare tactics. Fuck that … Right?

Unfortunately, Milorod Milovanovi? the 3rd of Serbia former Yugoslavia, I have a bone to pick before our relationship can be legalized and consummated.

1) I e-tripped over the following video. I recognize your father at 2:45.

Let me say that, if things don’t work out with us, give him this letter and my number. Because I know that the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, I will say this once, if we are to be together you have one of three options:

1) No anal raping fans of opposing teams,
2) No anal raping fans of opposing teams, with the exception of Croatians, Albanians and assorted, perforated street fixtures,
3) let me help you.

I understand that what you stand for goes beyond any sport. You acknowledge the fact that the sport does exist, yet you don’t really give a fuck about the game; this is about the fight afterward. Or before. Or during. I respect your manly demeanor and the stabbings and punches you’ve both distributed and taken for your club and country. At first I thought it was a ridiculous thing to do, beating up and killing people over a sport for fuck’s sake, but when I saw you three years ago in a mob of ten fans, kicking that Partizan Belgrade fan with the un-ironic Eastern European mullet, well … that’s when I knew that your beliefs couldn’t stand in the way of our love.

Do you remember that night you tried to strangle me from behind and I attempt to take a pic of us on my camera phone while our heads were nestled so closely together, provoking you to then throw and break my phone? That was a nice day.

Here is a video of us on that day, somewhere deep in that crowd, engaged in a violent yet lovingly tangled romp:

Please respond promptly to this letter and attach it to the door of the over-sized hamburger down the street from the Red Star Stadium. If you have not responded to my letter within 48 hours, in order to prove my love to you, I will have my radiologist tie me to a pre-carved, 12 foot crucifix in your front yard and promptly burn it to the ground.

Worst case scenario: I die.
Best case scenario: We both die.

-FUCK BOX NO. 1

PS. Remember: Knives are for pussies.

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