Vick's Fucked Up Moral Universe — Rehabilitated by a Writer!

Dear Mike:

Can I call you "Mike"? I've really never written a star athlete before, and I would hate to alienate you with forced familiarity. But "Michael" doesn't seem to fit, either, so let's just call you what you should be called, "Sick Fuck," as in "Sick Fuck Vick."

Oh, today you apologized and asked for forgiveness for your "mistake," though I don't think your dog-fighting enterprise, "Bad Newz Kennels," was truly a mistake. The only mistakes you made were choosing the wrong accomplices, who gladly rolled on you when the going got tough, and that you weren't more discreet in setting up your matches. Those are mistakes. But what you did was a way of life (you ran the dogfighting ring for six years), and if you hadn't been caught, you'd still be torturing and executing animals for fun.

This really is piling on after the whistle, I realize. You've been castigated and humiliated plenty of other places in the media and on the Internet, and you are looking at a year in the Big House — and I don't mean Michigan Stadium. Your career is in tatters and people are sending your jersey to the Atlanta Humane Society to line kennels and mop up after accidents.

Sure, you have your defenders, many of whom you did not have to pay to do so. Those who say that at least you didn't kill somebody. Those who say that you're being persecuted because you're black. And those who say that you can do what you want with your dogs, as long as it doesn't hurt somebody.

Of course, these defenses entail a moral universe far removed from anything mere mortals like myself inhabit. The implication is that just about anything short of physically hurting a human being shouldn't be criminal, which would be a great relief to our overtaxed criminal justice system, since they could then ignore about 90 percent of the things now illegal.

I gotta hand it to, Mr. Sick Fuck. You've given the phrase "dog days of summer" new meaning — I mean, all I could come up with was some pathetic paragraphs on bedbugs for the past few weeks. But when I heard about your press conference earlier today, in which you asked for forgiveness and invoked Jesus, I knew what I had to do.

Offer my services as a writer, of course.

Though I am not a Christian, I do believe in some of Jesus Christ's teachings, such as "He who has not sinned, let him cast the first stone," embracing and helping society's outcasts, and giving a Swanson's Turkey TV dinner for the downtrodden on his birthday. Like Jesus offered forgiveness, you'd like some forgiveness from the public and (most importantly) the NFL, so you can go back to doing what you do best: being an exciting but mediocre football player. This is where Bookfraud can help.

It's a simple matter of you being able to tell "your side of the story," and do it in a way that evokes sympathy rather than condescension. We can pen your autobiography, or write a screenplay of your ordeal. There are so many ways in which to do this.

To wit:

That Son of Sam thing happened to me. Instead of dogs telling me to kill people, other people told me to kill dogs.

Or

Those dogs were the same ones used in Abu Ghraib. They knew things that other dogs did not, and our national security depended on their betraying their secrets.


Woof

Or

It's been alleged that I electrocuted dogs. This is a flat out, mendacious lie. I just flipped a switch.

Or

What's the big deal? I simply provided the financing, the facilities, the opportunity, and the motives to commit a crime, but that doesn't mean I actually did it. Kind of like Halliburton and the war.

Or

Hell, it's not like I killed someone.

Several months ago, I made a similar plea to Brittney Spears when her career started hitting the skids. She ignored me, however, and look what happened: back to drug rehab, erratic behavior, and she may lose custody of her children. It hasn't been pretty, and I can draw a direct line between her rejection of my writing prowess and her downfall.

With you, I see a much grimmer fate. Accept my offer and feel the warm public glow of redemption or turn me down, and end up bending over for that bar of soap in the prison shower. Hey, it's a lot easier deal to accept than your plea bargain.