Dear LeBron:
I know what it's like to grow up without a father. Okay, not literally, but I watch a lot of Lifetime movies. And it's come to my attention that you're currently without a father figure, seeing as how the last one is enjoying the hospitality of the Ohio Department of Corrections.
Which is why I'm offering my services. I'm an actual father, I'm not presently in the slam, and I don't have that many outstanding warrants. So here's my promise to you: If I ever get pinched, it's gonna be for a helluva lot bigger score than a real estate scam. That's for damn sure.
Now it seems you've been making a lot of bad decisions lately. First the Hummer, then the jerseys, then getting interviewed by Deion Sanders. The man couldn't tackle, son. He's a bad influence. You hang around people like that, the next thing you know you're dressing like a parakeet and can't play D.
Now don't be listening to these sports columnists, either. They're always yipping about crap like your lost youth, the corruption of amateur athletics, blah, blah, blah. Let me clue you in on these guys:
Profile: Spent adolescence cheating kids 10 years younger out of their most valuable baseball cards. Arrested for stalking home ec teacher at age 17. Studied sports writing to gain entry to women's locker rooms. Didn't get first date till age 33 -- arranged by Mom. Now 48 and still talks about his 16 yards rushing in a middle school football game. Believes he'll retire early on his Unauthorized Biography of Chris Mihm.
They're lowlifes, son. What you need is someone who's been around the block. Someone who knows how to hide a "bank loan." Someone who can provide a voice of reason the next time you bring 20 witnesses to a jersey scam. Someone like me. And my first advice to you: Lose the Hummer, pal.
Rule No. 1: Chicks do not dig guys driving overgrown sandbox toys. Unless you're planning to haul scrap iron, son, you're sending the wrong message.
You may have heard that science guys got a new theory. It goes like this: The bigger your truck, the smaller your manly apparatus. Which means that when you're out driving that Hummer, what you're saying to the ladies is: "I got the loving capacity of that gay guy from Will & Grace."
What you need is something that shows class. Not some BMW or Mercedes, which are made by Germans, who are 0-2 in their last two wars. What you need is a Caddy.
The Cadillac is the ultimate in class -- especially if you screw a cow head or some Viking horns to the hood. It's made of quality American steel, so you won't get hurt that bad when you're out drunk driving and ram into a pet store. And it says to the ladies, "I'll buy you steak and top-shelf whiskey." That's the kind of message that gets women coming like a herd of moose.
Which leads us to another important topic: Babes. They're a mysterious creature, son, untamed by the world of science. Hell, God doesn't even understand 'em, and he owns the production rights. But I do know this:
1. Do not date women with fake boobs. It's only a matter of time before a chemical spill erupts. This happened to a buddy of mine. He got third-degree burns. He now looks like Dennis Kucinich.
2. Look for volume. No matter how nice they are, women will eventually get tired of your ass. We're men. Would you wanna date us? What you need is a nice batch of role players who can step up in certain situations: One with good table manners for awards banquets; one who's Amish and won't light up your MasterCard; one who's a longshoreman in case you need backup in a bar fight, etc.
But most of all, enjoy yourself while you're still young. Adult life ain't pretty. One day you're on top of the world. The next you're old, you've got a gut the size of a GM plant, you've lost all your money in a card game, and -- boom! -- you're feeling lucky just to get your game on at the VFW lounge.
So don't waste this valuable time on stupid crap like, say, practicing basketball. Top draft picks aren't guaranteed success. (Two words: Danny Ferry.) Fact is, your odds for sucking are way better than for starring. Which means you got to play the smart money, son: As soon as you sign that first contract, tank it.
NBA contracts are guaranteed. Even if you play like a third-string center from Oberlin, they still have to pay you. Which means your time is better spent enjoying the finer things.
Take vacations to exotic locales like Buffalo and Detroit. Buy yourself a loyal group of friends. Throw money out your sunroof and watch people fight over it. Reenact that scene from Scarface where Al Pacino sticks his face into a large pile of coke. (Don't worry. The team springs for rehab.)
These are things you'll fondly recall in later years. Do you want to tell your grandkids boring stories about when you got stuck in the Oakland airport? Or would you rather tell 'em about the time you hired six hookers and roadtripped to Peru, where you partied with Shining Path guerrillas? That's what I'm talking about.
Attached you will find a bill for my initial advice, which is being offered at the low introductory rate of $5 a word. Should I not receive payment within 30 days of receipt, interest will be calculated at the rate of 36 percent an hour. (Sorry, kid, but I got to clue you in on finance, too.)
-- Sincerely, your pal Pete
