An Apology to Don King

Dear Sir,

In a person's life, there are many things they do not wish to look back on and regret, whether it is the birth of their first child, or the first swing they took at an elderly gentleman for giving them "the fisheye." And in fact, many people can honestly look back and say they have no regrets. I however, have not been blessed with that luxury. I have many regrets. Some involve an unfortunate amount of stranger tazering. Others involve not letting people and love into my life. For this reason good sir, I must apologize.

I am not apologizing for attacking you while in a bleach induced daze last week. I am not apologizing for keying your car that was parked outside of an Applebee's. I'm not apologizing because there is absolutely no way to be certain that those were not hallucinations, and you shouldn't have left your minivan with "Wash Me" mockingly written in the dirt! 

Total dick move Donny

No no no no no, let me finish before you crumple this up and throw it in your gold plated recycling bin. I am not apologizing for those things. I am apologizing for never letting you in to my life. I can't imagine the anguish you must go through nightly when you contemplate not knowing anything about me or that I even exist. I can't, because I am me, and being me means automatically knowing I exist. But I am not writing you an existential sob story here. What I mean to say, is that I am sorry you could never profit from my world class boxing skills. I just, seriously, I just box so much stuff. Like...books, DVDs, CDs, sometimes computers, maybe a chair. That is...what kind of boxing you manage, correct?

The only thing that matters

Ok, that's not what I really mean. I know you are out of the boxing thing, as am I, but I saw you on Oprah earlier this afternoon and couldn't get you out of my head. I'm sure you are wondering, why now? Why love someone now? Like all great love stories, it started with a boy, injecting bleach into his veins. Amidst a test of a daring recipe I concocted in the toilet of my prison cell years ago, possibly hallucinating, your beautiful visage fluttering into my mind for reasons as yet unknown to me, it becomes clear. I love you. I know you probably have a thousand other boxers vying for your attention and affection. If only I wasn't retired.

Retired,  imprisoned for three counts of stalking, whatever, who's counting, the past is the past. You know Donny King, I think we could have had a beautiful relationship. The kind you only see in Disney movies or in East German pornography. You remember, like when the Fox pooped on the Hound, and the hunter was all like "WTF????" and then the rabbit ate some carrots and everyone loved everything. I could have been your Hound. Or it could have been about people who come from different walks of life that meet amidst tragic circumstances, only to fall in love. But halfway through the film, their love would be tested by the discovery that one of them has Chlamydia. Disney would have made a movie about our love. "The King and I." Beautiful. I assume the name hasn't been taken already.

A beautiful story

But as I sit across the street from your downtown office, it strikes me that our story is more tragic than that. I am like the dog in that one movie. You know, where the dog gets picked up by a guy, then put in a dogfighting ring, where a grizzled old coach shows him the ropes on how to survive. Then in a twist of fate, they are forced to fight each other, but the pup and the coach realize they are in love, and the love is too strong, so rather than fight, they nuzzle, but then both get shot when the angry drunk rednecks realize their bets are void. You know, like our story. Only, we don't have to fight. We only have to love. I don't know how many more comparisons I can draw to show you this Donny!

Let me just paint you a word picture here. Imagine you are driving home one night. You are scared. A car has been behind you for the last several miles, following the same winding path you have been taking. You turn down an alley, it turns right behind you. You turn into a park, just to see if it follows, and it does. Your heartbeat quickens. A cool sweat begins to form along the line of your Armani limited edition turtleneck. You speed up, faster than is acceptable, the car behind keeps pace. Just as you are about to reach your breaking point, the car speeds around you. A street light flickers above your car. You try to relax, but something still doesn't feel right. There is a tension, almost palpable in the air. Suddenly a zipper makes its telltale noise and your heart is in your mouth. But don't worry, its just ME in the backseat. Right where I belong. Protecting you from yourself. And smelling your hair. Ok, you can call the cops now.

Your Dearest:
Daniel Saunders

P.S. The cops won't save you.

P.P.S. Just joking.