Hello Baltimore Ravens.
I am Diego Montoya Anderson. Numero tres de la Cafés de Cleveland.
You released me from your football team.
Prepare to die.
Do you remember, Kyle Boller, when you duct-taped me to the goal posts and let Tara Reid bite off my nipples?
This Sunday, you die.
Ray Lewis, I let you hide your AK-47s and IEDs in my dorm during training camp, then you ratted me out to homeland security. I did 3 months at Guantanamo Bay for you, Ray Lewis.
On Sunday, at 1pm, you will die.
Brian Billick. I remember you, sir. You swore on your great grandmothers grave that I was your super awesome quarterback of the future. Then, on the final day of training camp, you buried a shiv between my third and fourth ribs.
On the seventh day, God may rest, but I will not. For I will kill you. Dead.
DeShawn, the locker room attendant at M&T Bank Stadium. I tipped you at the end of every game, but you refused to clean the feces out of my locker after Jonathan Ogden pinched a two-foot loaf all over my gear.
You may have forgotten, but Diego Montoya Anderson never forgets. Sunday, you die.
People frequently say that Matt Stover is the nicest guy in the Ravens locker room. No matter.
Sunday, I will break both your knee caps free of your twitching body and feed the cartilage to the Dawg Pound. For Sunday, you will die.
Heisman Trophy Winner Troy Smith. We've never crossed paths in this vast football universe. But I'm going to mentally put Drew Olsen's face on your body, and snap your neck.
Drew Olsen took my spot on the Ravens roster just as you took his.
For that, Sunday, you will die.
For I am Diego Montoya Anderson.
And on Sunday, you will all die.
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