An open letter to Mike Tyson

Mike,

It was good to see you on Sunday at Roscoe's House of Chicken and Waffles. My family enjoyed your company as you scowled at us throughout the meal. Perhaps our skin color was not to your liking. Or perhaps you didn't like my nine year old pointing at that facial deformity you call a tattoo. Either way, it was still an honor to be in your presence.

Speaking of presence, I like the way you chose a seat that gave every patron in the restaurant a view of you. I could tell you enjoyed the attention. Too bad no one came up to you to shake your hand. That would have really given you the ego boost you were looking for; especially on your birthday weekend.

I could see why you're not in the best of shape these days. Two waffles and half of a fried chicken is a lot of calories to take in at one meal. And I'm sure the sugar you added to your Lisa's Delight didn't help your waistline either. Looking at the size of your belly, I'm surprised you tucked in your blue silk shirt. I would have worn it out.

Oh, and as you sat there gnawing on your chicken, sucking every bit of meat, skin and cartilage clean off the bone, I wondered what Evander's ear tasted like. You sure went to work on that chicken leg. Maybe, for a second there, you were reliving that moment in the ring with Evander?

After you left, it occurred to me; I had never dined with a convicted rapist before. Thank you for that bestowal. I can check that off my list of life accomplishments.

Well, Mike, I must bring this open letter to a close. Take care of yourself. And thank you for not eating my children.

Jon