Bury Wahoo.

Hey Cleveland fans,

Draymond Green owns your souls. You have no one to blame but yourself for running your damn fool mouths last summer after the Cavs came back from a 3-1 game deficit. When the Indians tripped on their dicks and fell into the gaping hole of Mike Napoli batting fourth in the lineup, squandering a 3-1 game lead, Draymond was there to take what you had unwittingly offered when you behaved like angry Shriner clowns who were talking smack to the Free Masons about the number of tires in their parade. Paybacks are a bitch, Sunshine, and you will carry this debt to the grave. Your claims that basketball is a different sport, so 3-1 means something different when talking about hoops sound like a white privileged kid defending the use of the word niggardly on his blog. Counting is fundamental. Once again, Cleveland is the butt of jokes across the nation, and once again, Cleveland’s only response is stammering, “But, but, our Metroparks are great! At least we aren’t Toronto! We had a championship parade while they had to settle for a NBA All Star game!”

Cleveland couldn’t even fill their stadium with Indians’ fans as many sold their tickets to Cubs fans so they could finally purchase that ’78 Camaro, or pay their kid’s tuition at St. Mark’s. Look, I know that money talks, but every man has a price, and yours was pretty low. At least downtown was able to recoup some revenue from that GOP convention, a small price to pay for the scab being ripped of the city’s insecurities, exposing them to the world. Meanwhile, Draymond Green gets the last laugh. Good going, Cleveland fans. The nation is laughing at you (again), and suddenly CLEVELAND AGAINST THE WOLRD rings hollow – don’t start a land war in Asia!

The only way to atone for this travesty is finally embrace adulthood and bury Chief Wahoo. He is not some benevolent drawing; he represents almost seventy years of losing. Don’t give me your bullshit about how the Chief is some sort of bond to your parents or grandparents; Chief Wahoo is handcuffed to losing, and that sadomasochist bastard enjoys it and wants to include you in his suffering. The current Wahoo wasn’t around in 1948; the TRULY RACIST WAHOO was. Don’t tell me your emotional investments with a cartoon; what is your return on those investments after almost seventy years of losing? No wonder you had to sell your World Series tickets to cover your ass. Daddy drank when you were a child because you were bad; I don’t want to hear any nostalgia about how great your childhood was. Besides, he isn’t even a chief; his one feather indicates he is a brave.

Before anyone accuses me of being a Social Justice Warrior, I am not advocating that Wahoo be buried for politically correct reasons, I want him gone because he is a loser, and you know what, fuck losers. If Cleveland fans want him around for nostalgic reasons, they can put up his image in their garages or dens. Wear Wahoo pajamas to be before you have sexy times with your significant other; just keep that loser off the field, and maybe the baseball team would not keep blowing 3-1 postseason leads. In case you forgot, the 2007 Indians did the same damn thing in the ALCS. In fact, the 2001, 1999, and 1998 teams all were up in the series after three games and went on to lose while wearing that loser on their hats.

If the Cleveland baseball team wants to retain the Indians as their nickname, well, that is their choice. However, I am not sure why organizations fell compelled to choose nicknames of groups of people who came up on the losing end of history. In the year 2016, you certainly aren’t honoring their traditions by plastering them on your sports laundry. Plus, the original Indians in the Cleveland area were such an odious lot that they were eradicated by other tribes. I am not sure that is what an organization should strive for when choosing a nickname, but let’s face it, what the hell else is the team going to be called, “The Shuttered Steel Mills”? “Little Orange Barrels”? “The Sir Albert Belles”?

Cleveland can have a big ceremony to put Wahoo to rest. Instead of a victory parade, there can be a funeral procession along the Cavs parade route. Everyone can come out to pay their respects and behave like it is St. Patrick’s Day. Old players can be invited to attend, and this time Chuck Finley will not be slighted. He is just hanging out in malls in Southern California anyway, just wanting to talk baseball with strangers. Omar Vizquel and Jose Mesa can patch things up in Carlos Baerga’s limo. At the end of the long night, Cleveland could finally put the past behind them and look towards the future, a future in which complete dominance of Toronto sports will still be a thing.

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