An Open Letter to the Oakland Raiders

Dear Raiders de la Oakland:

I KNOW it is tough to be you-you are the outcasts of the NFL, you are the constant butt of jokes about never being able to fill the stands because the box office won't take food stamps, and you have one of the bat-shit-craziest owners ever to throw his arthritic weight around.

However, I love a man that sadly loves you.  You see, I'm a forty-niners fan.  I know, I know.  How did we ever think a mixed marriage would work?

We try, for the kids' sakes. And January to August, we walk through mostly marital bliss (unless you draft a linebacker with a great arm, or a kicker that is the fastest runner out of training camp).
But during September, October, November and part of December, you make my Sundays and many Mondays a living hell. You see, Sky King will watch.  He will get his gear on, load up on too much coffee, maybe put some yummy greasy food in the oven for a fab Sunday Night grub-fest.  He will sit like a bright-eyed child on Christmas morning, waiting for the enormous loot from Santa despite his mother running out on the family and his alcoholic father losing his part-time gig scraping road kill into a barrel.  And then, like clockwork, he will find that there is NO SANTA.

He then goes through the 4 stages of grief (no true Raider fan can ever truly get to the 5th stage, acceptance, so it might as well not even exist.)

It could be any number of things:
Bad calls by the refs (we all know the refs HATE the Raiders)
Bad plays-interception after interception
Accurate calls by the refs-how many times can one guy get called off sides before he just gives up and walks off the field?

Or the usual.  A great start, followed by some excellent runs, which gives my man hope.  Hope that sounds a lot like reindeer on the roof.  Only to have the team crumble when it matters. It's quite similar to seeing Santa's decapitated head roll down the chimney and land in a viscous pool at our feet. But, like most innocent children, he will NOT go psycho and murder scores of postal workers, or keep bodies in his freezer. Instead, he will forget it ever happened, and be right back in the squishy spot on the couch the very next week, as if the previous week's debacle didn't happen.  And so on, and so on.

So, here is what I need.  Decide at the beginning of the season what the plan is.  Win, lose, it really doesn't matter.  It's the (excuse my french here) total mind-fuck that kills him. It causes him to mope around most of the day. But not only that. he will watch Sports Center to recap. As if his misbehavior caused the loss.  He takes it personally, and he is too good of a man to have to tolerate much more. He deserves better from his NFL team.

Pick a plan, stick with it, respond accordingly. 
And maybe, just maybe, do something about the creepy guys in the Black Hole.

Too much to ask?  Yeah, okay, I concede.  But that first part? Do that.

Thanks!

Kisses,
Aimee