And times when you’re all alone all you do is think

Dear Coach Parcells,

Look, I'm going to cut right to the chase here, and save us both the trouble of pretending that we're pals or anything, OK? Great, here we go.
Here's the deal - when there's less than 2 minutes in the game and you've got 4th down and 4 to go, it's time to start thinking about kicking a field goal. Now I know our kicker, Jose WhoeverTheHellItIsThisYear, only has a career long of 52 yards, but that's what you and Coach Emeritus Jones have reaped by kicking on the cheap for over a decade now. That shit could work when you had a lot of star talent to get you into the end zone on a regular basis... but not anymore, homes. Drew McOldold (prophetically wearing Danny White's number, no less) and Keyshawn "Gimme the damn paycheck" Johnson aren't going to get the job done.

Next year, let's seriously think about drafting some real talent, and not just renting an old guy that didn't make the cut somewhere else, shall we?
Still, these are definitely reincarnation of the Cowboys from my youth - never passing up an opportunity to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory. So congratulations for that, Coach. You've earned it.

Your Buddy,
Stew

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Dear John Madden, the person to whom I'm addressing this letter. The letter that I'm writing right now. To John Madden, that is.

I have seriously underestimated you, sir. With 4 professional broadcasters (well, 3 and Mike Irvin) in the booth, you still managed to fight them off long enough to spew your verbal diarrhea... and you didn't even sound like you were struggling. Kudos to you! I had no idea you could get sufficient air to breathe if your bloated quivering jowls were shoved down your throat... I guess I lost that bet, huh?

When you write "Sincerely," then that's when you know you're ending, that's when you know you're ending the letter.
Stew. (The person who wrote this letter. On a computer.)