Dear Mr. Angelos,

I think the time has come for you to ponder taking the next step. No, I'm not talking about hiring a manager, or a general manager; I'm not even talking about selling the team. I'm talking about considering the possibility that it is time to die.

I mean, you've lived a long, fruitful life. You have been a successful attorney. You've owned a baseball team. You've traveled all over the world. Hell, you've even had a conversation with Fidel Castro. What is there to gain from hanging on any longer?

There are so many ways you could do it. You could hold a lit stick of dynamite in between your teeth. You could throw yourself in front of a moving bus, or a garbage truck. You could stab yourself in the gut with a sword, like a disgraced samurai warrior. You could rig up a homemade guillotine to cut your own head off. Or you could cut your head off with a chainsaw. You could leap off of the roof of the Warehouse, for instance, or drive your car off of a cliff. Or you could drink a whole bottle of Liquid Plumr. You could go to the zoo and leap into the lion den, and go pick a fight with the biggest one. Or take a boat out into the deep blue sea and feed yourself to the sharks. You could even cover yourself in gasoline and light yourself on fire, or boil yourself in oil.

But however you choose to do it, the time has come. So hurry up, before the free agent signing period begins. We'll all be better off.

Except for you, of course.

But ** you.

Signed,

Baltimore