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Dear Micky Arison:
As owner of the Miami Heat, you've nurtured the evolution of a legacy that was humbly born in the late '80s, developed in the '90s, and unmistakably solidified in the new millennium. Your dedication to Miami sports revitalized a city desperate to escape the tentacles of irrelevance that had been choking away our pride and spirit. To die-hard South Florida sports fanatics like me, you, sir, are Beowulf.
But for all the glory you have brought our great city, one man has overshadowed your triumph with a shroud of anguish and torment. Time and again, he has plummeted us into an abyss of despair. This man is evil incarnate. El jodido diablo himself! He is a plague that has terrorized us with malice and ineptitude for too long, and the time has come for you, our champion, to rescue us from his despicable clutches.
The man I speak of is none other than el muy malparido de Stephen me cago en su madre Ross.