The following is an open letter from the Paroxi-Wife to her secret boyfriend, Boom Dizzle.
Oh, Baron. There aren't enough words to talk about how much I love your arms. Your beautiful, beautiful arms. I could use a thousand words like "chiseled" and "carved" that fit in bad romance novels, but nothing captures the flip that my stomach does when the cameras zoom in on you. To be honest, I kind of hated it when they focused on anyone else. I supported your art-free arms, and I stood up for you when people talked about your indie film love and friendship with Cash Warren and your beard. Why? Because a) I thought the fact that you too would share my love for movies and celebrity babies meant we were secretly boyfriend and girlfriend, b) you were amazing to watch on the court, c) I really hoped you would come to your senses and shave, and d) you had the muscles to beat the crap out of anyone who looks at you sideways. You made me cave! You made me watch NBA games! I called your team the Warlocks and it stuck, and man, was I sad when I couldn't watch you anymore this season.
And now this? Really? This is what you do to the one who loves your arms unconditionally and compromised everything she felt was moral and good in the world to sneak downstairs in the middle of the night and drool over your highlights, putting in hours to discover all the slow-motion and zoom functions of the DVR? You leaving the Warlocks I can dig. You need the money to support the movies and the babies and all of those Bow-Flex machines- and God knows, I don't want to take you away from those for even a day. But the Clippers?! Could you have signed with a more boring team? I'd ask if you could have signed with a worse team, but there's always the Heat. Although at least then I could have watched you and Dwayne Wade hug…. But no! You couldn't even give me that.
My apologies. Baron, arms, let's talk. I understand you have goals beyond basketball. Believe me,
Let's consider where all that money truly gets you: stuck with a team that's as bad as the Knicks without the cool new coach. Let's give some of that money back for a job that's worth going to, and put aside the L.A. club scene for a few years. You can hit that (and all the tail you want) in your late thirties and they'll still love you. For now, let's look at some of the other cities that you could make a splash in, and rethink this whole schooner thing. You and your arms have great things left in them- let's not detract from the muscles with the bling. No matter how many Mr. T-style bracelets L.A. gives you, they can't give you a trophy
The Paroxi-WifeP.S. I'll come running back if you make a movie in which you wear a tight t-shirt. You know I can't stay away from your arms for long.