Dear Adam Richman

I am naturally competitive.  Some say aggressively so.  Others refuse to play games with me because I am prone to violent outbursts and one time during Yahtzee I spoke in tongues when an opponent rolled five sixes.  I also love food so much I got myself the diabetes from eating so much of it.  I am the best at eating.  There is no one better.  I rarely choke while eating.  I can eat while driving and/or walking.  I have been eating my whole life.

I am not sure why you want me dead.  Alan Rickman, sure, he has plenty of reasons to want to see me on the coroner's slab, but et tu Adam?  What you've done is create the perfect plan of my destruction.  It is beautiful.  And terrifying.  Like the sea.  You are basically showing someone doing something I am good at, but they are doing it so poorly I have no recourse but to scream at the television and start bonging steaks I put through a blender to prove I am indeed a man.  You taunt me and tease me and show me that I can lead a life of gluttonous glory, that I can finally be the greatest at something that isn't blogging or making sweet sweet love.

Then you started "Man vs. Food Nation" because in your quest to mentally break me, your body revolted against you and you had to have a heart of a lion born free on the Serengeti grafted into your chest.  However, your plan was only nearly fool proof.  By making a forum where any gastronomically proficient fool can come on television and eat a mime's weight in glorious food, you knew I would have to break my own feet to stay away.  One thing you didn't plan on was that I actually have some self respect and preservation skills.  The other thing that you  forgot is that when you make me angry, I am about as unpredictable as a carny on amphetamines.  Twelve smashed television and five hospitalized Washington DC transients are all you have to show for the frustration you gave me.

So, I tip my cap to you, Adam, but you will not win this battle, or this war.  I am too brilliant a tactician for you to ever outsmart me, and I have curbed my anger enough that you can never provoke me again.

Also, I pooped in your mailbox.

Your move, tubby.