Below is a response to a letter penned to Seattle by The Oklahoman columnist Jenni Carlson. Read at your own risk.

Dear Oklahoma City,

Truce? I don’t think so.

Here in Seattle, we’ve been watching your basketball team and its slobber-knocking run to an inevitable playoff ouster. We see the joy our former Sonics have created. We see the passion your fans have for this championship-losing bound bunch. We see the arm-waving, cousin-banging Thunder-up insanity of it all.

And we wonder if it’s time you went and fucked yourselves.

You’ve got a great, albeit unaccomplished basketball team.

We’ve got a great football team.

Can we all just agree that you’ll go fuck yourselves?

Sure, there will probably always be some people in Oklahoma City who want to get along with Seattle because they need validation and have a strong desire to be liked and accepted by all of society. They watched a couple years ago when the Thunder lost in the NBA Finals and felt that a future of fateful title defeats might be avoided if a bit of good karma was extended the Pacific Northwest’s way.

That’s assuming they survived the pain of seeing Clay Bennett purse his lips and tighten his asshole just a bit more than usual upon being toppled on the league’s biggest stage by the Miami Heat.

But the truth is, the Sonics’ departure can be traced in no part whatsoever to the Seahawks’ first of many other trips to the Super Bowl. That was February 2006, and it has no bearing on what’s occurred since, what’s occurring now, and what will occur later on because aside from being from the same city, the Seahawks and Sonics have very little in common, so why make such a lazy comparison unless you’re a lazy, talentless scribe, am I right?

The same winter that our football team had everyone buzzing here, a displaced basketball team was having a much lesser effect there. The Hornets had landed in Oklahoma City after a natural disaster forced them out of New Orleans, and Oklahomans were quickly realizing how beneficial it can be to capitalize on tragic events.

And as your NBA passion was borne out of others’ misfortune, ours in Seattle remained ever-fervent – though you’d like to believe otherwise because Clay Bennett is a propagandist who did a good job convincing you that we stopped supporting our team.

The Seahawks were the shahs, and the Mariners were the emperors, and let’s insert some other middling hierarchical relationship analogies in order to cobble together a back-handed compliment. The Sonics? They were our first love in this basketball-crazy town and as Bennett and his band of cronies did everything they could to make the gameday experience insufferable in that final year, fans still showed up, putting forth an effort that looked like this. Making matters worse was an NBA commissioner determined to stick it to our town, who had shared a bond with the team’s new owner over email exchanges dripping with curious affection, who had long developed a personal hatred towards the State of Washington and everyone in it, who will one day go to his grave with an entire region of basketball fans wishing he burns in hell for all eternity.

It’s not your fault, per se, but you won’t drop the subject, so it kind of is. I mean, we’d be fine just blaming Bennett, Stern, and Howard Schultz for this mess. But you assholes keep bringing up the past, intervening in our business, and pretending that the hijacking of our basketball franchise should just be water under the bridge. Like it’s no big deal. Like it just happens.

You know the rest, Oklahoma City.

No need for me to copy the remainder of Jenni Carlson’s format and pollute your brains with anymore of this impassioned drivel.

It’s plain as day that the original column, however petty, was shit out half-heartedly by a writer who will forever be stuck scribing for people that can almost read.

You can take that basketball team of yours and shove it up your collective asses. You can watch our football team in the Super Bowl and root for whoever you like, knowing that a football team of your own can’t exist above the college level.

And when we get an NBA team back in Seattle, you can rest assured that we’ll be there at every single meeting between our two squads, yelling, screaming, and rooting against you godforsaken pieces of Satan’s excrement, you trolling, sorry little bastards.

No better time than the present for you to go fuck yourselves.

Love, Seattle