OPEN LETTER

Dear Pacman,

Listen, a bunch of us are going out to the club, but we're gonna have a mellow night. Just a few cocktails, some prime rib, girls on poles, lap dances, tossing $81,000 in the air, multiple shots fired, SWAT team called, and fleeing the scene in an SUV. But we're fleeing early. We want to get to Michael Vick's house for movie night. He's rented Must Love Dogs.

Come again, Pacman?

You can't even do that? You're staying in and playing Sudoku? We don't believe it, Pac. You've got a reputation to protect. You're supposed to be the craziest guy in the National Football League. You've been arrested six times in thirty months. Mike Vick? You make Mike Vick look like Dr. Dolittle. Pacman at a strip club is scarier than the complimentary buffet.

But now you're suspended. For a whole season. You're going to play less football than Brian Boitano. Your team, the Tennessee Titans, doesn't have to pay you. You've got worse cash flow than our summer intern, Jessica. Forget throwing money into the air at the strip clubs, Pac. You need to slip rèsumès into those G-strings.

The thing is, you don't listen. The NFL commissioner read you the riot act and told you not to screw up again. Then you go out and…get tangled up in another strip-club-related shooting. What part of Hey, you're suspended for a year for being a total idiot did you not understand? If you were Paris Hilton, you would have walked out of jail, slurped down a bottle of tequila, and sped off in a Maserati. Nude.

Look, Pac, this isn't the late '90s, and you're not playing wide receiver for the Dallas Cowboys. The NFL wants its players to behave like monks. No troublemaking. No cursing. No crazy end-zone dances. No barbaric violence—except on Sundays, of course!

We're rooting for you, we really are. You're an electrifying player, and if you can just stay out of the police station, you could even be a real star. So please, take this advice.

1. Find a new clubhouse. You've got to steer clear of the adult establishments, Pacman. Here's a handy rule: If the sign says satin, dolls, fantasy, or Sen. Ted Kennedy—do not enter. If the sign says chai tea, vegan, or acoustic tonight: John Mayer—go inside, plug in your MacBook, and enjoy.

2. Hire a new entourage. If we believe some of your defenders, it's not you who's causing all this trouble, it's the people around you. So it's time to get a safer crew. Mitt Romney. John Edwards. Tom Hanks. Brian Williams. Load them up in the Dodge Neon and road-trip it to Delaware. Oh, and definitely bring along Tim Duncan; his idea of a wild night out is extra breadsticks at the Olive Garden.

3. Take care of Michael Vick's dogs. Look, you need to make some money. And it sounds like Vick's dogs need some snuggling. Actually, so do Vick's neglected wide receivers. Can you snuggle them, too?

4. Find a new name. We were relieved to learn your real name isn't Pacman. It's Adam. But we're thinking you could use something even more sedate. What about Fred? Albert? Roger? Devin? Cindy? Timbaland? Yao? Whatever. Just not 50, Dick, or Scooter.

Okay, Pacman, good luck with your year off. And keep those twenties in your own pockets.

Sincerely,
GQ

P.S. Yao Jones. We kind of love it.

SUBMIT