Dear John Harbaugh: The long fraud of your goodbye and $oft landing in The Big Apple
I’ve blessed myself with 60 days to give your rather abrupt departure here some time to fully decant – like a hair-raising, pellet gun plum Ravens vintage – and smelling that musty, stale aroma and a hint of that rancid taste in the mouth you get when someone leaves town wearing a smile that doesn’t quite match the damage they did on the way out. “What do you want me to tell the other humans I know when they ask me about you?”
