Dear Ron Artest,
Sorry, Ron, but you don’t get to call yourself Metta World Peace when your behavior is more like a combination of Mike Tyson and the Tasmanian Devil from Looney Tunes. Seriously, you make Charlie Sheen appear stable. You’re like the anti-Dalai Lama when you’re playing basketball, which would be fine, if you didn’t want to be called Metta World Peace.
William Shakespeare once wrote, “What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell just as sweet.” Well, that universal truth applies to you, too, Ron Artest. You could go by Mr. Nice Guy or Lots-O’-Huggin’ Bear, but your fairly consistent spasms of violence would still give you away.
Bottom line is people don’t think of Metta or peace when you’re throwing elbows, fists, and insults like a UFC cage fighter with Tourettes.
So here’s the deal, Ron. You can go back to Ron Artest, and we’ll happily call you that, but no more with the “peace and love” rubbish. It’s not you. Now if you want to officially change your name again to The Player Formerly Known as Metta World Peace, well, we can live with that. Or if you’d prefer Bat-Shit Crazy, we can get behind that, too. Long as you understand that Metta World Peace is off the books, once-and-for-all.
Okay, Ron, that’s all for now. Please understand where we’re coming from. And please don’t beat us up.
Anxious NBA Fans Everywhere