Dear Michael Phelps,

I don’t blame you. You’re 23 years old, you’ve accomplished more than any other 23 year old on the planet, you’ve mastered your sport, and you have two or three years before you really have to gear up for competition again. I’d chill out and blaze one, too.

Really, nobody should be upset with you. You’re 23 years old, you have a new found (and instant) celebrity, you’re the Sportsman of the Year, and you’re flying around the country doing this gig and that. I’d party too.

Your apology was great, the situation well-managed, and your sponsors were too caring (or too afraid) to make this of any consequence. So in the words of Saddam Hussein in South Park, “relax, buddy.”

In fact…you could use a nice night out. That’s why I’m formally inviting you to come party with me and my friends sometime soon.

Seriously. We smoke, we drink (we’re supposed to stop, but we can’t), we love your boy Lil’ Wayne, and you’d fit right in as a funny (albeit kind of awkward) sports enthusiast. We’re hitting Caesar’s Saturday night in Waterloo for Snydes’ and Millen’s birthdays. If that’s not your thing, we’re hitting Rev next Friday for Horatio’s girl’s birthday (Mel-el-el-ellll). And hey, if neither of those work for you, we’ll be hitting St. Catharines to party some weekend soon, for sure. We pre-drink with Beer Pong, Weezie, and basketball. We go out hard. There will be ladies. You can even have dibs and I’ll wingman for you.

This isn’t a mock letter, it’s no joke. You should come party with us. No cameras, no limits, on the forreal. It will be good times, and it’s win-win – you get a sick night out without your sponsors or any British tabloid knowing, and I’m sure I’ll get some trickle-down love.

Michael, consider this a formal invitation. In the words of our boy Wayne, “Damn, You done walked in here, looking like the motha****in Man of the Year…”

Talk soon playboy, talk soon…

Blake Murphy

P.S. Please share your ab workout.