Dear Stupid, (and you know who you are, Ryan Lochte),
No. Wait. You don’t know who you are. You don’t know what a dope you are.
Because you’re acting like a spoiled brat. At 32. Because you could swim well. Yeesh.
You haven’t grown up because you haven’t had to. Nobody has forced you to, and you haven’t seemed much interested in it.
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You need better parenting. You need a friend. You need some tough love.
Nobody who cares about you would’ve allowed you to send out that alleged apology for the international batch of drunken lies you foisted on Rio de Janeiro, the Olympic Games, the United States Olympic Committee, Matt Lauer, Billy Bush, your mom and your teammates.
Anybody who has heard you talk or watched your lame reality show knows you couldn’t have written that apology yourself. You don’t sound or act like someone who knows all those words and maybe not all the letters of the alphabet.
No ghostwritten or heavily lawyered statement. No notes. No cue cards. No nothing. Just you apologizing in your own words instead of that statement that was as fraudulent as the story you told – check that, the stories, plural, you told.
I would’ve made you watch your video apology and then sent it to the media. It’s either from the heart or back in the toilet.
The words would’ve looked and sounded bad. The words would’ve looked and sounded humiliating. And that would’ve been the point.
Either grow up or we make another reality show out of all your future apologies.