Metta World Ron was eliminated from “Dancing with the Stars” last night, meaning this is the last you’ll hear from my mom. At least until Ray Allen wins season 18 in 2014.

I knew the DWTS Ron Artest posts would be short-lived, but one week? Not that it was the wrong choice, America, but really?

At least Metta was honest with the judges tonight. He admitted to his lack of focus during the dance. Why? Because, in his words, “I knew I was gonna, like, smack Peta’s booty, and I was just waitin’ for that part the whole time.” I suppose looking forward to smacking someone’s bum-bum would be enough to cause one to get off course, but is that what really caused Metta to be booted off?

I think not. The issues run deeper. Much deeper.

With the NBA lockout, it’s apparent that Ron has completely lost his identity. The name change should have been a tip-off that something was out of whack. And his, what seemed to be, dissociative identity displayed during his DWTS performance reinforced that hunch.

Metta: If you’re reading this, and I’m sure you are, maybe this motherly advice will help as you continue your journey in search of the real you.

  • You’re not Michael Jordan. So leave your tongue in your mouth. Only Michael can look cool with his tongue sticking out.
  • I know wearing the Billie Jean hat was a lot of fun for you, but I lost track of how many times you touched it somewhere between the numbers 15 and 70. If you’re going to go for the Michael Jackson look, just be cool, baby.  Just be cool.
  • Don’t look so much like a creep. The world already has one Dennis Rodman, and even sometimes that’s too much.
  • Hitting on Nancy Grace was unsettling. Admittedly, for a quick second, I was wishing I was Nancy Grace. But your idea of clubbing with her and that being “dope” just makes you look, well … you know.
  • I’m stating the obvious here, but you are not a dancer. Leave the dancing to the men that are good at it. Chaz Bono, for instance. Now he’s a dancer. You, my friend, are a basketball player.
  • And finally, the best advice I can give you, my sweet Metta, is this: Go back to being Ron Artest. Literally. And until the lockout is over, if you ever want to take a mother clubbing, then look me up.

Now, to my own son:

I know there’s probably not much demand for me to keep writing about DWTS for TBJ. Especially in a season where Ricki Lake is the pretty one, Carson Kressley wishes his dance partner was Maksim Chmerkovskiy and, Pee Wee Herman is critiquing the dancers (heh-heh).

So with a tear in my eye, I say good-bye to “The Mom Report.” At least for now. But if you get a flood of requests for Chaz updates, just let me know. My DVR is set just in case.

I love and miss you Trey-Trey!

Goodbye, The Mom Report. It was fun while it lasted. Love you back.