Spitballs and sweathogs. Player’s coffee and human growth hormone. Chunky groupies, resin bags, rally caps and a whole lot of penicillin. That’s what baseball writing is made of. Oh, and this year, add a tall glass of whine (see what I did there?), because a whole hayride of pasty-faced idjuts are going on and on about how we’re the Old Regime, the death of The Tribe of Diamond-Scribe, the Man. But I’m here to tell you: they’re as sick as Billy Martin’s morning breath, and foul like balls.

Welcome to Yard Work 2007.

In an era when bloggers are getting bought up by multinational marketing campaigns, we remain true to ourselves. Yet if you’ll shift your bloodshot squinties a few micropixels to the right, you will see that we’ve got some ads now. That’s right, female dogs: we’re gettin’ paid like Fred Flintstone. Anyone who has a problem with that is probably a thumbsucker who’s never actually been to a game in their lives. Go ahead, accumulate some dust on your fat asses while we eat your fish tacos and date your girlfriends, sisters, and some of your hotter MILFs. It’s just a little quirk of ours. Get over it.

You may have heard that some other places — who we will not dignify with a linky — think they can bring the noise. The MSM slobbers all over these johnny-come-weaklys because it still has had a Louisville Slugger up its diseased coccyx about us. Not for nothing, but it is not all that hard to stalk an idiot and bitchily mocking his dumb words line by line. Yet everyone’s all stumbling over themselves to pass out the handjobs to certain sites, even though they are pretty much the Jay Leno to our David Letterman. (Or worse, the Craig Ferguson!) We keep bringing the steak, but some mouthbreathers want the Rosanne Barr loose meat sandwich. We understand. It’s probably just a bunch of 55-year-old white guys who spend their nights fondling their Don Mossi cards and stealing content from other, better sites. Like ours.

Until now, the Yard has not said anything about these hosebags. But at some point, you gotta hit the ol’ flusherino and turn on the fan and come out and announce loudly to the in-laws, “Anyone who steps in there is gonna need a Hazmat suit and a defibrillator, stat!”

These other sites keep winning Internet “awards” for “popularity” and “coolness.” How did they get people to vote for them? By shamelessly pimping themselves. We’d like to think we’re above that…but we’re actually SO FAR above that that we’re not even going to bother to think about it anymore.

We should all be in the same gang. At the end of the day, you don’t want to read all this insider-only shinola. You don’t want us getting all meta on your pimply aft-section, any more than you want Jose Lima to show up in your bedroom alone with a four-pack of Zima and no shirt.

No.

You just want to know what the best baseball insight/strategy/gossip is.

That’s what Yard Work ultimately delivers.

Yard Work kills baseball writing? A-Rod Defeats Morneau, Motherfuckerz.