All right – you know who the f-ck I am. Welcome to BLEEP BLEEP. It’s my regular blog thing where I talk to you, the fans. Yay for me. I’ve got a half-empty bottle of Jack, I’ve got a glass full of ice, and I’m feelin GOOD for once. Gimme some g-ddamn questions!

“Larry – what would you say is the biggest surprise so far this year?” [J. Cortbang – Minneapolis, MN]

J., I’d have to say that the awful performance of the Houston Astros so far is sickening. It makes me want to move to Germany so I can play in the Autobahn traffic. Outside of Clemens, Lidge, Lane, and Biggio, that team isn’t worth a g-ddamn. That fat jerk Berkman is out somewhere “rehabbing” – yeah, right, have another Ho-Ho, Rerun. And if I have to watch Jeff Bagwell swing over the top of a Sally League curveball because of his glaucoma and bursitis and gout and what the f-ck ever, I’ll drive down to Minute Maid Park and weld a f-cking walker into his hands so he takes the f-cking hint.

“Hey, Larry. Looking good on BBTN. How do you feel about the Padres and the Philles, the two teams you used to manage, struggling so far this year?” [M. Jonstone – Brooklyn, NY]

First of all, f-ck you – I know I look good, so I don’t need some limp loser typing with one hand telling me how I look. Also, do I know you? If not, why the f-ck are you calling me by my first name? Call me Mr. Bowa, or call me Janitor, ’cause I’ll mop the f-cking floor with you if you keep testing me. And believe me when I say that I won’t f-cking flunk. -sshole.

Second – who gives a sh-t about the Padres? They traded away Ozzie Smith, for the love of f-ck, and their best hitter ever was some fat Twinkie-eating jerk that only hit singles. “Oooh, but they’ve been to the World Series twice.” Yeah, and they won ONE GAME between the two. Lookin’ real good. And, what, they’re playing in a doghouse now? F-ck that – they can shove that place, their piss-sh-t uniforms, and their Bochyball straight up a sump pump.

And, yeah, Ed Wade, f-ck you. How’s it feel to be right? Yeah, it was MY fault those losers couldn’t take a little criticism. I told you, they don’t want to win. You could hire that John Tesh-looking f-ck to MOTIVATE them to STOP SCRATCHING THEIR BALLS and PLAY SOME F-CKING BASEBALL, and they’d still suck the stink off a fart. You could probably bring in the hottest Hooters girls to take showers w/ each other, and they’d still be limp soft pansy-ass LOSERS. I’m glad you fired me, Wade, glad I tell ya! F-CK YOU AND YOUR F-CKING HORSE.

Thanks for f-cking writing, M! NEXT!

“Mr. Bowa, a fantasy baseball question: I’m in a 5 X 5 league, and I have a deep starting pitching staff (Santana / Harden / Morris / D-Train / Wells / Miller), but my SS situation’s been screwed over by Nomah’s crotch. Someone offered me Miguel Tejada for Johan Santana. Should I try countering w/ D-Train, or just accept the trade as is?” [B. Ankielbiter; Newington, CT]

Oh for the love of f-ck do you really think I give a sh-t about your stupid-ass fantasy team? Look, you want some advice? Take your hands off your f-cking dick, take a shower, put on some CLEAN underwear, and go get laid. Or, if you’re too chicken-sh-t to actually talk to a person w/ tits besides yourself, send your dumbsh-t question to one of those other E$PN nerds, like Cockcraft, or Fondlecock, or Otis Spunkmiter or what the f-ck ever those zit-covered pizzas call themselves. Sh-t.

One more, and then I gotta go do something important w/ my life.

“Hey, LARRRRRRY – how does it feel to be a knock-kneed little b-tch that doesn’t know what the hell he’s talking about, LARRRRRRRRY? BTW, your wife says hi.” [T. Houston; Kissamyass, ND]

HOUSTON! You gimpy little slut. You still taking strike 3 like a prison b-tch, you little turd burglar? I’ve got hairs on my balls that’re bigger than you. Yeah, talk about my wife, you punk – keep on talking when I trace your f-cking IP address back to your little tarpaper shack out in the middle of West Tumblef-ck and give you the business end of a Louisville Slugger. Not that you know what it’s like to swing a bat, you dick jockey. Yeah, why don’t you say hi to your cute wittle pissant buddy, Scottie Rolen? Both of you can eat the corn off of my cob. I bet you’re the one that made up this sh-t about me, didn’t you? Like I f-cking write poetry – I’M A MAN, YOU B-TCH. You got something to say to me, say it to my face, or to my fist, you no-talent pine-riding sh-tstain. JUST TRY ME HOUSTON.

F-ck it. That’s it. Thanks for reading, -ssholes.