IT’S SHOWTIME F*CKERS!

Oh yeah, I loved hearing Ron Gardenhire give it right back to those umps Lee Elia style. That was some great old-school no-sh*t-taking stuff. You *ss jockeys probably think Major League managers have it easy – they just slap on some stirrups, make a lineup, tell their coaches to coach, and run out to the mound once in a while to pull some sh*twit that couldn’t find the plate if he was the f*cking plate. Well, here’s a NEWSFLASH for you, Rudy – managing is probably the hardest f*cking thing a guy could do. You gotta wrestle with 27 (or 26 – whatever) multi-million dollar egos every single day, on the field, off the field, every g*ddamn place. You gotta shower w/ these f*cks, you gotta eat w/ these f*cks, you gotta listen to these f*cks while they whine about getting sued by some 14-year-old’s parents for statutory, you gotta listen to these f*cks yak up their lunch because the blow they bought was actually cut-up drywall, blah blah blah. Buncha p*ssies. Just take your 0-fer and get the f*ck outta my g*ddamn office, me and Jim Beam are trying to actually get some f*cking work done.

Then you gotta play footsie with the f*cking press, a bunch of cupcake-kissing fat campers asking their stupid sh*t questions like, “What’d you think about losing 10-0 to a Sally League team?” or “How’d you feel when Cormier walked the bases loaded three times in a row?” or “Why the hell are you giving that f*ckwit David Bell any playing time?” And the radio and TV guys, holy sh*t they’re dumb. I could have a better conversation with a ham sandwich than with those see-Spot-run tards. And don’t think the brains get bigger when you go national. You heard Morgan & Miller, right? Watching them wipe each other’s *sses is like watching Jessica Biel do something that doesn’t involve wearing a bikini. (Her trying to take down a super-smart plane – yeah, that’s real. Lemme know when you get a role in the next Bond flick as Einstein’s daughter, babe. And the talking, not so much – please figure out what T&A stands for sometime this f*cking year.)

But, man, umpires are the d*ck in my popcorn that just makes me so happy I’m done with that nonsense. I spent way too much time watching these fat, cross-eyed, lazy no-good dinks treat the strike zone like a game of Twister. Half the time, the f*cking thing’s shaped like a fractal or some Pollock bullsh*t, and the pitcher’s just left guessing where the ump wants it. Play Peek-A-Boo on your own f*cking time, sped. And those f*cking stupid strike calls – what, you got a chicken bone stuck in your throat, Gregg? You want me to get the Jaws of Life so we can do the Heimlich on your tubby ass? SAY THE MOTHERF*CKING WORD ALREADY. None of this “hoo-wah” Scent of a Woman shit. You ain’t going for the g*ddamn Oscar, so just say the f*cking word you Crisco-licking mancow. The only thing worse than those halfwits behind the f*cking plate are the specially abled clowns out in the field. If I got a nickel for every time some blue f*cked up a call at a base, I’d be rich enough to own the f*cking Yankees ten times over.

And they’re so f*cking tough, what with their posing like they’re gonna be in the next f*cking Tom Emanski video, and their big pads hiding their f*cking saggy tits, and their f*cking showboating. I love it when some blue decides to start acting like he’s the show. Gardenhire had that f*ckwit dead to rights – it’s the umps that want the spotlight. Hell, when I managed, I just wanted to get the f*cking game over with so I could kick back w/ some hooch and get the f*ck away from all the bullsh*t. But these guys, they’re just f*cking washed-up high-school prettyboys that want to get some airtime, so they strut around like f*cking flamingos tossing guys out and showing up guys that can actually walk up a flight of stairs w/out needing an iron lung and getting in my face because I called that dimwit Durwood on that bullsh*t strike call because f*ck if you’re going to call sh*t at the shoetops a strike, then let’s call the game and go play catch with the 1st graders because you clearly don’t want to see anyone actually hit the f*cking ball. Yeah, that’s right, I told you to go f*cking play on the balance beam, you squat little sh*t. Yeah, f*ck you, too – at least I can see my feet when I stand up. Say hi to Princess Leia when you f*ck back to your home planet, Jabba.

And oh no blue took a foul ball off his arm that’s too bad boo f*cking hoo. Try taking a one-hopper IN THE THROAT, Fatty. Hell, try actually doing anything that involves you getting any exercise that doesn’t involve wrapping your fat yap around a meatball grinder. Those jerks probably go on the DL after taking a sh*t. That QuesTec stuff is a step in the right direction, and I don’t care what those pansy-*ss pretty boys say about it. Yeah, that’s right, Schilling, you f*cking hobbit motherf*cker. Go beat up another f*cking drive-thru speaker because you can’t throw a f*cking strike. How you like being some f*ckwit CLOSER, you fat little b*tch? Can’t wait to see what you color your socks this year – “oooh, he’s a gamer because he’s BLEEDING.” Riiiiight. And I’m Mel F*cking Gibson. He wasn’t pitching like sh*t because he was hurt – he was pitching like sh*t because he was staying up late w/ his fat little D&D buddies trying to kill some dumbsh*t dragon, and the Red Sox made up all that garbage about the sutures and the sock and that bullsh*t.

But, hey, it worked, right? Way to go, Slap-Rod – getting paid more than G*d, and you can’t hit some bullsh*t 70 MPH fastball from some carpal-tunneled walleyed computer geek. Go lift some more weights and get s’more therapy, you frilly little skidmark. “Oh boo hoo I can’t handle the pressure! I have too much money, and all these guys lust after my hot body! I can’t take it any more! Oh boo hoo hoo!” Chr*st. I’ve seen 3-year-olds w/ more composure than that sissy. No wonder baseball’s in the sh*tter – the so-called best hitter ever is a roid freak, the so-called best pitcher plays f*cking Q-Bert all day, and the so-called best all-around player is a no-hit limp-wristed b*tch that’d rather talk about his feelings than win a ballgame or GET A F*CKING HIT WITH RUNNERS ON BASE. Yay another solo homer for King of the Sh*theads – here’s another million dollars, thanks for sucking! F*ck this sh*t. Gimme a real sport like curling or ping pong instead of this *ss-grabbing jockitch crap.

Oh, sh*t – all that’s left in the fridge is Levy’s f*cking Zima. And the packy’s in this f*cking state close at like 3 PM. G*ddamn it. Excuse the f*ck out of me while I go suck down some f*cking witch hazel.