New York, New York: it’s my kinda herpes sore. That’s right, Jethro Tull — lock your doors, drink your whiskey, and hide your grandmas, because L-Bow’s back with a deeeep bend for The City That Never Sleeps Without Bedbugs Crawling All Over Its F*cking Face. In case you happened to miss the biggest f*cking sports story since Brett Fav-ruh decided to show his real comfortable dong to the latest and greatest set of Grade-F sideline funabgs, yours truly is all but ready to make the New York Metro-POLE-itans respect his g*ddamn authority!
That is, if the A/V club in charge of the Mets’ short bus I mean front office makes the right decision and hires my buddy Terry Collins as their new (and future World Championship-winning) manager. It wouldn’t surprise me, though, if those bookworms couldn’t find a way to derive the square root of “leadership” divided by “player’s respect” to the power of “ruling the motherf*cking clubhouse with an iron f*cking fist.” Knowing those morts, they’ll just bring on some spineless keyboard jockey to hold all their punchcards and dial up their modem, all while Oliver Perez slaps EL KICK-O EL ME-O signs on his back. It’s too bad Tampa Bay’s soooo in love with that goofy hornrimmer of theirs; he’d probably fit into the Mets’ back*sswards algebra like the square root of my BALLS. But I guess badmouthing your potential employers might be seen as bad etiquette; mea f*cking culpa.
So you may be asking yourself as you peel back the cellophane from yet another sad-as-sh*t TV dinner, who in the f*ck is Terry Collins & what’re his fancy-pants qualifications? Well, how about the fact that he’s a g*ddamn man that won’t take any sh*t from some know-nothing milllionairess about PT or BP or XYZ or STFU? There’re rumors out there that he was getting cr*pped on by his players while working with the Los Angeles Angeles of Los Angeles in the City That’s Not The City of Stupid-*ss Angeles. And you know what? That’s a GOOD thing. It’s called a job, for f*ck’s sake, not a frilly little imaginary tea party with Mr. Rumplemires and Little Bunny Hopperd*ck.
Newsflash to all you basement-living knob-washers out there: when you’re brought on as a Major League Baseball manager, you’re not there to be the players’ best friend. You’re there to put a cleat right up into their championship-wanting *sses. You’re there to make sure that the overpaid fatso with the RBIs actually gives himself a hernia running out a pop-up in a 20-3 blowout. You’re there so that the oh-so-special nineteen-year-old phenom knows the burn that comes with throwing 140 pitchers through 6 tough-as-sh*t innings. You’re there to make sure everyone stays in line: the beaners don’t take a siesta, the brothers don’t holla back wit gats & their posse (what WHAT), the rice-cookers leave their chopsticks at the dojo, and the honkies don’t hide their mutual fund statements in their playbook. And you gotta do all this while keeping those mouthbreathing pre-school dropouts in the media from rubbing one out on your career during your press conference. No offense to my good buddy TC, but if I had to pick a guy I’d want managing my team (that wasn’t me), it’d be Billy F*cking Martin. The only sh*t that beautiful f*cker ever took was on a toilet. But, since William wrapped his d*ck around a coffin a long *ss time ago, & no one has the stones to give yours truly another shot (chickensh*ts), TC is the next best thing.
Especially when he’s got a fiery little World Series winner in his back pocket. (I mean me, sh*tbags.) In case you forgot, I’m the toughest son of a b*tch to ever put on that sissy little pink-red-striped Philly uni, and I’m part of the reason those cheesesteak-eating c*ckpunchers only had to wait twenty-plus years between World Series titles. Sure, Schmitty had the dingers, and Carlton had the crazies, but I had the g*ddamn cojones to make those f*ckwits play as a team. And even though I’m “only” going to be a third base coach — yeah, and Dick Cheney was “only” the Vice-President — I know what needs to be done in order to make the New York Mess a bona-fide contender. At least, I know what I’d do if I had any control over who the f*ck I could play.
First of all, if you’re Canadian, then you’re not playing baseball for me or TC. Jason Bay could turn into Jason F*cking Voorhees next year for all I don’t care; he can take his 40 HRs, and his 90 RBIs, and sashay his poutine-loving *ss back up to Saskatchewan with all the other moosehumpers. Try working the conversion rate on that, you f*cking Mountie. Speaking of being un-American, anyone south of the USA that doesn’t want anything to do with being a charitable piece of sh*t* can go take a burro ride back down to Taco Town. I don’t care if you had prior engagements or cancer or if your fcking legs fell off while washing your g*ddamn truck. If you’re gonna pretend you’re a *team* f*cking player, then you gotta do things with your f*cking *team. *And for all you hyper-sensitive little d*cktowels out there that think I’m being some racist piece of sh*t about all this: f*ck you and learn to read. I don’t have a problem with you not being from America; I have a problem with you not *wanting* to be from America. And if there’s something more American than giving your time to show some respect to the people that keep us safe from getting falafel’d, it’s gotta involve a grilled burger, an ice cold PBR, and a lit cherry bomb in my high school ex-girlfriend’s mailbox. (Special delivery for Lisa “Loose Lips” Maretti! Yeah, maybe you’ll suck on THAT!)
And while I don’t expect the front office to exit their server rooms long enough to talk to the little people down on the front lines about what should be done with the team roster (their f*cking loss), I do have one suggestion that they’d better f*cking heed: bring back The Natural. That’s right, I’m talking about my favorite MLB player that’s not David Wright or David Eckstein or some other dipsh*ts not named David — Jeff THE M*therfucking Francoeur. And when (not if) he comes back to the blue and orange and whatever other ugly-*ss colors they want to throw in there, I’d make damn sure that TC played him 24-7-365. When you got a guy like Francoeur that wants to play so bad, why not just play the dumb son of a b*tch? Given how many no-talent mopes take up roster space that don’t want to be out there on the field, you’d think teams with half a brain in their sack would be running over orphaned kids with cancer to get a little Francouer in their life.
Watching him over these last few years, with all his teams treating him like a f*cking goofy-looking child molester, it makes me wanna choke some motherf*ckers. He’s the type that’s going to do his best when he’s out there day in and day out. Francoeur’s not one of those “athletes” that just falls off the sh*tter hitting .350; he’s gotta get reps on a daily basis in order to get himself up to speed. Get that kid moving, and he’ll be able to carry your team for days on end! And the rocket arm on that f*ck! Just give the kid some security with a long-term contract and a guaranteed spot in the starting line-up, and he’ll give you 162 of the best games you can ever hope to get from a guy with his set of skills. And he’ll do it with a smile that’d make every dentist in the tri-state area pop a boner that’ll rip their f*cking pants clean off. He even got to the World Series, for f*ck’s sake. That’s more than most of the overpaid sh*tstains on the Mets can say. Postseason success like that doesn’t just grow on the underbelly of a f*cking whale.
So yeah, with a little bit of luck, and a whole lotta L-Bow, the Mets might actually not f*ck up their shot at making it to the post-season. For once. Of course, I’m still waiting to hear from those d*ckholes. Yeah, don’t forget to carry the one when you’re adding zeroes to my offer sheet, Mr. Einstein. Quality merch like me’s not going to be on the market for long, ladies. Operators are standing by; give a guy a f*cking call already. And maybe shake TC’s bush a little, too.
Longtime Yard Work / Jockish contributor Larry Bowa was once a finalist to compete on So You Think You’re Smarter Than a Fifth Grader?