Welcome to Yard Work, I’m Ron Burgundy.

Over my many, many years as the handsomest man in journalizing, I have covered innumerous crises, from the Great Fog of ’72 to the Plushy Convention at Carlsbad, and all of them have been splendiferous. Just splendiferous. But it’s not all fun and no-panty day in the newsy business: there are tough stories that call for hard-nosed journalism and a head of magnificent, flowing hair. That’s where I come in.

From its uniquely sandy beaches to my own driftwood living room, San Diego is the greatest city known to man and even some women. But no matter how many immigrant skulls the police crack and Beanie Baby rings I uncover, there will always be riff-raff and scuttlebutt afoot, and I’m sorry to report this joyous morn that such chicanery has infiltrated our municipality once again. They are known as the Padres, compadre, and we must take them down like a rabid panther who has ensconced with the last fourteen gallons of scotch.

The Padres of old — your Padres, my Padres, our Padres, the Padres — were a jolly group of scattlewags led by the rotund Tony Gwynn, a cheery fellow that reminded this reporter of the unholy party favor that awaits your morning eyes after you charm the exotic chicas of Tijuana with the dewy whirls of a three-hour jazz flute solo, your veins coursing with Guatemalan horse. He is fat. Very fat. Really, I can’t stress this enough. Have you seen how fat Tony Gwynn is?

But something stinks about this year’s Padres, San Diegiananons, and it’s not just last night’s curry taken home in my luxurious doggie-bag mustache. It is, in fact, the Padres that stink. They lose and lose and lose and lose. And lose. And then they win one. And two. Things are looking good! Then lose lose lose lose lose. Lose lose lose lose lose. Lose. WIN. Lose lose lose and thrice again.

Now I don’t consider myself a sports expert — that’s my man Champ Kind, who died in a freak synchronized swimming accident back in ’97 — so any analyzing on my part would be as worthless as an A-cup brassiere. (Lose lose lose lose WIN lose lose lose loseloselose WIN tie lose.) But this scourge on our city — the roughest San Diego has faced since the testicular wart epidemic in my pants — must be ended, whatever the cost to people who are not me.

So does anyone have any ideas? Because I’m fresh out over here. When the chips are down and you’ve lost your marbles the early bird is worth two in the bush. Is that baseball talk? No? Will somebody help me out? Send your suggestions to the Channel 4 news center and we’ll file them away with the rest of the crap I get. (Why would I need documents marked “confidential” from some loser named Randy “Duke” Cunningham? WHY MUST YOU SEND ME SUCH JUNK???)

Until next time, stay classy, San Diego.