LIZ LEMON! What’s up chicken butt? ;)  And if you don’t know, now you know — it’s the Floydster!  Do the dap!

I know we haven’t talked much since that, um, incident in the airport with the key and the schadenfreude, so I’m trying out this AWESOME new technology that’s all the craze with the kids and their parole officers. It’s called “electronic mail delivery,” and I’m pretty sure that this is going to be as hot as Pet Rocks or DJ Jazzy Jeff or that American / Mexican flair-happy fusion restaurant idea we had called Oi Me Stomago. Get in on the ground floor before that ‘vator goes all Willy Wonka on you Liz Lemon! (BTW, I have a meeting this week with one of the Lachey brothers about investing in Stomago — so stoked!  Hope it’s the cute one!)

Anyway, with summer about to head south in the Jewel of the Buckeye State known only as CLE, a young and attractive law stylist’s thoughts obviously turn to that most traditional of all American traditions. That’s right, I’m talking about adultery! I mean baseball! I have to admit, I wasn’t all that up on the old pepper squad back when I was rocking training wheels and a spit-up bib, and if you had a team festooned with gallant goofuses like Cory Snyder and Rafael Belliard, you wouldn’t be either! (Oh wait, you know what I’m talking about — you have the the Mets! My condolensces to Keith & his moustache. :p)

So, yeah, between that and my burgeoning sexuality blossoming just as the team actually decided to not suck anymore, me and Chief Wahoo were like two ships passing in the night. Except I was getting some — BOOYAH. But now that I’m a successful professional whozits back in the greatest city in the world, me and the Chief, we were getting it on all night long. Or at least when there’s a game on the television. What I’m trying to say is that the Indians are awesome and are TOTALLY gonna swarm all over the American League like Canadian soldiers on the fat neck of some over-hyped crybaby pitching prospect. (Ya burnt, Joba!)

I mean, they would if they didn’t totally suck ass again.  It’s like Joey Belle never stopped hitting fans in the chest!  Their best pitcher — gone for the 2nd year in a row.  One of the best catchers in the AL — gone.  Garko Milicic — buh-bye.  That snooty sense of big-city superiority that Indians fans treasure — le poof.  My man-crush on manager Eric The Wedge — gonzo like the Muppets taking Manhattan.  I’ll miss daydreaming about his rugged barrel chest and oddly square chin.  But at least we still have the awkward racist mascot, tho!  Redskins Schmedskins, sez me!

And on top of it all, we got the owner crying poverty like he’s auditioning for a Major League remake!  Wow, you really think that attendance will decrease after you trade away the team’s best players?  What gave you that idea — common freakin’ sense??? I guess the only reason he hasn’t flipped Grady Sizemore is that his wife would divorce him.  (Seriously, though, I’d get divorced if Grady left town.  Not that I’m married.  Seriously.  I’m not.  I mean, maybe eventually.  To someone special.  That likes snack foods flavored with bull semen.  And wanted to move to a really cool happenin’ burg housing the reigning NBA MVP and the place with the cheapest PBR tallboys this side of the Hoover Dam.  I mean, we got a Hall of Fame for Rock AND Roll.  Just saying.)

At any rate, I dunno, I think I might just give the old baseball squad a little rest.  We need some time apart.  Also, she’s getting a little heavy around the midriff area.  (That’s a metaphor, son, you’re supposed to laugh!)  Maybe I’ll take up the Browns, or ritual suicide.  I don’t know, it’s such a tough choice!  Really, tho, what I need to do is stop picking up Indians on my damn fantasy team.  Who has two thumbs and drafted Jhonny Peralta with his 2nd round pick?  I don’t know, but you might’ve engaged in a little Ronin cosplay with him, Liz Lemon!

(By the way, we were TOTALLY on the Ronin bandwagon before those Apatow lamers hopped on board with their bromance and pink-eye jokes. TOTALLY. Draw it again! I just took you out with a cup of coffee! Fucking Mamet, man. Total classic. Remember to tell me to not tell you about my fantasy involving Natasha McElhone, fried eggs, and a She-Ra brazier.)

Anyway, I could go on and on like a Twilight fan at Comicon (what?), but I should probably go back to pretending that I have work to do.  Gotta maintain a certain level of morale in the office environs.  But you know all about that, don’t you, Liz?  WINK WINK  And I didn’t even get to share with you the Pine / Quinto Heroes / Star Trek slash I wrote last night!  Maybe next time.  Give Jackie Boy & any other 30 Rockers that give one (1) fig my best.  And if you happen hook up with Dennis Duffy again, make sure to hose him down with some Lysol first.  And, hell, give him a purple nurple from me!

Love, peace, and pizza grease,
yr Floyd.

Floyd has a last name, but if he told it to you, you would have to die.  Or you’d make fun of him.  So, yeah, you’d have to die.