Well, it’s about damn time. Not like I was waiting around by my e-mail box, waiting for some jerk from big fancy pants “Yard Work” to finally invite me back to their nerdy little party — with my sweet XM Radio gig (with my buddy Double K) and my even sweeter Best Damn Fox stuff, I’m plenty busy. But, come on, I was expecting to see Chris Sabo and his pug-ugly googly-eyed nonsense on here before I got another chance to say my piece. You’re going to let a Dream Job reject fart all over the Internet before you tap the one and only Nasty Boy? Well, I’m glad someone finally in this joint came to their senses. Just in time, too, because I’ve got a lot on my mind. And here’s the first bullet upside your dome – rookies need to cash their damn paychecks and shut the hell up.

You’ve heard this noise from all corners. First, Jonathan Papelbon, the Red Sox closer, steps up and starts complaining that he’s not getting enough green. Then Prince Fielder, that slugging tub of fun out Milwaukee way, decides to chime in with his displeasure. And then Cole Hamels, a knucklehead pitcher for the Phillies, throws in his zero-point-five cents on the whole thing. And the kicker? They’re complaining about making FIVE HUNDRED THOUSAND DOLLARS. Only in America, right?

First of all, be grateful you morons are actually making that much scratch. No offense, but listening to the way some of you guys carry yourselves, you’d be lucky to be pulling down third-shift bucks in front of a Roy Rogers deep fat frier. And if you think the hard-working men and women that give a chunk of their paycheck to see you guys toss a ball around are going to sympathize when you’re off on a crying jag over an amount of cash it’ll take the average American at least ten years to earn … well, I’d say “think again,” but like I said, we’re not dealing with IQ kings here.

And forget about the fans — what about folks in the clubhouse? You know, those hard-working, hump-busting guys just trying to make a roster. They’ll be lucky to see half-a-mil. And you spoiled little kids, with talent out the cornhole and over a decade on most of these poor jerks, are sitting there complaining about money? That takes the sort of grande huevos that haven’t dropped into these kids’ sacks yet. Hell, I only made about seven million over my career, and I’m one of the lucky ones. If I was stuck in a clubhouse listening to some snot-nosed punk like, I dunno, Dan Uggla or that Grady Sizemore, puffing out his chest all tough-like, talking this smack and that smack about being underpaid, it’d be all I could do to keep myself from giving him a nose job the Bob Gibson way.

I can only imagine what true-grit guys like a Craig Counsell or a John McDonald think when these hot shots start flapping away. I heard a really nasty story about Jim Gott and Denny Neagle during a Pirate spring training camp that involves Neagle popping his collar about winning all of nine games the previous year, and Gott getting him some Chinese take-out with some “home made” egg drop soup. I don’t want to get into the particulars, but let’s just say Denny invested his “meager” rookie paycheck in a lot of mouthwash over the next few weeks. And I almost forgot about those jacked-up 35-year-old trade union types trying to make the big league club after their one huge AAA season. Those guys just don’t give a spit — you look at them cross-eyed, you’d better acquire a taste for horse meat, you know? If I was a rook, I’d watch what I’d say about what I net if I’m in camp with a no-hope NRI named something like Guiseppe Mattafangou. (You want proof? Just check out Eric Davis. If you think a guy with that sort of talent was actually injury prone, then I got some thin-sliced gabbagool for you out in my trunk.)

And then these spoiled little clowns always bring up the Ryan Howard thing. News flash, kiddies — Ryan Howard’s got a couple trophies on his mantle that go by the letters ROY and MVP. When you’ve got that sort of hardware on your shelf after two whole years, then you can make ten million dollars a year. He’s the exception, especially given how young he is, and the fact that he did it all while being clean as a whistle. (In case you’re wondering, count me in on the side of folks that want to give the single-season home run record to a REAL hitter.) I’m sure if Papelbon was reading this (assuming he can read), he’d show off that big whoop-dee-doo World Series ring on his knuckle. Whatever. Reggie Sanders has, like, seven of those things — you think he ran around, asking for the moon after all those? The hell he did! He just kept on taking one-year contracts, doing his part to help a team to another championship without breaking the bank.

The point I’m getting at is that the system is set up so the guys that do the time get the big paydays. It doesn’t matter if you hit 50 homers or get 40 saves or 15 wins in your rookie or sophomore years. What matters is how often you throw up those numbers. There are way too many cases where kids come out like gangbusters and just shrivel up under continuous hot scrutiny. When I was part of the New Big Red Machine, all folks could talk about were big gigantic sluggers like Kevin Maas and Phil Plantier and power pitcher types like Ben McDonald and Wade Taylor. You know how screwed teams would’ve been if they actually ponied up money to these guys after their super-sized cup of coffees?

The problem with kids is that they don’t know their history. The payroll system in baseball is set up to prevent teams from shooting themselves in the foot with giving money to young kids that should be given to proven vets. I think it’s part of that whole “revenue sharing” business, where all the teams put their money in a kitty to keep Team A from outspending Team B on stupid crap, or something. One of you guys can look it up, if you’re really interested in that boring sort of crap. Besides, it’s not like the kids are forced to live off of Ramen and free soda refills for the privilege of playing major league ball. You can buy a lot of steak and potatoes, or less desirable performance supplements, for a half-a-million. Maybe instead of dropping cash on palatial estates and new blingy rims for your riced-up hooptie, you kids should learn to prioritize what really matters and keep a little cash in the piggy bank. Unless you want a little chin music from this guy to go with your cheap box whine. Think about it.

I’m Rob Dibble, bitch.

Hello again. My name is David Smithson Michaels, and welcome back to DUCK SNORTS. The response to my initial post was amazing (as you can see for yourself), and the folks here are gladly giving me another chance. So, just in time for some of the first or second spring training games of the 2008 season, here are the DUCK SNORTS for Friday, February 29, 2008.

LASTINGS MILLEDGE DOESN’T KNOW WHEN TO KEEP HIS MOUTH SHUT, SO DAVID WRIGHT TELLS HIM WHEN: Ever since malcontent Lastings Milledge was traded from the New York Mets to the Washington Nationals, all he’s done is mouth off about how unhappy he was with the Mets and how he never received a chance to prove himself and that Willie Randolph doesn’t know what he’s doing. It’s just another example of the trouble he brought to the Mets’ clubhouse, and why the Mets collapsed at the end of last season. David Wright is correct — Milledge isn’t on the Mets anymore, and so he should stop talking about them. And if the worst thing that happened to Milledge was someone hanging a “Know your place, Rook!” sign in his locker, then he got off easy for all the trouble he caused. Surrounded by would-be criminals like Delmon Young, Milledge is in the perfect place for his type of team-destroying attitude. I don’t think the Nationals will finish better than 5th this year, though they could finish as high as 1st.

SCOTT SPEIZIO HAS A DRINK, GETS RELEASED: Cardinal Scott Speizio, a member of the 2006 World Championship team, and the frontman of grunge rock band Sandfrog, was released by the Cardinals after a warrant was issued for his arrest. The warrant concerned six misdemeanor counts, including driving under the influence and aggravated assault. Clearly this is a hypocritical stand by the Cardinals. Rick Ankiel, an outfielder that powered the Cardinals’ brief playoff run last year, was caught lying about using PEDs, but he’s still on the team. But Speizio, a model citizen that’s admitted he has an alcohol abuse and drug abuse problem, is cut from the team after one infraction? It only goes to show how far baseball has fallen, when steroid abusers can sign multi-million dollar contracts year after year and destroy the game’s integrity, but a player is let go for simply enjoying a little alcohol. Tony LaRussa, the team’s storied manager, knows that a little drink now and then is good for you, and doesn’t have any negative side effects. Someone should tell the St. Louis Cardinals that.

C.J. WILSON CALLS HIS TEAMMATES ‘DOUCHEBAGS’; TEAMMATES DON’T APPRECIATE IT: In a comment on a blog post by teammate Brandon McCarthy, which was a response to an ESPN.com article about players’ disinterest in politics, Texas Rangers pitcher C.J. Wilson called his teammates, and most baseball players, “douchebags.” In response to McCarthy’s post, Wilson notes that “the median or average guy in a baseball clubhouse does drive an SUV, drinks beer, golfs, likes college sports, chews or dips tobacco and is relatively a douchebag.” Wilson has since been reprimanded by teammates and his front office for not showing discretion in what he says in public. I think Wilson should be commended, however. It’s rare for the layman to get a true glimpse into the mindset of a professional athlete, and it’s illuminating when these sorts of details leak out. Finding out that Wilson believes most of his baseball peers are, in fact, SUV-driving tobacco-spitting douchebags is the sort of insight that you’ll never see come from a mainstream media publication, and I commend Wilson for putting our country’s First Amendment Rights into good use.

That said, there are times where finding out what an athlete thinks can be detrimental. Recently, Greg Oden, an injured member of the NBA’s Portland Trail Blazers, and a player just two years removed from graduating high school, came out in vocal support of Democratic presidential hopeful Barack Obama. This, I think, is a very dangerous thing. Knowing Oden’s influence with a certain American subculture, news that he supports Obama could influence people’s opinions about other candidates, and could even sway the results of any upcoming election. A person’s political positions and preferences are a private matter, and should not be something that become the sort of stuff that gets reported on. No one needs to know what an athlete or an actor or some other stranger thinks about this candidate or that candidate. Letting this sort of information leak out could establish a dangerous precedent that I feel might lead to more damage than anyone could imagine.

MANNY BEING MANNY SHOWS UP LEADER OF THE FREE WORLD BY NOT SHOWING UP: One of the greatest honors a professiona athlete can ever experience is being invited to the White House after winning a championship. To be inches away from a man that runs the greatest country in the world, and to have the opportunity to shake his hand, is a feeling I hope to one day experience. Most members of the Red Sox have experienced this twice, thanks to winning the World Series in 2004 and 2007. That is, most except Manny Ramirez.

As he did in 2004, Manny was a no-show at the White House. Unlike the flimsy “my grandmother died” excuse used the last time, there was no official reason given for Manny’s absence. One can only assume that Manny is protesting something regarding the Bush Administration, though I have to question why he would choose such an innopportune time to grandstand like this. Regardless, President Bush showed great grace and aplomb in playing off Manny’s show of disrespect, joking that “[Manny’s] grandmother must have died again.” It’s this quick wit and jovial candor that illustrates yet again President Bush is the best man for this most difficult of jobs, and proof that his final year in office will be as successful, for him and for the country he honorably serves, as his first seven.

David Smithson Michaels hopes you and yours have a safe and happy Leap Year!

My name is Barry Lamar Bonds. I am the all-time home run hitter in Major League Baseball, and hold the single season record for most HRs. At the age of 42, I hit 28 home runs in only 477 plate appearances, and reached base 48% of the time. I still want to play baseball. And I am stuck looking for a job because baseball is full of the dumbest people to ever forget their own name.

Just to be clear — when I say “pay me,” I’m not talking about writing extra zeroes on my paycheck. I made my money. I have my records. I can buy and sell half the clowns in this game. The one thing missing for me is a World Series ring, which even if I don’t get one isn’t a big deal. Plenty of great players have left their mark on baseball without getting to the Promised Land — that doesn’t make them lesser players. Is Ted Williams not a great player because his owner was a racist? Is Ernie Banks not a great player because the Cubs are cursed? Is Jeff Bagwell not a great player because he was too dumb to leave the Astros when he had a chance? No, that doesn’t make them less-than-great players. It makes them great players surrounded by AAAA filler and softball tossers thanks to a rock-dumb front office and a manager that treats his pitching staff the way a horny teenager treats the cracks between the cushions on his mamma’s couch.

I could give a rat’s ass if I have to sit in my designer reclining chair for all of 2008, if not the rest of my life. It’ll be fun, watching all sorts of teams that could have used a caliber of hitter like myself fall on their face trying to win 75 games with the dogmeat they decided to sign instead of me. I’m OK with that — I haven’t had a good laugh since Dave Chapelle went nuts.

No, when I say, “pay me,” I mean, “pay me the damn respect I deserve.” Let me be clear on this point: I played by the rules of Major League Baseball, and by their standards, I am one of the greatest players that’s ever played the game. I have done things that no other player has done, and no other player might ever do. And I’m treated like the kid that pissed in everyone’s food to save them from the trolls. Two muck-raking hacks made their career publishing a book full of unsubstantiated allegations and illegally obtained grand jury testimony, while a little toadie working for the supposed “Worldwide Leader in Sports” burrowed his big-ass Easter Island head right between my asscheeks like a thermometer. Anyone else? Nope — just Barry.

When I flunked an amphetamine test, the New York Daily News printed the information despite the drug testing policy specifically stating that first-time offenders — read that, please; FIRST TIME OFFENDERS — aren’t supposed to be identified by name. Other folks? Nope — just Barry. The size of my head is an actual topic of conversation throughout the nation. Some no-talent clothes designer paid three quarters of a million dollars just to deface my record-breaking home run ball. Did McGwire or Sosa have to explain themselves or their hat size? Nope — just Barry.

And every day, like clockwork, some so-called expert weighs in on what I should do, or what baseball should do. “Barry should come clean.” “Barry should give back his salary.” “Barry should be ashamed for what he did to a game he supposedly loves.” “Barry should play in traffic on a dimly lit highway on- ramp.” And now, from this bearded clown, “Barry should play in an independant league like Rickey Henderson did to prove that he can still play.” Correspondence school dropouts like this should learn how to read a stat sheet, and maybe the Help Wanted section while they’re at it. There are players 10 and 15 years younger than me that couldn’t do what I can do right now if they were hopped up on some futuristic bionic implant shit. Yeah, I’m not in the same shape I was when I signed with the Giants. Let me know what you look like in 15 years, and we’ll compare notes and cup sizes.

But go ahead and use this never-ending stream of bullshit and Peanuts-stand philosophizing to accuse me of something I didn’t do. If it makes you folks sleep better at night thinking that I did whatever it is people say I did, then don’t let a little thing like giving a man the benefit of the doubt, or that old “innocent until proven guilty” nonsense, get in the way of a few more taps of your snooze bar. You do what you do, and I’ll do what I do.

For the last 22 years, jokers like this Rosenthal punk have been writing off-base bordering-on-slander “opinion” pieces for lack of trying to actually use that rotted-out melon stuck between their ears to write about something interesting. And for the last 22 years, all I’ve done is play professional baseball in the world’s most talented league at a level that 99% of all professional athletes can’t even imagine in their wildest dreams. I am perfectly willing to play for a 23rd year, maybe even a 24th. But I can understand if you guys don’t want to deal with a great hitter with the work ethic of a hungry rookie and the eye of a surgeon, and would rather fall back on “great clubhouse guys” that “play the game right” and hit grasscutters to 2B every damn day and suck off every last one of those bitchy little beat reporters. I’m more than happy to take my ball home and watch all you know-nothing chumps lose.

Have fun missing the playoffs, clowns.

“Those around the Dodgers believe that Juan Pierre will be the everyday left fielder to begin the season, while Andre Ethier and Matt Kemp platoon in right.” – John Perrotto, BaseballProspectus.com, February 24, 2008

Those around the Red Sox believe that Bobby Kielty will be the everyday left fielder to begin the season, while Manny Ramirez sits on the bench and continually rubs reliever Julian Tavarez’s head.

Those around the Yankees believe that outfielder Melky Cabrera will start the season in the cleanup spot, while Alex Rodriguez will bat 9th, to prepare him for the postseason.

Those around the Giants believe that a starting outfield of Randy Winn, Aaron Rowand, and Dave Roberts, along with catcher Bengie Molina hitting cleanup, will help them compete for a division championship or wildcard spot. Meanwhile, representatives of the other NL West teams sit back, laugh, and enjoy another mojito.

Those around the New England Patriots believe that, in the light of their stunning defeat in Super Bowl XLII, the team must be blown up and refashioned, starting with ineffective quarterback/socialite Tom Brady, showboating me-first receiver Randy Moss, and hooded MILF-monger Bill Belichek. Meanwhile, former first round draft pick Jeff George just added owner Robert Kraft to his Fave 5.

Those around “American Idol” believe that the vicious feud brewing between Ryan Seacrest and Simon Cowell will eventually tear the show apart. Seacrest is seen as the crucial linchpin, so Cowell will be gone before the end of the current run, probably by Easter.

Those around U2 believe that drummer Larry Mullen, Jr. will be taking over both lead vocal and guitar duties on their upcoming album, while Bono and The Edge switch to drums – Bono will handle the bass pedal and high-hat, while The Edge mans the snare (and the octagonal drums or windchimes, if necessary).

Those around funnyman Carrot Top believe that he is super-sexy and hilarious, while Richard Pryor rolls over in his grave and wishes the motherfucker would finally shut up.

Those around Barack Obama believe that he will soon concede the Democratic nomination to Hillary Rodham Clinton in the interest of party unity and harmony, while Vice President Dick Cheney retires to an undisclosed location to feast on the flesh of aborted fetuses. And worship Cthulhu. And cheat on his taxes. And bake oatmeal cookies. Without raisins.

Someone give Jose Reyes a raise, or a plaque, or some sort of medal. Finally, a notable athlete slogging around the cesspool that is Major League Baseball is taking a stand against the displays of moronic machismo that are all too common in today’s sports landscape. In an article published in today’s edition of New York Newsday, the Mets’ superstar shortstop, one of the most exciting players in the game today, pledged to eliminate handshake celebrations – those epileptic chest-bumping gyrations that seem to happen every time a player doesn’t pull up lame – from his on-field repetoire. “No more handshakes,” said Reyes. “People kept saying we got teams fired up when we did those handshakes, so now I want to focus more on baseball.” If only more players would follow in young Reyes’ footsteps.

Now some might say that since sport itself is a celebration of physical gifts (regardless of how ill-gotten these gifts might be), why shouldn’t these gifted athletes celebrate their feats? I agree, to a point. There’s a huge difference between taking pride in your accomplishments and strutting around the field like Jonathan Papelbon in scuba gear. As Reyes noted, such disrespectful shows only serve to inspire the other team, and (as in the Mets’ sad case last year) can distract players from the job at hand. I wouldn’t be surprised if there are countless examples in all sorts of dugouts where some younger players spent more time studying these absurd hand gestures than their opponent, and end up costing their teams some runs or, even worse, a win.

MLB should take a page out of the NFL’s playbook. With the proliferation of egotistical clowns like Randy Moss, Terrell Owens, and Chad Johnson treating every reception like their own Soul Train spotlight, the league decided to come down hard and penalize their teams whenever these morons behaved to type. Lo and behold, the number of celebrations decreased, and while some members of the MTV generation might miss their favorite linebackers shooting air balls after every tackle, true fans of the sport are grateful for such advances. If MLB was serious about improving the quality of their product, they’d take similar action.

If David Ortiz or Manny Ramirez spend too much time admiring one of their meaningless Green Monster shots? Turn the homer into a ground-rule double (if they haven’t done so themselve). If Derek Lowe grabs his crotch after a strikeout, as he did during the 2003 ALDS? Replay the pitch, or even the entire at-bat. Some hothead redneck like Josh Beckett starts mouthing off at a hitter that dared to hit one of his flat fastballs out of the yard? Award the opposing team an extra run, forfeit the pitching team’s next inning, toss the pitcher out. Just do something, baseball, besides letting this nonsense rule the school.

it’s not just the game on the field that would improve. There’d be a beneficial trickle-down effect. Time not spent playing Twister between at-bats means more time spent playing the game, meaning quicker game times. Baseball, free of this unnecessary bling-bling, would return to its wholesome family-friendly roots, which could lead to larger revenues. That would mean more revenue for small-market teams, which would mean that franchises hamstrung by financial constraints – the Royals, the Blue Jays, the Twins – would finally be able to compete with the big boys. No more would the Donald Trumps of baseball, like the World Champion Red Sox, dominate the standings and the limelight.

In addition, sports networks like ESPN, now unable to fill their airtime with endless replays of these grandstanding antics, would have to resort to drastic measures, like broadcasting news about the actual games. That would invariably lead to replacing know-nothing chatterboxes like Stuart Scott and Stephen A. Smith with actual, honest-to-goodness, intelligent sports broadcasters and analysts. There would also be a decrease in the amount of damage inflicted by these fly-by-night “blogs” on the psyche of the sports world, and who wouldn’t be appreciative of that?

With the spectre of the Mitchell Report casting a long and dark shadow into baseball’s sordid past, and fans now forced to wonder whether their favorite player is using illegal substances, and salaries soaring into numerical stratospheres too high to imagine for Joe Lunchbox, baseball needs to do something to, as some hip-hop artists might say, come correct. As he’s done for the Mets many a time, Jose Reyes lead off with a solid, professional single up the middle. Will MLB bring him home with a towering (and, again, professional) home run, or leave him stranded?

Phil Mushnick is a sports media columnist for the New York Post, and webmaster of a Tay Zonday fan site, hersheykissesandgodivadreams.net

“Not that they want to see any prospect fail, but old-line major league scouts everywhere stood up and cheered last week. Jeremy Brown, the Oakland Athletics announced, had retired.” – Murray Chass, The New York Times, February 19, 2008

Not that they would ever wish this upon their worst enemy, but sports bloggers everywhere gave each other virtual high-fives and loads of Diggs last December. Stuart Scott, wonky-eyed ESPN broadcast personality and spoken-word maverick, was diagnosed with cancer.

Not that they’re sad and cranky old men milking their fleeting moment of fame for every photo op or press clipping they can scrounge up, but members of the 1972 Miami Dolphins popped yet another champagne cork on Februrary 3rd. The undefeated New England Patriots, supposedly the best NFL team of all time, lost the Super Bowl to the New York Football Giants.

Not that he doesn’t love the game any less than he did when he was one of the greatest players to ever lace them up, but Isiah Thomas harrassed unsuspecting women with an easy mind last night. The 15-37 New York Knicks, owners of the 3rd worst record in the NBA, had the day off.

Not that their myopic brand of misery and misanthropy hasn’t already been well established, but Rush Limbaugh and his cadre of “dittoheads” breathed a little easier yesterday. John McCain, presumptive Republican presidential nominee, inched another day closer to his impending death.

Not that enjoying the comedic stylings of a sub-literate redneck stereotype suggests anything about one’s own mental faculties, but a throng of upright feces-flinging morons are licking their chops and scratching their genital areas in breathless anticipation. Witless Protection, the new comedy starring Larry the Cable Guy and Jenny McCarthy, opens in theatres this Friday.

Not that he was one for demonstrative shows of emotion, but Freidrick Nietschze performed the chicken dance with unforseen exuberance in 1882. God, creator of the universe, was dead.

Not that they’re not in some circle of Hell suffering a misery no mere mortal could hope to understand, but former Senator Joe McCarthy and his witch-hunting cronies managed to crack a smile today as barbed whips rent their tired flesh and their innards boiled upon the hot blades of endless plunging knives. Fidel Castro, long-time Cuban president and the most visible Communist figurehead of the late 20th century, announced his retirement.

Not that he’s flipping over couch cushions for pennies or cold-calling acquaintances for hand-outs, but friends and family exhaled a sigh of relief last Friday. Rickey Henderson, the greatest of all time, got paid.