Yeah, dude! This is your bro AJ saying WASSUP BITCHES! Man, it’s been a tough year so far, trying to defend the World Championship from all these suckers and crybabies. It’s like, dude, I hit a homer, get over it and be a MAN, man. Yeah, that shit’s a real bitch, but it’s all worth it to see all the support we get from the fans, which is what I wanna talk about right here.

I gotta thank all you folks that posted comments to that jerky-nut Brettricia Tomko about the South Side taking home the gold last year. This can of Beast is for you, man! Or mans! Or men! Whatever, dude – I’m getting hammered! Yeah! Everyone knows that all these so-called experts wrote us off as a fluke. They were talking about how we weren’t hitting, and our pitching was overrated, and we lucked out because of that dude’s dropped 3rd strike, and that catcher giving us an out. Yeah, like we needed it. You know that shit was in the bag and ON FIRE!

You know what? It all boils down to this, dude. Winning’s winning, and it doesn’t matter what you do, or how you do it. What matters is who’s standing at the end, and what little numbers end up in that left column. This dumb Polack was standing at first base while that loser was sitting there adjusting his cup, and we were standing there on the pitcher’s mound celebrating Chicago’s first baseball trophy in a long long time. Steve Perry told us to never stop believing, and we never did. Stick up that your Sweet Caroline and your Yankees Win, bro! Sooner or later, folks are gonna figure out all this east-coast bias shit, and then you guys are gonna be DONE.

And, man, not that I need to tell y’all this, but winning the World Series was SWEET! Dude, you don’t even want to know how much gash I get nowadays. Sure, back when I was a Twinkie (LOL), I was hip-deep in fat-bottomed cream filling, yao ming? But those FINE co-ed types, the ones that exercise and watch their weight and know how to show off that foine tight little midriff and pert little asscrack. That’s the stuff that gets me swinging for the fences, boy. I love getting my pinetar all over that, right? Yeah, dude.

But in fucking South Canada (and don’t even get me started on Ssssan Franccccissssco, “lover”), girls like that were rare as hell. Chitown, though, has got it going ON, dude. It’s awesome. And now that everyone knows my name, it’s all I can do to keep my shaft from drowning in Jiffy Lube.

Chicago’s fucking NICE. My man Oz is keeping it real for us knuckleheads. Dude, you do not want anyone else to have your back more than that little cockroach. He’s a funny dude, Oz. The shit that comes out of his mouth, man, it’s like Andrew Dice Clay never died, y’know? Dude knows his shit, too. I swear to God, when he kicks, he’s going to be one of the greats. Hell, he already is in my book. Dude gives as well as he gets, and folks that step to us better recognize.

So let me just say this to all you punks out there trying to throw me off our game, psych us out. We’re too goddamn dumb to give a shit what you do. Punch me in the face? Whatever. Throw at us? We’ll just throw it right back even harder, and then homer off your stupid ass. And the fucking Twins? Whatever, dude – I MADE YOUR FUCKING TEAM, man. You think you guys would be anywhere if it wasn’t for that Giants trade? Hell, dude, I should ask for some of your playoff shares for that stuff. You know you couldn’t get guys like that without giving up a proven bro like me. By the way, assholes – you’re welcome.

As for the Giants – I got three letters for you, and they are LOL, dude. L O fucking L. Ain’t my fault your team is one-and-done. You get past Barry boy, and it’s over. Don’t know what the hell you expected me to do about that – I’m only one guy. It’s not like I can turn shit into gold, Brettricia, you little puss. I only catch the ball; I sure as hell don’t throw it over the fat part of the plate every time someone reaches because I’m too scared to actually get in someone’s grill with my slow-lane shit.

Yeah, so keep on flapping your yaps, dudes. What doesn’t kill us only makes me happy we can beat the living shit out of you. You can’t stop us, man. We’re like nature, man. We’re like fucking ANIMALS. We’re like snakes lying in the grass, waiting to get on your plane and FUCK YOUR SHIT UP, man. Better recognize.

Chicago White Sox catcher AJ Pierzynski was the reigning Beer Pong champion of Elmer’s Bar in New Britain, CT from July 1998 to May 2000. He also enjoys jigsaw puzzles.

Michael,
What is that smartass Mussina’s problem with you?
Bill M., Brooklyn, NYC

Bill,
I wouldn’t go so far to call Mussina a “smartass” (your word not mine). He graduated from Stanford University, a very top-tier school for sports and academics. He’s also been one of the top pitchers in the American League for his career, and is right now the Yankees’ best starter, if not the best starter in the AL (with then Yankees’ own Chien-Ming Wang a very close second). But “smartass” is such a strong word. Even if we don’t talk as often as he’d like, I have no problem with the guy when he’s doing well, and right now he’s doing very well.

There was an issue of sorts when Mussina made some ill-advised comment about an A-Rod error costing the Yankees a game a while back, but that happens. Even the smartest guys say dumb things from time to time. Also, you can’t underestimate the pressure of the Big Apple. Sometimes folks that aren’t used to New York say things they shouldn’t and that has to be expected from certain folks. It wasn’t so long ago that Mussina was pitching in the low-pressure, no-win confines of Baltimore – having to play for a 26 World Championship team is bound to make someone feel some stress, and that causes things to happen. As for Mussina being a racist, or a jerk or a wifebeater or a pederast or a tree-hugging commie pro-stem-cell baby-killing murderer that happened to be in Colorado visting an underage beauty pageant contestant some night about 10 years ago – well, I don’t want to say anything about that without knowing anything.

*****

Hey Mike,
What’s on your ipod?
Mookie P., Boston, MA

Hey Mookie,
Speaking of Boston, I’ve been listening to a lot stuff in preparation for the Touch & Go 25th anniversary show. I wish I could go but I’ll probably be working. I used to be a big Jesus Lizard fan once upon a time. I saw them once at Brownie’s in New York City and got David Yow to rest his testicles on my forehead during “Rodeo in Joliet,” second only to meeting President Bush on my personal Top Ten. I heard that Oxbow is the next best thing to the Lizard these days but I can never find their records when I go to Sam Goody. I really looking forward to the new TV on the Radio album as well. I heard it’s very exciting. I’ve also been meaning to get the new Pink Floyd DVD – The Division Bell is an underrated record, and if you’ve heard any of Roger Waters’ solo work, you know David Gilmour is the undisputed heart of that group. Highly recommended.

And, of course, my own personal anthem, “Promiscuous Girl.”

*****

Mr. Kay,
Kent Mercker or Steve Stone?
Matt B., Chicago, IL

Mr. B,
It’s sad when players and announcers get into arguments over their job. Just as a player is supposed to do the best they can do, an announcer has to do his best to report the facts as they see them. Maybe things could be phrased in a more delicate manner, but sometimes the truth hurts, and we’re talking about grown men here. If you can’t stand the heat, get out of the kitchen and order some pizza.

That said, it’s a lose-lose here – would you rather side with an iffy left-handed crybaby, or a know-it-all old man? If I had my choice, I’d go with Mariano Rivera, the greatest pitcher of all time.

*****

Yo Mikey,
What’s the best title in Hideki Matsui’s porn collection?
Matt C., Milwaukee, WI

Yo Matt,
Hideki’s collection of adult entertainment is nearly as inscrutable as he is. Things like this are things that I would rather not share with anyone, so I haven’t had the chance to view any of Hideki’s movies. However, there are a few titles that I’ve taken note of over the years:

• Super Fun Time Watersport Tubgirl Party
• A Fist In Nine Saves Time
• Dick Rambone’s Barrell of Monkeys Goes Bananas
• Wet Furry Co-Ed Russian Mail Order Sherpa Bitches XII

Have fun shopping!

*****

My man Mikey,
What’s Charley Steiner really like in person?
Danny A., Queens, NY

Hey Danny Boy,
Don’t call me Mikey.

As for Charley, I’ll let my good friend, and the voice of the New York Yankees, John Sterling, field this question.

JOHN STERLING: Thank you, Michael. Well, Daniel, working with Charles Frederick Bartholemew Steiner is undoubtedly one of the many highlights I’ve been blessed to be part of with since becoming the voice of the New York Yankees. After all, it’s rare to work with such a consummate professional as Charley Steiner. His love of baseball is surpassed only by his love of boxing, of sports, of his ESPN commercials, his friend chicken, his donuts, and his unflagging enthusiasm for the Yankees organization. It was an unparalleled joy to sit in the broadcast booth with his melifluous mirth and bellicose boosterism at my side. Who can forget that amazing night in 2003, when the Yankees came back against Pedro Martinez and the Boston Red Sox thanks to the heroic efforts of Aaron Boone? When that wily knuckleball sailed deep into the left field bleachers, Charley and I were so overcome with emotion that we both screamed “THE YANKEES WIN!” in unison as New York erupted into jubilation. It was the highlight of a long arduous baseball campaign, as well as the highlight of a short-lived tenure that will undoubtedly be one of the many highlights of my career.

The Dodgers are lucky to have you, my friend. The New York skyline doesn’t have the same twinkle as it did when your intoxicating breath caressed the gentle foam sheathe of the microphone. The hard-hit groundballs past a diving Jeter don’t have that same zip and zing. Jason Giambi’s prodigious moonshots into the right field upper deck sail a little lower nowadays. And I will admit, when I look out upon the azure beauty of the storied Yankee infield, the pristine cotton cumulus cloud cover, and the monolithic All-American grandeur of the Utz Potato Chip sign near the outfield scoreboard, it’s just not the same anymore. Johnny misses you, old pal. Johnny really misses you. Johnny wishes you’d write him at least once or twice, you know? Is that too much to ask? Think about it, Charles. Just think about it. I’m John Sterling.

*****

Hey There F-ckface:
What the f-ck was up with yr wacko rant on the radio about the Nazis & slavery when it comes to calling a perfect game? Even a knobgobbler like you should know that it’s BAD LUCK to do that sort of sh-t on the air. And anyone with just a little skill, like your cockgoblin buddy Sterling, can dance around the f-cking thing without actually saying OH MY GOD HE’S GOT A PERFECT GAME GOING FOR THE WORLD CHAMPION YANKEES like you just figured out how to play with yourself. You’re a f-cking clown, guy. Stick to staring at teenybopper funbags and eat a cornfilled sh-t.
Larry B., New Mother F-cking York, NMFY

Dear Waste of Flesh,
Thanks for the input, but it is you that are the clown, my friend. If I have to make excuses for you sending a runner around third when the ball is at the pitcher’s mound, it will never be too soon. I have nothing to say to you except that if I see you in the Stadium, I will make you eat your words which will be tattooed on my knuckles and IN YOUR FACE A-HOLE.

Don’t you EVER tell me how to do my job, buddy. I don’t take that stuff from actual pros like Kitty Kaat or Ken, and I sure ain’t taking it from a slap-hitting drunk that still thinks Scott Rolen was a piece of garbage. The issues you have make Nazi Germany look like Aruba in July. I don’t know if it’s “baseball etiquette” to make you eat your own penis, but I’d sure like to find out. As for teenage funbags: if there’s grass on the field, kiss my chunky left buttcheek, you sad little donkey.

Have a question for Michael Kay? Send it to Yard Work, and maybe he’ll get around to vaguely answering it!

Dearest Nation of Crimson Hosiery:

What the hell happened? Not even a few short weeks ago, your beloved team of God-fearing child-like dance-instructors were on top of the most expensive division in all of Major League Baseball. The media outlets were once again prostrate at the cleats of you and your heated rivals, the soon-to-be Bed-Stuy Blackstripers. The cornucopia of shirts denouncing the supposed sexual proclivities of players on said Bedstuy squadron were selling hand over Sam-Adams-clenching fist out on cozy little Landsdowne Street. And, most importantly, those derisive chants echoing through the corridors of enemy territory – 2004! *clap-clap* 2004! – were looking like taunts from a distant past life.

But while yours truly (Misters Fagen & Becker, Cultural Gadflys At Large), preparing for yet another wildly successful tour of this fine contiguous landmass, were distracted by the antics of one Jared “Who, Me, Lose?” Weaver and two LA Times mouthbreathers (whose names I won’t deign to mention – names have power, don’tcha know), shit hit the fan like Khruschev’s shoe hit UN furniture. And, boy, this past weekend, that shit proved to be the stuff of undercooked chicken and corn-on-the-cob eating contests.

Now, you may be asking yourself what two worldy West-Coast types such as ourselves are doing wading through the morass that is the plight of the Boston Red Sox. After all, we spent a good deal of our time plying our trade out in the NYC – surely showing concern for That Team due east is tantamount to inviting Squeaky Fromme to take a hit off your hookah. But, we confess, while the old town still holds a special place in our heart (and our business), our affinity for the most expensive team in the sport is on the wane. There is no joy in this Mudville when every Casey in the league (Sean, Stengel, Kasem, Siemaszko, &c.) is available for a song, dance, and future considerations. This group’s mercenarial professionalism is heartening only to those that like sure things, like property or taxes or Daylight Savings Time. Outside of the folks that design the stamp-sized reminders squeezed onto the front page of your local tabloid, does anyone really enjoy Daylight Savings Time?

Boston’s bunch, on the other hand, while nearly matching their rivals penny for penny, possess a certain joie de je ne sais quoi (pardonez-moi and my grade-school French). For The Dan, that joie starts and ends with the lovable galoof out in left field, the derided and misunderstood man-child with a preternatural gift to smack the shit out of the ball (both with bat and glove) and make it look like he’s lollygagging, postage due. This irresistable ball of fuzzfun (currently on the mend – get well soon, Man-Ram!) reminds us elder statesmen of jazz-pop-rock-funk of the halcyon days of our musical beat combo, and specifically the beret-abetted antics of one Jeffrey “Skunk” Baxter. Despite our advancing years, we could recount many wondrous and lighthearted stories of “Skunk being Skunk” that would probably strike strangers as odd or disturbing or perhaps even worthy of legal proceedings. That is, we could, if Mr. Baxter weren’t currently advising our government in matters of national security. The less guff we receive from G-men, the easier it is for our pyramid schemes to succeed sans hitch.

But we digress, as our multitude of fans know all too well. Our purpose for writing this open letter to you Red Sox fans is to say that we, the two-headed behemoth behind multi-platinum recording sensation Goofus & Gallant’s Midnight In-n-Out Burger Run, feel your pain. There, there. There, there. More importantly, we feel the pain of all parties affected by this tragic descent into the dire muck of mediocrity. Whither the hook to be had when media conglomerates can no longer trumpet the deathless rivarly between colonial ingenuity and slick city wile? Where is the suspense to be had in the playoff season if there is no red and white to counter the black and white? What shall beat writers have to write about if there is no threat of yet another intriguing Boston / New York tete-a-tete?

I shudder to consider the alternatives if this grand sport of champions and smokeless tobacco afficionados is forced to turn a blind eye to this corner of the globe. Will the world care about the stem-to-stern success of Detroit? Will there be interest in the South Side of Chicago now that they’re just another defending World Series champion? Does anyone even know if Kansas City still has a team that’s not indentured to another major league franchise? These are questions that those in power will have to ask themselves in the near future, and the answers might change the game as we see it.

In the meantime, we ask the following to those in that fair maligned city, on behalf of baseball fans across the globe – would one of you overpaid dipshits on the Red Sox please try to actually, y’know, not fuck up? Our bookie, and his vig, thanks you in advance.

Steely Dan’s Donald Fagen and Walter Becker give Snakes on a Plane two thumbs up.

Yeah, brother! It’s me, Hulk Hogan, ready to talk to all you little Hulkamaniacs out there about some baseball stuff that’s going down up in Canada. Now, some folks might be surprised that Hulk Hogan cares about baseball. After all, Hulk Hogan is one of the greatest sports entertainers of all time. Between the WWE, my TV show, taking down George Foreman, keeping my daughter Brooke away from college dudes and guys with more hair on their back than on their head, and taking all my vitamins, it’s a wonder that the Hulkster has enough time to relax in a tanning booth. But Hulk Hogan plays as hard as he works, and when it’s time to get my spine realigned, there’s nothing better than watching some good old Major League Baseball. I love this game, brother!

Now, before I start, I gotta say that I’m an All-American type of guy, but that doesn’t keep me from giving respect to the Toronto Blue Jays for toughing it out this season. It’s gotta be extra hard, coming from a foreign country, trying to compete with good old American know-how every single day with a language barrier staring you right in the face like a Macho Man elbow. After all, what’re you gonna do when the Yankees and Red Sox run all over you? But Toronto tried this year, brother. They went out there and they spent money like the big boys, loading up for the 2006 season. They got themselves great pitching, and great hitting, and for a while Hulk Hogan thought things were gonna change for these guys.

But now folks are claiming that the Blue Jays are done for, and they’re calling for some folks to get their asses canned. They’re talking about manager John Gibbons and his public run-ins with some players. There’re even rumors of some unpublicized run-ins with Gibbons and other players behind the scenes. Hell, even the front office is going at it, what with GM J.P. Riccardi taking it to ESPN writer and former Blue Jay co-worker Keith Law. But this ain’t about the suits mixing it up. This is about a ladder match where the prize is respect. This is about the warriors, the guys in the trenches going at each other’s throats, without anyone backing down, with no quarter given, winner take all.

All I gotta say to this is – right on, brother! If it were up to me, baseball would have a lot more of this stuff going down every day. It’s a long season these guys play, and it’s long for the fans, too. Sometimes, you gotta wake folks up with a little something, and there’s no better way to do that than by throwing down. Some of the best moments in baseball are brawls. Pedro Martinez taking down Don Zimmer. Chan Ho Park hassan-chopping Tim Belcher. That White Sox fan taking down the Royals’ first base coach. That’s entertainment, no matter what some old folks might say, and entertainment’s good for the game. There’s no such thing as bad publicity, brother – take it from a pro wrestler. If the WWE can survive Maven and Golddust, then the Blue Jays can survive this stuff.

Also, all these guys making millions of dollars to throw a ball around, they gotta be kept in line. Back in the day, guys like Ted Lilly and Shea Hillenbrand would be playing for their paychecks, and they’d have to bust their tail every single day. But nowadays, folks are just sitting back, wearing armor on their arms and legs and only pitching for six innings, and then going back to their penthouses to cash their million dollar paychecks. It’s like folks forgot what it’s like to actually compete. The Hulkster knows about competition. The Hulkster’s had more work done on his knees and back than Joan Rivers had done to her face. And you know why Hulk Hogan did all this? He did it for the fans. He did it for that feeling you get when you have thousands of people cheering for you, when the eyes of the world are focused on your 22-inch pythons and they’re waiting for you to rip off your shirt. Getting paid’s a nice bonus, but if it don’t grab you in the nuts and squeeze, brother, it ain’t worth doing.

That’s what Gibbons is trying to teach these guys. You can’t just pout on the mound, or leave to go adopt some Sally Struthers kid, and expect that to get the job done. You gotta be a man about it. If you suck, you suck – deal with it. If you get called out, step up and take your hits. If you got a problem with someone, you deal with it head-on. And if it comes down to taking it outside, you better bundle up, brother, because it’s cold out there. Doesn’t matter if you gotta use your fists, or a folding chair, or a championship belt. Don’t ever back down, and don’t ever give up, unless you like losing. Second place is first loser, and if Hulk Hogan learned anything from these confrontations, it’s that John Gibbons ain’t a loser. He’s trying to teach these guys that they’re not losers, too, and if they can’t figure it out by example, they’re gonna figure it out with his fist in their teeth. And if they don’t figure it out, then maybe a real American is gonna have to update his passport and take a trip up north to show these hosers what playing an American sport is really all about. And you don’t want that, brother.

Hulk Hogan’s Five Demandments are: train, say your prayers, believe in yourself, believe in Hulk Hogan, and eat your vitamins. And when Hulk Hogan says “vitamins,” Hulk Hogan means “vitamins.”

He, which is also me, as well as yours truly, is right here, trying his best to fight through his struggles with things pertaining both to his baseball, and to the baseball of everyone else. It has not been a year that will be worth any rememberances or thousand-word pictures, at least in the scuffling shoes I sit in. And my lack of swing with the bat to this long-toothed point is the least of things biting me. To be frank (and let me make it plain that I do not relish this confession), there has been so much mouth-breathed nonsense happening this year that it almost seems fruitless to get to the root of these problems and stir up this unfertile ground. But instead of dancing around these periodic issues in my aforementioned shoes, I will tango feet-first with them until they have been swept away by reason of sanity.

I am guessing it would be safe to file these issues as hazardous personnel issues, wherein tenured professionals are allowed to burn their team’s rope at both ends while the fire extinguishers lay only a few feet away. For instance, the Minnesota Twins nearly submerging their playoff hopes in every one of their thousand lakes by relegating their second-best pitcher (Francisco Liriano) to third-string bullpen duties for nearly a month. The Twins have doubled their pleasure in this arena many times, continually sacrificing young turks to the gaping bloodthirsty yaw of veteran experience. This hunger for fresh meat seems to have been slaked, however, as the once-proud manes of warriors like Kyle Loshe and Joe Mays and Tony Batista and Rondell White turn gray, and the plethora of cubs the Twins have allowed to suck on the minor league teat can finally get an opportunity to taste the sweet nectar issued from the buoyant teat of the Major Leagues.

The Reds turned two such self-defeating tricks on the owner’s dime recently, subtracting productive position players (Austin Kearns and Felipe Lopez) for the lump sum of remaindered bullpen help (the names of whom I cannot be bothered to spell, let alone correctly), as well as relegating potential world-beater Edwin Encarnacion to the woeful position of Rich Aurilia’s understudy. In my mind, I do not care whether Mr. Aurilia is on such a hot streak that his pants need to be made of asbestos; he is to the Reds’ future what a brick wall is to a car. The Reds’ performance this year will not withstand rocker Bronson Arroyo’s inevitable return to the craggy embrace of terra firma in the following seasons, and giving up such potential at its prime, or sacrificing key potential development to allow some elder statesman another chance at the dirt-and-lyme bully pulpit, is a ridiculous folly. (I will resist implicating Unknown Friend of Yard Work Paul Daugherty in this sorry state of infidelity, but he is on record as spinning this trade as a positive move for the Reds, which makes me dizzy to even consider when sitting still.)

Alas, the Reds are not the only team in Ohio making such errors. Perhaps still waiting to see that magic that millions thought they saw during one fateful night in 2003, the Cleveland Indians continue to aim at the bullseye with Aaron Boone. Alas, his last true productive year was, ironically, with the Indians’ National League counterpart. What is worse than Mr. Boone giving away outs on both ends of the spectrum is that there is a shining hope awaiting the Indians in Triple A. Andy Marte, a lauded prospect that has somehow managed to pass through the hands of two teams, is once again bending Minor League pitchers over his knee and swinging for the sweet spot. With the Indians’ season finished except for the actual games, it is perhaps time for them to cut Aaron Boone off at the knees and bring in a fresh (and young) set of legs.

But perhaps giving the benefit of the doubt to Thomases and Dicks and Janes that couldn’t hit or pitch in the Sally Leagues isn’t as great a crime as to continue crying over milk that has yet to even leave the carton. Such is the case with Los Angeles beat writer Bill Plaschke, a sweaty undulating neck of a man I have bothered to make brief reference to in the past. Those of you in the know are aware of his well-done to-a-crisp vendetta against the previous General Manager of the Dodgers, the late (and now Padre) Paul DePodesta. This bone he needed to grind with Mr. DePodesta came from the carcass of a trade involving a player favored by fans and family alike, catcher Paul LoDuca. That the trade involving Mr. LoDuca also involved the person tickling these keys right now might have a small iota of truth with my interest in Mr. Plaschke’s particular genius. But this rancid bit of beef Mr. Plaschke seems to be obsessed with choking on concerns another player in that trade, Brad Penny.

Mr. Plaschke seems to believe that the sins of the father of the trade (of which most agree are not many, if at all) should be answered by those whose homes were broken like Solomon’s child. That is to say, if Mr. Penny fails to get a key out, or do anything short of perform a miracle, it is a testament to how two-faced this trade turned out. First, at the dawn of Mr. Penny’s start for the National League All-Star team, Mr. Plaschke streaked across the sky, writing THIS TRADE STILL SUCKS in large, darkening clouds issued from the ass end of a terrorizing cropduster. This tirade against Mr. Penny continued this week, as Mr. Plaschke took Mr. Penny to task for speaking his mind.

That Mr. Penny is plying his mouth in a fashion that made Mr. LoDuca a favorite of Mr. Plaschke must escape his tenuous grip of coincidences. Perhaps if Mr. Penny makes it a habit to fade into the season’s conclusion, Mr. Plaschke will soften his blows. Also worthy of writing down (or, if you’re a fan of Mr. Plaschke, typing in the form of one-sentence paragraphs) is that the object of Mr. Penny’s reprisal, Kenny Lofton, is not foreign to this sort of second-guessing. Anyone with a proper vantage point during one of Mr. Lofton’s games has undoubtedly witnessed the once-speedy man slowly descend upon balls hit in front of him. Let the record show an instance of such lollygaggering occured during a New York Yankee playoff game, wherein reliever Mariano Rivera is shown expressing consternation at Mr. Lofton’s nonchalant pursuit of such a ball. (I must thank the people at E$PN for providing footage of this seminal moment of dicking around.) For Mr. Penny to approach Mr. Lofton in the dugout for such a slight is not only unexpected, but should be commended. Instead, Mr. Plaschke chooses to see where Mr. Penny went wrong, again slanting his coverage down a one-way street where at the bottom lies a pile of nutty man guano.

Here is, pardon my language, the straightest shit possible that Mr. Plaschke continues to view cross-eyed: Paul LoDuca has done absolutely more than nothing for the teams he’s played for since leaving the Dodgers, Brad Penny (when healthly) has damaged other team’s chances at winning against the Dodgers, and the secondary product of this trade, Mr. Steve Finley, helped the Dodgers cross their tease of a Rubicon during that fateful 2004 postseason. I would also like to eat my own crow about my performance for Los Angeles, but my less-than-stellar showing in the depths of Pawtucket prevents me from doing so with any power or average. But this is as new as nothing you’ve already seen: the sports media is second only to the actual real media in spinning facts as lies and half-truths as gospel. This hysterical witch hunt after Alex Rodriguez perpetrated by all parties involved is just the tip of the iceberg that reaches down into the very core of baseball’s history. And as long as mental midgets like Bill Plaschke are allowed to stand tall at the book of record, and their pen continues to drool ink all over their ill-formed theories and happenstance beliefs, then perhaps it would be best for all those in the know to find another means of communication.

Goddamn baseball. It’s never enough. No matter what you do, it’s never enough. Most wins out of anyone, best ERA, third most homeruns. Don’t mean a goddamn thing when you get out there and actually step between the lines. Some people think baseball is a kid’s game, a pasttime meant to leisurely wile away lazy summer weekends. These people have no goddamn idea what they’re talking about.

Baseball ain’t a kid’s game. It’s a disease. It’s a mindless amoral blight that turns healthy young men into brittle shells of bone and skin. It’s a dirty, sweaty beast with thirsty teeth and coiled haunches, always on the prowl for fresh blood. They can try to cover this up with picnic areas and pavilion seating and free umbrellas, but that’s like trying to hide a corpse with Wet Naps and some Febreze.

Sometimes I love this bastard of a sport. Sometimes the smell of pinetar and cleat-cleaved dirt reminds me of cool early summer breezes and fresh lilacs and girls in sun dresses drinking lemonade on their porch swings. Sometimes I see a kid like Granderson gather a fly ball in his glove, or that beautiful bastard Verlander’s fastball slice past a batter’s stunned eye, and I forget that I’m a broken old man carrying enough tar in his lungs to fill the cracks in every goddamn one-way street in Manhattan.

Then I look into the stands. I look into the eyes of those smug, satisfied know-it-alls on their cellphones drinking ten-dollar beers wearing Official Major League Baseball hats and jerseys that cost more than the goddamn per-diem some poor kid’s getting in A-ball for the month. I know they’re sitting there in their luxury loge box seats waiting for the seventh-inning stretch and God Bless America to jump into their cars and beat the postgame traffic. I know they can’t wait to get home and dial into the local know-it-all sports talk show and bloviate about why we’re not good enough for their goddamn city. I know they’re waiting for someone to make a mistake. A missed sign. A ball hitting the lip of the infield grass and skittering under a glove. A gust of wind that upsets the flight of a changeup enough to let some muscle-bound bastard throw all his ill-gained weight behind a swing that’s as slow as death. And that’s when they’ll let us hard-working folks on the field know how they really feel.

“Fans.” Ha. Goddamn bastards wait for us in the bush like we’re American Joes kicking back during Tet. They’d might as well be sitting in the stands with voodoo dolls, stabbing them every time Magglio’s at the plate or Ivan’s about to field a pop-up. These are the same damn bastards that rode my ass raw for high pitch counts and sacrifice bunting too much and not sticking it out with goddamn losers like the Rockies. Like I don’t know what I’m doing. Like my players don’t know what they’re doing. They know what this is. They know it’s not a game. They know it’s not a job. This is the goddamn game of baseball, and if there’s one goddamn thing these overpaid jockstraps are gonna learn from Jimmy Leyland, it’s that you leave every goddamn ounce of sweat and blood and muscle that God gave your dead ass on the goddamn field, or else you are never seeing the goddamn field under my watch. This ain’t the playground, and I’m sure as hell not your goddamn nanny.

Yeah, the game’s changed. Things go down nowadays that you wouldn’t see even twenty years ago. Things you never want to see. And I know the game changed me. But I know what you have to do to win. And I know that the goddamn game ain’t gonna beat me. It’s going to be on my terms, or I walk away. I’ll be goddamned if I’m going to sit on a bench and watch guys that weigh as much as an 8-year-old girl hit 500-foot bombs off my goddamn ace and wait for someone in the Commisionner’s Office to get off their sweaty ass and do something about this. I’ll go home before I bow down to that crap, and I did. And I’ll be goddamned if I’m not going to do what I need to do to win some goddamn baseball games.

I don’t care if you’re the first baseman – you’re going to bat eighth when I say you’re gonna bat eighth. I don’t care if you’re 22 or 52 – if you’re out there throwing 145 pitches, I want Pitch 145 to be as high a quality as Pitch 1, and I don’t want to hear any nonsense about your goddamn arm or some goddamn homeopathic rotator cuff horsepuckey. Even if you’re a shortstop with a bat that’d make Jose Lind look like Jose Canseco or that goddamn Bonds, you’re batting fifth if I tell you to, and you’re going to produce like a goddamn hitter in the goddamn five hole. If I tell you to drop trou, stick sunflower seeds up your nose, and sing Yankee Doodle Dandy at full volume, you’d better ask me what goddamn key I want the song in and what hole I want the song coming from.

You don’t win just by being good. If that was all it took, then my goddamn Pirates would be mentioned in the same breath as the goddamn Yankees and the goddamn Big Red Machine. You have to be willing to sacrifice your dignity and pride to this bitch of a game. You have to let the game win in order to beat the game at its game. Sounds like some hippie-dippie bullspunk, I know, but it’s the goddamn truth. It’s the only way to conquer this thing, and it’s taken me a lot of tough losses and tougher wins to find this out.

But go ahead and try to get yourself some hitters and pitchers and leverage your at-bats and don’t give away outs and all that yellow parachute garbage. Go ahead and pretend you can find some way to bend or break the rules, or find some sort of loophole. You’ll end up with a bunch of fat softball players that can’t lay down a bunt when October rolls around and you need to get that guy on second into position for a sac-fly opportunity, and Sally-League pitchers that bend over like A-Rod at a Chippendales.

Goddamn them for bringing me back. Goddamn me for coming back. Goddamn me for loving this goddamn game.

Detroit Tiger manager Jim Leyland, manager of the goddamn 1997 World Series Champion Florida Marlins, smokes Lucky Strike.

Hi, I’m Johnny Knoxville. Welcome to Yard Work. As a star of various MTV television shows and Hollywood feature films, I have found myself in various predicaments that some members of the establishment might term “extreme”. I’ve artificially inseminated a cow. I’ve had Jai Alai players throw oranges at my non-padded derierre. And I’ve seen Chris Pontius naked more often than I’d care to remember. As a veteran of such stunts and activities, I’d like to take this opportunity to address an issue concerning the recent antics of some of the fine folks that play professional baseball.

Just over a month ago, Mr. Mark Buerhle was reprimanded by the management of the Chicago White Sox baseball club for sliding on his belly during a rain delay. More recently, Mr. John Wetteland, bullpen coach for the Nationals of Washington, DC, was fired due to “a long line of transgressions and insubordination that was affecting the chemistry of his relief corps.”

It’s another in a long line of parental-type chidings that baseball owners throw at their players when they do something they think shouldn’t be done. Now how harmless springtime fun earns Mark a stern reprimand and John a pink slip, while the wrestling antics of AJ Pierzynski and the outlandish misdemeanors of Lastings Milledge don’t even earn a turn-and-cough, I don’t know. But I won’t get into that here. Instead, in the interest of keeping baseball’s freewheeling spirit healthy and wealthy, and to make sure Major League Baseball doesn’t turn into Major League Boreball, here are some recommended leisurely pasttimes that free spirits could participate in.

1) BIG LEAGUE CHEW: A guy with Mark’s ample physique would be a natural at this up-and-coming professional sport. Don’t think that competitive eaters are all fatties. Heck, one of the best eaters out there is a 50-pound woman! You have to be in serious shape to be able to chew and swallow (and digest) tons of hotdogs and cheese fries and salad. And, unlike pitching, it’s a natural thing. After all, everyone has to eat, right? So why not (if you’ll pardon the pun) add a little spice? Maybe have some post-game throwdowns over the deli platter? A little jalapeno hazing? Sanctioned interteam eating competitions would be a great way to unwind and also bond with your teammates without the use of substances of various levels of control. And, on a personal note, I’d love to see ample fellows like Prince Fielder or David Wells executing the Kobayashi shimmy.

2) RESIN D’ETRE: The resin bag is one of those things unique to baseball. You see pitchers toss and bounce the thing around like a potato-sized hacky-sack, but there’s so much more to do with it. For instance, you could open up the resin bag and sprinkle the contents on some jelly donuts for a post-game spread to die for. Or fill the resin bag with rocks and find out who’s wearing a cup. Or you could take a page out of Fight Club and replacing the resin with lye. If you have a rookie on your team, get him to stick the lye bag in his jock after the pre-game workout. As Yankee great John Sterling might say – burn baby burn!

3) GRANDSTAND SLIP-N-SLIDE: Never mind the field tarp – why not put those covered up center-field bleacher seats or far-gone mezzanine sections to good use when it rains? Imagine the distance you’ll get sliding across twenty to thirty rows of seatbacks. The gambling sort can also turn this into a wagering contest, seeing how far they fly over the center field wall (or the edge of the third deck). You could do it pre-game, when not many folks are going to be around (aside from teammates, and scared-silly front office personnel). However, to ensure yourself fan favorite status, I suggest heading out there in the 3rd or 4th inning, stuffing a pillow or two under your jersey, and going for it Bernie Brewer style. It’s also a great stress reliever, and you’re bound to make friends with the fellas (and ladies) as you zip by. Win win!

4) UMPIRE SUMO WRESTLING: Just like the label says. Umpire gear + two game ballplayers + on-deck circle or pitcher’s mound = a sport of champions the ancient Greeks would gladly include in the Olympics. Who needs an inflatable sumo suit when you have a chest protector? A perfect activity for the pitcher and hitter that want to settle their inner animosities towards each other without throwing broken bats. Dropkicks, noogies, and, of course, in case Pedro wants to take on Don Zimmer again, bodyslams will be allowed. And, to make sure the matches are on the up and up, scoring will be provided by the fine folks at QuesTec. In honor of Eric Gregg (RIP).

5) HUNGRY HUNGRY HIPPOS: If former phenom Joe Charbonneau could fit a whole baseball into his mouth, then there’s no reason why four strapping young lads can’t lie on the ground, open their pieholes, and take a few fungoed Spaldings in the face and/or teeth. Think of this as extreme pepper. Whoever passes out last, or gets bloody last, wins. Bonus points if you pull a Charbonneau and get a ball in your mouth so far that your jaw needs to be unhinged. Automatic victory if you pull a Steve-O and hit yourself in the face with a hammer to knock the ball free without knocking yourself silly.

And last, but most certainly not least:

6) THE HIDDEN BALL TRICK: Use your imagination. And maybe a roofie or two. And lots of petroleum jelly.

The important thing to remember here: the word PLAY is a key part of BASEBALL PLAYER. All work and no play makes baseball a crap sport. Hopefully, my suggestions can help put that sense of fun back in America’s pasttime. (And remember kids: don’t try any of this stuff at home. Unless your parent’s aren’t around – in that case, as Larry The Cable Guy would say, git r done!)

Johnny Knoxville was knocked unconscious 3 times during making of Jackass: The Movie.