Ha! Wrong stripes, but close enough!

Nice to see someone took the f*cking hint I oh-so-subtlely offered last time. Thanks to Mr. George Steinbrenner and a couple bottles of Disaronno, I am finally part of a class baseball organization. Oh, yeah, some of you dipsh*ts are probably itching at the d*ck to go to your little web sites and post all the places where I busted the Yankees’ stones. Well, guess what, Gumby – I WAS FULL OF SH*T!

Took the wind right out of your sac with that one, didn’t I? Better bring back that porn page you were surfing, Spartadork. You think I was actually serious when I went off on one of my f*ckfests talking this sh*t and that sh*t about the New York F*cking Yankees? Hell no – those knobs at The Worldwide Leader of Sh*tty Poker Coverage make you do that crap. It’s all a sham, a combo of that left-wing East Coast media bias & trying to out-do F*cks Sports in the Who Can Yell Louder p*ssing contest that F*cks could with with a broken Whizzinator and a month-long drought. If you really think that everyone on the channel likes yelling & saying stupid sh*t, you’re pretty f*cking stupid, you sh*t. Stephen A. Smith? He’s like Doug Christie away from the camera! Woody Paige? Reads f*cking self-help books and eats sushi! Skip Bayless? Dude’s about as hard as a f*cking dinner roll. “Sports journalism” – ha! Try “fanfic” to describe the sh*t those crotchbunnies at DisneyCo. make us drop off at the pool.

All you need to know is that L-Bow was trying to save his *ss from getting canned because Larry’s gotta get paid. (That Rickey, he knows what’s what, no doubt. Yo, Rickey – get off yr ego and get back to work already!) Yeah, I got some demons, and they ain’t f*cking cheap to pay off. You know why? Because f*cking Sanjay tries charging me thirty f*cking dollars for a case of Beast Light – a REAL man’s beer – and I gotta tell him every g*ddamn time to CHECKO EL PRICE TAGO, EL F*CKO GRANDE. F*cking laser scanners. And then, after the meeting of the minds I have with the Bullet-Free Employee Of The Hour, I end up buying about twenty packs of beef jerky and a 3-month old issue of High Society just to keep his stank-*ss curry piehole shut.

Speaking of sh*tty jobs: those other numbf*ck orgs I pissed away my life for wouldn’t know real teamwork if it checked their *ss for colon cancer. Like, hi there, Mr. Fancy Producer B*tch, putting me and Krukoa together just means more work for me so I can translate that slob’s chicken-fry babble into f*cking English. It’s not like Ravvy was gonna do a damn thing – f*cking kid pisses himself stupid every time he’s on set. I swear that little rag has a pissbag tied to his leg. Dude scats himself more than Billie Holiday. It’s like, hey, maybe if you didn’t drink 50 cups of coffee before each show, you’d be able to sit still and keep your pants dry, you wangtard.

Anyway, my days of slumming with 40-watt CNN rejects and talking heads with a face that could crack diamonds are long gone now that I’m a part of Yankee F*cking Baseball. Twenty six rings, baby. You can’t f*ck with that sh*t. Maybe I’m overqualified to coach third base – I was a great f*cking manager, after all – but, hell, it’s the Yankees. They got their best shortstop playing third, their best pitcher closing, and their best pitching coach in Florida. You come to the Yankees, you gotta check your pride at the door, and that’s f*cking teamwork in a nutshell, Mr. Luis F*cking World Series Hero Sojo with his “oh, first base coaching is beneath me” jagbagging. Look, Tintin – you don’t wanna stay with the best organization in all of pro sports and actually do something with your p*sspoor life, then please don’t let my f*cking 2×4 hit your head on the way down.

And the same goes for all you free agent rejects that think the Yankee organization is the rebound b*tch you screw for a couple of weeks after your girl decides you have “a problem” and starts schtupping her f*cking Pilates instructor. (Yeah, flex this, Don Juan.) Like we need BJ Ryan – hello, we have the best f*cking closer of all time. The Blow Jobs can pay Blow Job Ryan as much as they want. They’ll be lucky if that one-hit wonder ever throws ONE PITCH that’s as good as what Rivera tosses up there on his worst day. And I don’t even want to hear anything about signing that dumb hick Farnsworth. F*ck, if you’re that desperate to suck, why not save a couple grand and get that Rocker f*ck to say stupid sh*t and fight everyone within five yards of his spit? He’ll lose just as many games as KYLE will, and has a thicker neck to boot.

Johnny Damon? F*ck that Cousin It b*tch. Seven years? Bullsh*t seven years, you roid-rumped *sswit. Hell, four years is too long to put up w/ your mid-game flights of WTF and his sh*t rockstar friends. Broheems makes Manny look like f*cking Baseball Einstein, the way he sorta forgets that, hey, I’m supposed to catch that, aren’t I? And I could find a 5-year-old quadriplegic with a better throwing arm than that prissy b*tch.

And Brian Giles? Are you kidding me? A chump that’s played for the Pirates AND the Padres? Hell, why not just start the season down 50 in the loss column? You know who the last player the Yankees got from the Pirates was? That’s right – steroid “stud” Matt Lawton. You know what he did? That’s right – jack f*cking sh*t. *sshat doesn’t want to play in New York, that’s understandable. Most guys can’t handle the pressure to succeed and do well – I mean, really, who would want to play for the winningest organization in all of baseball? Who’d want to follow in the steps of former Yankee greats like Joe D and the Mick and the Bobby “Bam Bam” Mercer and Bern Baby Bern? Those are tough shoes to fill, especially if you’re too chickensh*t to try them on. Rumor has it he’s going to Toronto, too. Figures. Run to Canada, you unpatriotic little d*cksqueeze. Hey, while you’re up there, tell those f*cking hosers to make money that looks like money already. And f*ck this Canadian quarter sh*t – if I get one more of those f*cking pieces of tin from a vending machine, I’m gonna crosscheck you b*tchtits into next Boxing Day, eh?

You know what the Yankees need right now? I’ll tell you what – not one godd*mn thing. You know why? Because we’re the Yankees, baby! Winning for the Yankees is like passing out drunk for a Hilton sister – it’s what we do, it’s in our blood. Fuck, you can’t pass gas in the Yank clubhouse without knocking over some trophy or award. The minute you put on that uniform, the second you step out onto that field, you are a bonafide winner. And if you’re caught faking it (like The Gambler or that Vazquez chick or that Ed Whitson pr*ck, A FORMER PADRE BY THE WAY), you’re out faster than you can say, “Taxi!” or “F*ck you, Bloomberg!”

The Yankees are manifest destiny writ large or some sh*t. Survival of the fittest. What the f*ck ever. Yankees always win. I don’t even know why we bother w/ the f*cking season, to be honest. It’s such a joke how good they are, the Yankees have to bend over backwards just to give other teams a chance to win. You think that ALDS win by the Angels was legit? F*ck that. Next you’ll tell me Bartolo Colon deserved the Cy Young. I’d tell you who should’ve won, but you already know. And guess what? He’s a Yankee. Stick that in your pipe and f*ck it.