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.