Saturday, January 26, 2008
Heavy is the head that wears the crown
Last night I fucked your wife. One thrust, balls deep.
Don't believe me? You shouldn't. Or should you? Guess what, I don't give a fuck, peon.
Where is my office? The fucking corner. What does it say on the door? General Fucking Manager. Do you know what that means, bitch? Generally, I manage. This whole fucking show. Hell, I manage just about everything around here, the sun and stars included. How many rain-outs have we had since I've been here? That is what I fucking thought.
I also manage not to puke when scum like you question my decisions. I do whatever the fuck I want. If I want to feed you lies, misdirect you, tell you how much I "like our team" and then make an assload of trades, guess what, I will. Duplicitous? You don't even know what that means. Because I haven't told you yet. For peasants like of you, all matters Blue Jay are on a need to know basis. I need you to know that I shit bigger than you. Twice a day. I'm regular and massive.
Are you on my team? Don't want to play hurt? Surprise! Your faggoty name is going in the paper, Mary. Right next to mine saying "thinks Mary should suck a cock and play the game." Are you due for a raise? Nope. You're due a ticket out of town, and the taste of the back of my hand. How about I extend your contract, then bring in a midget to do your job? What are you going to do popcorn? I buy and sell your asses.
Don't think it's appropriate for me to call out the middle of our order for all the world to see? Good. It takes fucking stones to be me, and you are sorely lacking. My five year plan? Make it ten. Why? Fuck you, that's why. I could sell snow to a fucking eskimo, son. I'd make him think it was his idea. He'd thank me for it.
This is the real deal, pissant. Maybe if we played in the National League I could cuddle up close, tell you that you're special. Rub your back. I don't have that luxury. The American League East is our reality. You think the Yankees call you just to talk? You think they buy you breakfast in Boston? We need to compete on their level. That means you won't be shitting right for a while, Peaches.
All of this is bigger than you. Why did Ted increase the payroll? I WILLED it. That is how I get down. Godfrey? Next time you see him, look carefully at his chin. You can probably still see the outline of my balls. Gibbons knows better than to talk back to me. He'll be back drinking cans on the sidewalk with Hank before he can say "unintelligible." Maybe I'll manage this club next year. Maybe I'll just cancel the whole fucking season. You'll be on the edge of your seat either way; waiting to slurp up whatever pre-cum I let dribble your way.