Thursday, February 7, 2008
Walk Among Us
You fucking people. You come to MY party, your one and only opportunity to mingle with greatness and still you have the audacity to question me, question my manager? If I've selected him to manage this ball club, so he goes not but by the grace of god. His decisions are my decisions. Quickly, let's begin the exhumation of Casey Stengel because a guy who comes to 80% of the games dressed as a blue chair thinks John Gibbons isn't the right man for the job.
Season ticket holders think they can puff up their chests and get in my face? Look buddy, I don't come down to where you work and knock the dick out of your mouth, so back the fuck off. You think a lifetime of servitude at Dewey, Cheatem & Howe LLP somehow makes you a eye-black stained baseballman with a radar gun affected sperm count? Why don't you go start a blog like the rest of those wastes of skin? The world needs your unique and insightful opinion like I need your wife's constant calls and text messages alternately asking why it burns when she pees and if I can take her away from her blow-hard husband and his sad, depressing life.
You need my lies because you cannot comprehend the magnificence, the grandeur of my divine plan. The complexity and the intangibles, the mitigating factors and the gut instincts. It's all miles over your narrow little head Princess.
My job takes finesse. It's hard to speak out of both sides of my mouth while snapping my gum like a vapid cheerleader. I must bring you in with the left hand and beat you down like a ginger stepchild with the right. You'll thank me in the end, once your tiny brain grasps what I've been leading you to this whole time. All of this is for your own good.