(That title is accurate, so if you're a pussy, just stop reading now.)
I don't usually use this space for these purposes, but it's Columbus Day, so I figured I'd be like Columbus and take a big fat shit on an Indian. (Feathers, not dots.)
No? Perhaps if I dumped a bucket of (smallpox-ridden) bugs on the back of his disgustingly fat neck and let you watch him whine like the little bitch boy from Nebraska that he is. Oh, "No bugs on Joba's neck" isn't in the Joba Rules? Fuck you, fatty.
And what the fuck is this "Joba Rules" bullshit? Just because the other fat boy on the yankees staff (the ancient one who made it into the third whole inning last night!) decides he gets to play by his own rules, now the yanks are letting every 20-year-old raindancing cardiac-arrest-in-waiting do it too?
Hey Torre, ever heard the phrase "inmates running the asylum"? (Though I guess in this case, perhaps "Injuns running the AA meeting" might be more appropriate.) I got an idea -- next time Chief Extra Extra Cheese tells you he can't pitch today because he pitched yesterday, just tell him that if he goes out there, you promise to get him a lifetime supply of 140-proof whiskey and bacon-fried peyote. And it's good shit, too. Tell him he'll trip so hard, he'll gain magical powers which he can then use to reanimate the lifeless lower limbs on his stupid fucking dad. Hey Joba, wanna know why poppy can't get around so well? Because he's a devil-worshipping pagan, just like you. That's why God had to send that swarm of locusts after you on Friday. Yeah, you might have a sick curveball and whatnot, but eventually I'll be strolling through the pearly gates as you try to talk your way past St. Peter, you heathen fuck. I'd try asking the spirit bear if he can get you a waiver.
Seriously, the main reason I'm pissed the (this is perfect) Indians couldn't finish off the yankees last night is because that virtually guarantees that I'll have to hear the stupid fucking Joba story one last time this year. Christ, I wanna inject my ears with lava every time I start to hear it. Okay, I fucking get it. He's a Navajo, his dad's in a wheelchair, it's all very inspiring, blah blah blah... Shut the fuck up already. These announcers act like every time he thinks of his dad, he's actually curing cancer or something. Just pitch the friggin' ball fatass. Then get the hell back in the dugout and shut up. Go rub your fox-skin or light some sage or start a casino or whatever your drunken ass does when not causing the rubber bouts of pain not seen since the heyday of Fernando Valenzuela.
Okay, so ends my vicious bout of racism for the day. I really don't have a problem with most Injuns. Hey, I love drinking and gambling too. And I'll bet Pocahontas was one hot piece of fur. It's really just fat Joba who I loathe. With any luck, after tonight, we won't have to hear his just-make-a-stupid-TV-movie-about-it-already life story again. At least not till April.
By the way, when is April in the savage calendar? Maybe I can just ask this guy tonight:
Or maybe one of these guys:
Well, maybe I am a bit racist. But at least I don 't have a job designing logos or naming teams for professional sports leagues.