Bring Back Bubba Crosby

hey you

2008-06-23T12:22:00.000-05:00

I'm not dead don't panic. I've just been trapped in outer space. Be back in the morn'

Tall Tales of Rickey

2007-07-13T10:43:00.001-05:00

In celebration of the Mets new first base coach Rickey Henderson, we at BBBC have decided to air untold and possibly true (but mostly false) stories about the colorful stolen-base king.

The first story comes from former A's batboy Glen Buggermann...

I was a batboy on the 1983 Oakland A's and remember fondly my times with the green and gold. Rickey Henderson was one of my favorite players because of his exciting play and his quirky personality. I remember one day in May we were playing the White Sox at Comiskey Park. Rickey was in left, as always, and I believe this great Rickey moment happened in the top of the 3rd inning. Big Ron Kittle was leading from first. I forget who was pitching and batting but it really isn't important to the story. So anyway, the batter hit a groundball that went between short and third. The ball was rolling slowly into the outfield and I looked up to see Rickey pulling something from his pocket. Ok, the story gets really cookey from here. Rickey scoops up the ball but instead of throwing it into second he aims a little black pistol and shoots Ron Kittle in the face! Ohhh boy, so the White Sox players were really upset. Our manager Steve Boros ran out from the dugout to talk to Rickey. "Why the hell did you do that?" he yelled. Rickey just glanced over at Kittle who was lying in a pool of blood and said "Hey skip, you told me to gun down those runners from the outfield!" So Boros stared at him for a long time, then let out this really loud laugh. "No Rickey, I didn't mean use a gun!" Then Boros turned to one of our players and said, "That's our Rickey!" Hilarious right? Oh by the way Ron Kittle lived but now can't chew solid food.

Thanks Glen, and now another story from Padres center fielder Mike Cameron...

Rickey is a great guy. He was some teammate when we were with Seattle. I recall this really funny moment before a game during the 2000 season. The infield was taking grounders and Rickey was hitting soft-toss near the batting cage. After the infield finished taking grounders our first baseman John Olerud walked toward the dugout. Rickey stopped hitting soft-toss and went over to talk to John. I heard him telling John about how he played with a first baseman in Toronto who also wore a helmet in the field. John looked perplexed and said to Rickey, "That was me." Funny right? Well that isn't the end of the story. Rickey continued to insist that the guy he played with in Toronto was different. Finally, as John was about to walk away, Rickey reached out and grabbed John's face. He ripped his skin off! Underneath his skin was a metal skull filled with circuits and wires. Well, it turned out that the John Olerud we were playing with was really an android built by a secret military organization to spy on us. The real John Olerud was tied up and stuffed under the tarp for over a month. Boy, did he have some funny-looking scars! Rickey certainly made that day a lot more interesting.

Thanks Mike, and now one more Rickey story from former Toronto Blue Jays manager Cito Gaston...

Rickey Henderson was some character when he played for the Blue Jays. We were a great team back then and Rickey was the heart and soul. He was so good that we chose to ignore some of his odd behavior. For example, he talked to his bats. He would tell them things like "Rickey needs a hit today" and "don't let me down" as if they were actual people. One day I walked into the clubhouse before a game and saw Rickey talking furiously to one of his bats. He was yelling things like "you stupid dirty whore" and I was just bewildered. I walked over to Rickey to ask him what was going on. He told me that his maple bat had made love to his wife. "Cito, he betrayed me! He had his way with my wife! The sick traitor must die!!" he screamed. Rickey then reached into his locker for a bottle of gasoline (I don't know why he had a bottle of gasoline in his locker) and poured it all over the bat. Then he lit a match, setting the bat and the clubhouse carpet ablaze. All the players including myself ran out of the clubhouse. Rickey just stood there laughing demonically. That was fucking weird.

Thanks Cito and welcome back Rickey!

Allow Me To Explain My All-Star Game Decision

2007-07-11T10:21:00.000-05:00

Many of you faithful fans have questioned my managing in the 78th annual All-Star game. In the bottom of the ninth with the NL trailing five to four, I opted to let Orlando Hudson and Aaron Rowand hit with runners on base instead of replacing them with Albert Pujols. After Rowand made an out to end the game, the critics immediately second-guessed me. I am here to defend my decision.

First of all, I want to reiterate to the fans and to the media that I am smarter than you. My brand of thought is light-years ahead of your puny minds. I can calculate more in my pinky finger than you peons can comprehend in a thousand millenia. You don't see what I see. Where you see failure, I see success. I can see all outcomes in a tenth of a second. Of the 145,641.6 possible outcomes in Aaron Rowand's at bat, 67,134.24 yielded base hits. For you pea-brained ovines, that is a nearly 47% success rate. I turned to Albert Pujols and surveyed his smooth yet fierce Spanish visage. In 154,654.3124 possible outcomes, Albert Pujols succeeded 67,043.14 times. For the math-challenged mental midgets out there, Albert Pujols could only succeed 43% of the time in that situation. Fools might ask how I could know such odds. Fuck you, that's how I know.

I am always right even when I am wrong. I have won a World Series in each league. No one, not even Lord Jesus himself, can question me. Five days ago Albert Pujols had the gal to question the take sign I gave him on a 2-1 count. After Dave Duncan administered electric shocks to Albert's nipples after the game, I told Albert that if he ever even thought of defying my masterful orders, he would find himself in AA ball. Fans and media alike, know now and know always that I am infallible. Here is planet Earth's hierarchy: 3. President of the United States, 2. God, 1. Tony fucking La Russa.

And one more thing: if you continue to insist that I shouldn't wear sunglasses in the night time, I will have Dave Duncan remove your testicles with a rusty, sand-coated dagger.

Fear Not, Faithful Reader(s), Bring Back Bubba Crosby Will Be Brought Back!

2007-07-07T21:49:00.000-05:00

We at BBBC apologize for not posting in over a month. You see, loyal (and nonexistent) fans, the BBBC task force has been too busy debasing themselves in summertime orgies to write about the happenings in the sports world. In fact, we have been so busy with our legendary sexual exploits, we have forgotten that we can't switch from first person plural to third person plural in one post. I apologize for the pronoun inconsistency. Anyway...the real point of this post is to preview all of the wonderful stuff that will appear on this blog in the coming weeks. A lot is being planned friends. In fact, so much is planned, the summer itinerary must be put into bullet form! The following shit will go down sometime soon:

A comprehensive plan for you and your family that will guarantee ten million dollars in cash and a free box of Nilla wafers

International Globular Legion updates

A movie review of a possible movie that exists

Baseball wonderings and musings

Facial hair breakdowns

A comprehensive plan for world domination

More Nilla wafers

Time-travelling exploits of our good doctor monkey Orgasmo

A preview of the dog-fighting season

The apocalypse

Eight ways to have intercourse in front of your employer without being fired

The "Feed Eric Mangini" campaign

19th century baseball ghosts

A long list of bullet points

David Eckstein's lectures on Christianity (again)

Stay with us and we will open your mind to possibilities that you only dreamed of! Or don't stay with us and live a life of misery, loneliness, and hunger. It's your choice, people.

Oh Pedro Gomez, What Will You Do Without Mr. Bonds?

2007-05-29T10:52:00.000-05:00

Poor Pedro Gomez. His current life's work is to follow around a certain San Francisco slugger, filing reports for the World Wide Leader. Pedro has been on the Bonds case for quite a few years. He has spent his time on Sportscenter telling the world that Bonds ate chili for breakfast or has a sore hamstring or hit a ball really hard in batting practice. He is utterly devoted to covering the record breaking career of Barry Bonds. What will happen to our pal Pedro once Barry Bonds breaks the all-time homerun record? Tell Pedro not to fear, because BBBC has a comprehensive list of careers that he can choose from once Bonds is the homerun king!

The List

1. Eel Farmer

2. NASCAR food vendor

3. Chris Berman's towel boy

4. Electronics store manager

5. Sean Salisbury's phallus photographer

6. John Clayton's head polisher

7. Stephen A. Smith's nigga

8. President of the Federation

9. Renaissance fair jockey

10. FOX baseball studio analyst

Pedro can earn $650 per week as Stephen A. Smith's nigga

11. Pedro Feliz biographer

12. Gatorade flavor tester

13. Pedro Gomez biographer

14. Napolean Dynamite fan club operator

15. Astronaut

16. Time-traveller

17. Insurance claims adjuster

18. Chris Berman's personal cheese maker

19. Figurine afficianado

20. Clown God

21. Pirate

22. Priest

23. Pagan Priest

24. Craig Biggio stalker

25. Chairman of some sort of board

26. Super villian

27. Normal villlian

28. Blogmaster

29. War Czar

30. Connect Four legend

31. Ghost Pirate

32. Infomercial actor

33. Professional playa

34. Puzzle master

35. Senator

36. Nail store worker

37. Boxcar story teller

38. Macaroni farmer

39. Secret pie chef

40. African proverb dispenser

Pedro Gomez could be the Lou Gehrig of Connect Four

Greg Oden Actually 960 Year-old Mystical Sage From Taihang Mountain Range

2007-05-23T15:52:00.000-05:00

SHANXI, CHINA- 7-foot center Greg Oden, the probable first pick of the NBA draft, is actually an ancient and mystical sage who has dwelled in China for nearly one thousand years. It is still unknown how Oden, known as "The Ancient Sage of the Willows" in his homeland, first took interest in the American game of basketball and became one of the best college players in recent years. However, it is clear that at some point after the game of basketball was invented, the wizened Oden decided to come to America and embark on a career in the NBA.

BBBC reporters discovered Oden's dwelling, a small temple hidden in a bamboo patch on the base of mountain, while out on a panda-hunting expedition. In this temple the tall center was found deep in meditation. At one point he was seen hovering above the ground, surrounded by a glowing purple aura. According to Oden, he had practiced "battosai meditation" for 400 years, using his mind as a weapon against the imperial forces of the invading Tokugawa shogunate. Oden believed he learned his strong basketball defensive skills from battling the Japanese invaders. His longevity has allowed him to master 512 different martial art styles and the ability to control his sprit energy or "chi." Oden showed reporters his personal basketball court, a simple pit of sand lined with rare "gencho stones." Instead of using a basketball, Oden practiced with a 600-pound mountain rock, moving the tremendous boulder through the air with his sprit energy. After the workout, he gave one reporter a golden staff to commemorate the visit and told him that it was time for the public to learn the truth. "They must know I am not 19 years-old," he said.

The revelation of Oden's age is not completely shocking. Oden's wrinkled face had led many to wonder if he was much older than 19. Now that it has been revealed that Oden is centuries old, many experts have speculated that his draft stock will drop. "I definitely think his age is a concern," said ESPN NBA analyst Kiki Vanderweghe. "Although Oden has proved he can live far longer than any mortal, his foot speed, blocking ability, and overall agility must have been hindered by hundreds of years of rugged living. His career could be shortened by his advanced age." However, fellow NBA analyst Stephen A. Smith disagrees with the Oden doubters. "Greg Oden is one of the great prospects of our generation. Whether he is 19, 30, or even 900 years-old, it doesn't make a difference. If anything, Oden's ability to teleport, levitate, and survive the sting of ten thousand arrows only enhances his draft stock. Portland should not hesitate to take Oden!" Smith also added that he wishes Quite Frankly with Stephen A. Smith was still on the air.

Greg Oden killed this man and his flying ox 753 years ago

Ohio State issued a statement, acknowledging that they knew of Oden's true age but believed he still should have been allowed to pursue a college career. "The Ohio State University does not discriminate based on age. Mr. Oden wished to pursue an education with us and we obliged. His abilities to fly and bend the space-time continuum had no bearing on him being admitted to The Ohio State University." The NCAA has yet to comment on Oden's true age. NBA commissioner David Stern issued a statement. "Greg Oden will be a wonderful addition to the National Basketball Association. His Chinese heritage will help to market the game globally and his mastery of the martial arts will attract the burgeoning "NBA fans who are martial artists" demographic."

Oden flew to America yesterday after the NBA draft lottery. He answered questions at a New York hotel, seemingly unfazed by the media scrutiny. "The pressures of the NBA will not affect my play," said Oden. "I only want to help my future team win and contribute to the growth of our sport. After opposing the mighty forces of Takeru Kensei and his dragon on the fields of Nanjing 640 years ago, playing in the NBA will be an easy task."

Friday Special: Put Me In the F--king National Spelling Bee!

2007-05-18T21:43:00.000-05:00

Every Friday we at BBBC bring you a very special message from a professional athlete. This week's guest is former baseball player Carl Everett.

What's going on? Ever since the Mariners cut me last year I've been getting down to doing some thinking. Deep-ass thinking, ya know what I mean? I was always into books and shit, ya know, the intellectual type. I read my fuckin' bible on road trips and even checked out the educational shit in Playboy. So anyway, I was thinking about why the Mariners and that fat eggroll cracker fuck Hargrove let the main man Carl go. I think it was because they feared my awesome brain. I wasn't fooled by all the lies that were told, like that bullshit about dinosaurs and white men on the moon. Only person that can get on the moon is Jesus. He's got enough super magic in his fuckin' power belt to fly all around the moon like fifty million times.

Ok, I'm gonna get to the point here. I've always been good with words and books and learning. Last week I was watching some news and started spelling words all of a sudden. Like "news." And "spelling." And even "breaking news." I was on fire like a motherfucker, in the zone, man. My son Carl ran in the room and asked for some juice and I told him to jump off a bridge and die because daddy Carl was in the spelling groove and couldn't be interrupted. Before I took out my diamond belt on lil' Carl's face, lil' Carl tells me that in Washington they have this shit called the National Spelling Bee. It's even next week! Holy shit, I thought, I could spell fucking words! That bitch is mine!

So I called up some ho who told me about where to call for the spelling bee. I nailed the ho softly, then gave the spelling bee niggas a call. Some old dude answerd talkin' shit about "qualifying" and being "over the age limit." He was obviously either afraid of my giant elephant brain or just a fucking racist. I think it's a little of both. After that I was pissed and took lil' Carl out back for a spanking. I used the extra hard wood planks cuz I was really pissed. Then lil' Carl tells me to go to Washington anyway and ask to enter. Lil' Carl's got an elephant brain like daddy Carl so I stop beating him and let him have his fruit roll-up.

I get to Washington and tell some dudes I'm Carl Everett, baseball legend. That didn't know who I was so I fucked 'em up real bad. No one disrespects a baseball legend! At the spelling place I saw a bunch of brown kids with weird looking eyes. Shit man, this kids are like two feet tall and the girls got bigger sideburns than me. One little kid named Ho-cho-poo or some made-up shit like that comes over and asks me if I play baseball. I tell him he's looking at a baseball legend and he says he loved watching me play in Seattle. He gave me a piece of paper and said to write "To Ho-chun-fungwang, you're the best, your friend Ken Griffey Jr." Fucka thought I was Griff! Well then I picked him up by his little blue suspenders and shoved his ching chong ass in the garbage can out back. Then the security comes and arrests me. Racism against Carl! Finally I woke up a few hours in jail and I realized that I wasn't gonna be in any spelling bee.

It's cool though, cuz I got other shit to do. I'm gonna be making movies or writing books. I don't need to spell in a bee. I already own that bitch. Yeah, Carl Everett is sure doing good. Sunny skies all around! But if you hear from any teams, like the Devil Rays or Rockies give me a call. I think I got another fifty homer season left in my body.

International Globular Legion Opening Day!

2007-05-16T18:38:00.000-05:00

The International Globular Legion held its Opening Day fesitivites in Sjorkgen, Luxembourg, marking the very first time the IGL began its Opening Day parade outside of North America. (Of course, the IGL is in its first season, so everything is "for the very first time.") A slew of teams met on the grassy fields today, fresh with optimism and hope that they will in the Nakrab Jar, the IGL's version of the Stanley Cup. Here are the scores and highlights from today's games:

Boston Wicked Awesomes 9.3, Philadelphia Rocky Balboas 4- The Wicked Awesomes prevailed in the sixth and final period when Boston center guard Petey "Pants" McGillicudy scored a back-handed double homer against vaunted defensive swinger Lucious Zing. McGillicudy was 3-4 shooting on the day, with five assists, two singles, and a double homer.

New York Greaseballs 44, Los Angeles ToxicFish 41- Tied at zero after two periods, the game escalated when New York shortstop Roscoe Bernini forced the ball through the north ultra goal, giving New York a 20 point lead. Los Angeles countered, sending wingmen Phil Andrea, Andre Yurnioff, and Cal "Peanuts" Dunn over the hurdles for 17 points. The star of the game was New York left ringman Hall Donald: Donald netted two double homers in the final period along with two assits and five tackles.

Greenland Icebabies 1, Alaska Dogbeaters -6 - The story of the game was Greenland roundback Higgins Smith and Alaska power wingfooter Kulu Rejavich each stepping into the negative zone during the third period. At the time of the negative zone infraction, the score was tied at 79. With the score returned to zero, Greenland returner Rik Holdash hit a ball over the fence, giving Greenland a one point lead. Alaska couldn't recover and was eventually tackled in its own net twice, losing six points.

Switzerland Neutrals 18, Paris Chimpanzees 7- All of Switzerland's scoring was done by star first ringman Justino Grolash. The strapping Grolash knocked a quadrangle, scored a semi-ultra goal, recorded nine tackles, and made a stupendous catch robbing shootingback Claude Davier of free-throw in the final period. Paris was dominated the entire game, only managing to score in the final minute after Pierre Boler launched a desperation shot beyond the seven-point arc.

Beijing Rocketdudes 106, Hong Kong Screaming Ninjas 105.9- This game became an instant IGL classic when Beijing first bagback Mei Feng drove a triple through the ultra goal with only two minutes left to play. Beijing was trailing Hong Kong by 95 before the heroics of Feng. Hong Kong managed a spin tackle in the final minute scoring a ninth of point. However, it was not enough.

Tokyo Megamonsterdestroyermons 6, Korea Guppies 4- Defense dominated this conest. Tokyo defensive swinger Hiroshi Iwamura had three stops and four blocks on goal. Iwamura teamed with south defensive swinger Akira Masomato to form a "flying ozuma" block in the third period, knocking out half of Korea's offense. Korea roundback Di Sun-Yap avoided the "flying ozuma" and kicked three balls in beyond the two-point arc.

Check back next time for more International Globular Legion updates!

The Nakrab Jar is the IGL's championship trophy

What In Jebus' Name Is That??

2007-05-15T19:38:00.000-05:00

Ok, I know I'm not the first person to notice Drew Gooden's clump of random neck hair but seriously, what the hell is that? What do you call it? Why is it there? What does it mean? Are the aliens involved? Perhaps we shall never know...

We Will Be the ABA to the World League's NBA

2007-05-15T14:16:00.000-05:00

The World League is a thriving international sports league that features dozens of different teams competing against each other in a fictional (and ambiguous) game. The game could be soccer. The game could be baseball. The game could even be dodgeball. Either way, cities across the globe battle for the right to be fake champions. You can be a part of the World League by paying a fifty dollar fee. For your hard-earned cash, your name is featured on a roster of any World League team of your choice. You even get a team magnet! If your team wins the fake 90 game season, you receive a fake championship trophy. Why is BBBC divulging this information? Fuck you, that's why.

Just kidding, folks. We at BBBC have decided to mount a challenge to the World League. However, we will not charge money for people to join our league because we believe in freedom. Instead the "BBBC World League", now officially called the International Globular Legion, will form its own teams and hold random (and fictional) games. How many games will the season last? We dunno. How many teams will there be? How about 24. How will the scores be generated? Through legitimate international competition, duh. Will there be stats? Of course. What sport is the International Globular Legion involved in? That's a secret. Can I ask anymore questions? No.

Presenting the inaugural teams of the International Globular Legion!

Apple Pie Division
Boston Wicked Awesomes
Chicago Weaklings
New York Greaseballs
Philadelphia Rocky Balboas
Los Angeles ToxicFish
San Francisco 69'ers

Frosty Balls Division
Toronto Syrups
Montreal Omelettes
Greenland Icebabies
Alaska Dogbeaters

Salsa n' Cheese Division
Mexico City Diarrhea
Cuba Sugardaddies
Buenos Aires Flamers
Brazil Tree Worms
Venuzuela Hugobombers
Dominican Republic Mud

Eurotrash Division
London Biscuits n' Tea
Paris Chimpanzees
Munich Trainsarealwaysontimesomehow
Switzerland Neutrals
Madrid Sleep Sox

American Electronics Division
Beijing Rocketdudes
Hong Kong Screaming Ninjas
Gobi Desert Dryballs
Tokyo Megamonsterdestroyermons
Kyoto Swordhandlers
Korea Guppies

Tommorow is opening day! Yee-ha!

Friday Special: Yeah...I'm Not Really Into Pitching Anymore

2007-05-11T19:45:00.000-05:00

Every Friday we at BBBC bring you a very special message from a professional athlete. This week's guest is Yankees pitcher Carl Pavano.

Hey Yankee fans, it's your friend Carl Pavano. I know things haven't gone exactly as planned in my time here in New York. I've acquired nicknames such as "The Rajah of Rehab" and "American Idle" for my lack of pitching. Now I face another injury and might not be able to pitch until 2014, I mean 2008. I haven't been completly honest with the fans of New York about my condition. The truth is...um...well...ahem, the truth is that I don't really like baseball.

There, I said it. I don't want to pitch. It's freakin' scary out there. All of these crazy people telling me to throw this little ball past some giant freak at homeplate...it's insanity. Jesus Christ, I urinate in my expensive velvet boxers just thinking about it. Besides from being scary, baseball is boring. There are so many other things that I'd rather do. I was thinking of taking up pottery actually. Last July, I saw this great special on the Discovery Channel about pottery around the world. I see myself in five years as "Carl Pavano, the potter of the Gods."

If pottery doesn't work out, I can always become a hair stylist. I love hair. When I was in high school, my dad always made me hang out with the smelly ballplayers. My dad used cheap conditioner, by the way. Ugh. I think I could open up a little place in Manhattan and style for the rich and famous. Hightlights will be my speciality. Any girl in the city will be looking 30 years younger after they come out of "Carl's Cuts." Hmm..or maybe I can just call my salon "The Pavano." Yeah...

Trust me, it's been so liberating not having to play anymore. With the money I'm being paid, there is so much to do. Those sweaty trolls are hanging out in Yankee Field or whatever it's called playing there little ballgames while I'm cruising the 'burbs, just chilling. On these hot spring days I love to buy a tub of Ben and Jerry's chocolate mint and just pig out, ya know? I stretch out on the park bench and just nap for a few hours listening to Celine Dion. After that, I hang out in my jacuzzi and call over some of the guys to snuggle...I mean play poker. Once the guys are out of Casa de Carl, I open up one of my safes and count my money. I don't know what I love more: watching The Rachel Ray Show, the Oxygen Network, or counting my money. My maid Javier and I watch Oxygen in the mornings so I would have to vote for "the big O." Girl power!

Sorry baseball fans, but you'll just have to realize I'm more than just a ballplayer. I am a beautiful human being with a variety of deep interests, such as ice cream and Celine Dion. Excuse me now, but I have an appointment with Dr. Yocum. Wow, suddenly my arm is feeling really sore.

You Will Bless America Along With God or Face Electrocution

2007-05-10T14:56:00.000-05:00

Yup, the New York Yankees are the moral arbiter of our nation. Not only will "God Bless America" continue to blare over the loudspeakers but now you won't even be able to freaking move when the song is playing. If Yankee Stadium is this bad now, one can only imagine the civil liberties crackdown in the future. Strap on your Orwell pants, children, because I'm about to show you Yankee Stadium, circa 2012.

(God Bless America played over loudspeakers. Security guard walks over to fan)

Guard: Sir, you can't be moving while God Bless America is playing.

Fan: Um, these shackles are kind of tight and I dropped my 18 dollar soda cup.

Guard: I'm going to have to report you to Android Steinbrenner.

Fan: Oh God, please, anything but that, please I'll do anything!

Guard: Mr. Android Steinbrenner needs more human fluids to keep his life-support pod running. You'll have to come with me.

Fan: I won't move anymore, I promise! See (holds shackles binding feet and legs to chair) I can't move during the song! I love America! Jesus, I love America soooo much! (Begins to sob)

Guard: Time to settle down, sir. (Injects sedative into fan's neck. Fan passes out.)

Fan #2: I'm so glad I was forced, I mean willfully listened, to that song. And I'm even more glad that I get to listen to it after every inning!

Guard: Excuse me, what color is that shirt?

Fan #2: Um...green, I know its not an official Yankee shirt but all of my jerseys were in the wash and...

Guard: (Moves closer, brandishes syringe) You are not wearing Yankee merchandise and/or red, white, and blue. You will have to see Android Steinbrenner.

Fan #2: Look, if you loosen these shackles I can show you my official Yankee money clip and pencil. And see my hat? My hat is an authentic pre-batting practice warm-up Yankee cap! I got it in the Yankee store with my Yankee credit card! So you can't arrest me and I don't have to see android Steinbrenner, right?

Guard: (Listens to walkie talkie, nods slowly) That was Mr. Levine. He informs me Mr. Android Steinbrenner hungers for human flesh.

Fan #2: No! I have a daughter, please I just want to watch the gaaaaame. I love Amer- (injected with syringe, passes out)

Guard: We've got the body, Mr. Levine.

Fan #3: (turning to Fan #4) Oh man, did you see Wells for Toronto last night? Blasted another homer. That dude is on fire.

Fan #4: I know, I have him on my fantasy team and he is not for sale! (laughs)

Guard: Excuse me, what did you say?

Fan #3: We were talking about Vernon Wells and the Blue Jays.

Guard: (pulls out laser pistol invented in 2010) You can't talk about a team that is not the Yankees and/or America-based. You will have to leave.

Fan #3: You can't control what we talk about!

Guard: (Fires laser pistol, vaporizes Fan #3's skull) Mr. Android Steinbrenner will enjoy your fleshy torso.

Fan #4: Oh my fucking God! I gotta get out of here. Hey, the song is over, my shackles won't loosen!

Guard: That's because Courage, the Great Bald Eagle of America, hasn't flown around the stadium yet.

Fan #4: Oh.

Guard: And your shackles will remained fastened throughout the ballgame.

Fan #4: But I have to pee.

Guard: (Vaporizes Fan #4's testicles with laser pistol) Problem solved.

Fan #4: Thanks a lot, mister. (Dies)

Go Yankees!

My Xtreme Baseball League Will Be More Xtreme Than All Other Xtreme Baseball Leagues

2007-05-08T22:23:00.000-05:00

Are you tired of boring, dull, and normal baseball? Have you ever wished that there were two pitchers on the mound instead of one? Do you want to see the game of baseball evolve??

(waits for answer)

No? Well, The National Xtreme Baseball Leauge doesn't give a shit. Created in 2006, Xtreme Baseball is a radical (and batshit insane) version of baseball that includes two pitchers, two batters, eighteen fielders, lots of baserunners, and the potential for twenty-nine players to be on the field at once. Sound Xtreme to you, bitch? Good! However, this strange waste of time isn't Xtreme enough. We need more Xtreme pumped into this confusing game! You know why, punk? Because confusing is Xtreme!!!!! Hold on to your pants and try not to wet yourself as I present the updated version of Xtreme Baseball, reshaped in my image.

Rule #1- Not only will full contact on the base paths be allowed, but now it will be required. You wanna run through the first base bag without touching anyone, you pansy? Too fucking bad. Spear the first basemen into the ground or you are out. Keep beating up ballplayers to advance bases. And yes, weapons are allowed and encouraged.

Rule #2- A third pitcher will be added to the pitchers mound. The sole purpose of this third pitcher will be to throw as many baseballs as possible at the two batters. No longer will batters only have to worry about pussy fastballs and curveballs. Now they will have to factor in the 90 mph heat coming at their faces. That's what I call strategy! Also, the balls will be laced with titanium to create extra blood spillage.

Rule #3- If a runner is trying to score, he must have a sword fight with the catcher in order to touch homeplate. These swords will specifically be katanas of the samurai order. If the catcher is stabbed three times, the runner can score. However, if the runner is stabbed three times, he is out and denied any medical treatment for the rest of the game. Only homos get first-aid.

Rule #4- If each batter has two strikes, they will be permitted to charge the mound and challenge the two pitchers to a game of ultimate frisbee. First score wins. If the pitchers win, the batters are out. If the batters win, they are rewarded a base and given nail-guns. These guns may be fired without discretion.

Rule #5- In the top of the 6th inning, four wild rhinoceroses will be released from the bullpen. All players on both sides must kill the rhinoceroses with the hunting spears provided by their managers. Survivors of the rhinocerose attacks will play the rest of the game. All of those crippled or dead will be fed to the cougar pen located beyond the left field (or right field) bleachers. Crippled players may fend for themselves with either: a) rusty spoon b) box of tissues c) Fantastic Four action figure (choice of Invisible Woman or The Thing)

Rule #6- Have fun!! (Two umpires will be designated to determine if players are having fun or not. Any player deemed not having enough fun will be tasered at will)

Roger Clemenspalooza '07: 300-pound Drunk Guy Who Fell On Woman At Shea Stadium

2007-05-08T15:59:00.000-05:00

Due to the magnanimity of the Roger Clemens signing, the BBBC task force is asking sports celebrities to give their thoughts on Clemens coming back to the Yankees. Today's Roger Clemenspalooza '07 guest is the 300-pound drunk guy who fell on a woman at Shea Stadium, severely injuring her back.

What? What's a goin' on over here, man? Ohhh I was just taking this wicked piss by the nacho guy and, and I think Delgado was battin' or something. Or maybe it was a mom. I don't really remember...hey what's this about all this Clemens, huh wise guy? I don't have no opinion, I just have sexy. And this burned toast in my pocket. I don't have no ideas why that's there, do yous?

Yeah soooo Clemens think he's so cool and stuff, right? He walkin' around with his pants on like he's the king of the...the...um, king of the, eh fuck you I don't gotta owe you nothin'. I falls where I falls lady, I like my sausages and if you don't wanna fuck me than I got no use for ya, ya here? Yeah that's right, you ain't no tricycle. Fuck those Indians stealin' my jelly.

Yankees suck worse than uh...than that guy out there in those movies, he's the, white one, eh think his names starts with a.....letter. Fuck you, gimme those milk duds, I-I only had nineteen and three. Leave me alone, Jimmy, you gots no bidness butting around here with your car and your big words, hey there's a fucking cashew in that soda puddle, lay off asshole. Good.

Yeah so I was sayin how the Yankees suck worse than that...movie with the actor...fuck the Yankees and their grass. Roger can't pitch cuz of his balls cancer that makes his, er..balls like small somethings or other. Lady, moves yer ass from under my ass I gotta get that fucking cashew. Shit, I see cheese spots all over it, now I really needs it lady, get your boobs out of my ass cheeks or I'm gonna call over Jimmy, that fuckface, who.....eh what? I don't remember.

So there you gots what you wanted me to say, crap-face. Now my cashew is cold and the cheese don't look so hot cuz some goombah splashed his brown tobasco sauce all over. Hey, eh, you goddamn lady your nose is in my fat rolls. This means we at war now! Woooh, bring it on, I want some sexin'. Fuck the Yankees, Clemens is just a graham cracker for s'mores, ahhhh yeah, make me some s'mores. Jimmy the ass clown better pass over the Buds or I'm gonna pop him somethin' good, ya here? Yeah yeah, I know, I gotta sleep now anyways. Stop cryin' lady, will ya, you distracting me and my nachos. Thanks.

Roger Clemenspalooza '07: Suzyn Waldman

2007-05-07T22:02:00.000-05:00

Due to the magnanimity of the Roger Clemens signing, the BBBC task force is asking sports celebrities to give their thoughts on Clemens coming back to the Yankees. Today's second Roger Clemenspalooza '07 guest is Yankees broadcaster Suzyn Waldman.

Oh my God! Oh my God! Oh my God!! Roger Clemens is a Yankee!! This is the greatest moment of my life. No, forget I just said that. This is the greatest single moment for all of humanity! My goodness gracious, he's in Mr. Steinbrenner's box. He's actually there! It's as if he floated down from the heavens on a cloud of angel hair and baby kisses to save us all!

John, I know you want to announce the game in your irritating timbre but I just can't resist. He's heeeeere! Awaken, spirits of the spring, and sing our lord's praise! Oh my, my...I might actually have to meet and talk to him. Talk to the lord himself!! That's...that's impossible. I am unworthy to be in his presence. Did you hear, John? We can't interview Mr. Clemens because our sinful souls will not be tolerated by his piercing gaze of divine justice.

I am too awe strunk to go on. Who cares about the Mariners, John? Who the hell cares?! I mean, Roger Clemens has shocked the entire world by announcing his return to the Yankees. They should close the stock market! Close them all I say! Someone needs to arrange a Roger Clemens bobblehead day. Who's going to do that?? Jesus Christ, why isn't anyone answering me? Who is going to make that happen? If we don't act now, there might never be a Roger Clemens bobblehead day in 2007! John, we must act NOW!! Time is of the essence. The Rocket, I mean Mr. Rocket...I mean Lord Rocket cannot have his bobblehead day delayed.

Attention fans, Roger Clemens is now a Yankee! John, I know I said that already but who gives a flying fuck? Everyone must know!! Joy to the World! Joy to the World! Joy to the World! Joy to the world! Joy........to......the......world!!!!

Goodness gracious, he's coming to our booth! He's walking...like a mortal...like me. He's like me, John, Mr. Lord Clemens and I have something in common! What do I say? How do I act? Do I look stupendous John? If I don't look stupendous I can't please Him. He's sit-sitting d-down. I c-can't s-s-say any...

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!! Roooooogeeeeerrrrr!!!!!!

Roger Clemenspalooza '07: Pud Galvin

2007-05-07T17:13:00.000-05:00

Due to the magnanimity of the Roger Clemens signing, the BBBC task force is asking a sports celebrity to give their thoughts on Clemens coming back to the Yankees. Today's Roger Clemenspalooza '07 guest is 19th century pitching legend Pud Galvin.

Well salutations there, young fellers. I was listening to the radio in heaven when I found out that this apple-cheeked wonder named Clemens signed with the Highlanders. Oh sorry, my editor informs me that they call them the "Yankees" now. That baloon-headed crank should know that I haven't followed base ball much since I died of lumbago in 1902. I don't care much for the League of Americans that challenged our prestigious National League. However, I like to keep a special eye on the hurlers of the horsehide since I was one myself.

After this Roger Clemens signed a contractual obligation document with the New York base ball association of professional Yankee players, my comrades asked me how I felt about this momentous event. I turned to my comrade Phineus T. Wilstonmur (who died of a salmon bite in 1896) and told him "I swear on the body of president McKinley that the New York base ball association of professional Yankee players made a tremendous misjudgment!" Why did I utter such a sentence? I will divulge my reasons in the following writings of the third paragraph below.

The first reason is the absurd amount of gold the New York base ball association of professional Yankee players were willing to transact to the bank account of this Clemens. How is it that the American economy can support such a transaction? The depression of 1892 was not long ago. 28 pieces of gold was enough to buy the Landersville locomotive corporation in my day! One could have a top-rate phonograph for a three-pence of silver. Certainly this knocker-lipped Clemens with his rousing trousers is not worth this much in gold.

I also hear from my comrade Thorton J. Delphinley (who died of land sickness in 1888) that this feller Clemens has won the prestigious amount of games, three-hundred, that is needed for entrance into the hall of exceptionally talented base ball particpants. I was made aware recently that I was elected into the hall of exceptionally talented baseball participants because I acquired 364 victories in my career. I did this over the course of 15 seasonal segmentations, as oppossed to this veal-chested Clemens who is now pitching in his 24th seasonal segmentation. How can this hurler be considered so successful when he has never won 40 games in a seasonal segmentation? I recorded 46 wins in 1882 and 1883 pitching for the greatest team of all-time, the Buffalo Bisons, who captured the hearts of America and her colonies and was never forgotten. For my great number of wins I was only paid 14 greenbacks per game. I had to accept the dastardly paper greenbacks over a piece of gold, the monetary standard of our country. A pitcher like this kettle-throated Clemens who has never even won 30 games in a seasonal segmentation cannot impact a team to a great degree and is therefore not worth all of the fuss that has built-up around the signing of his contractual obligation document.

Finally, the conditions that this spinning jenny-armed Clemens is pitching under are far too easy in my opinion. In my day I had to hurl the pellet against the sharp-witted Protestant boys of the northeast. They all had attended grammar school and were educated in basic plow techniques. Today I see brown-skinned heathens who swear their allegiance to the Papal authority playing the game of base ball. Their minute brains and incorrigible tempers make them ill-suited for the sport of base ball. Clemens can easily toss the leather pill three times past the Pope-lusters and record a triple strike, or "strike out". Any pitcher who only faces such ignorant competition should not be playing for the New York base ball association of professional Yankee players.

There you have my thesis on the Clemens question. Not since the presidential election of 1876 has such a folly been committed! This sawmill-stomached Clemens, with his lightbulb-equipped dwelling, is too unqualified to pitch in a Union city. I will contact the lord controller of the New York base ball association of professional Yankee players through the heaven telegraph and tell him of some other rawhide-horse-pellet-tossers to stradle the mound for the remainder of the seasonal segmentation. My comrade Ellsworth O. Mortimer IV (who died of a biscuit explosion in 1895) informs me of a good Lutheran prospect hurling for the Boston syndicate with the apellation Denton "Cy" Young. Perhaps this Young is what the New York base ball association of professional Yankee players really needs.

To see a true base ball player, utilize your sorcerer magic and "click" here.

The Roger Clemens Contract Negotiation Transcript

2007-05-06T21:05:00.000-05:00

Brian Cashman: So Roger, what do you think about our latest offer? We believe it tops the offers presented from the Astros and Red Sox.

Roger Clemens: (clasps hands, smirks) Yeess, it's goood, very goood. There are just a few items that need to be worked out. (Turns to agent Randy Hendricks) Randy, fetch my golden cane, the one lined with the rare Dodo feathers, and meet me outside by the red hover jet. Keep the engine running!

Randy Hendricks: Yes, your excellency. I am nothing more than your humble servant, a mere piece of dirt in your benevolent presence.

Roger Clemens: I wish to negotiate this last portion of the contract alone. C'vest lou coiselles van chez?

Brian Cashman: Huh?

Roger Clemens: Oh, it was just some French I picked when I was ostrich hunting last year with my offspring Koby and Kory. I named them all with the letter K to recognize my immortal achievements on the baseball diamond.

Brian Cashman: (rolls eyes) I know...

Roger Clemens: How dare you roll your eyes in my general direction! I demand ten million more in pure sterling silver!

Brian Cashman: Ok Roger calm down, we'll work this out. Right now we are down to about 120 million guaranteed. I think that is a bit excessive. I am afraid we cannot pay you this much, especially considering that you are 44 years-old and only want to start pitching on the last weekend of August.

Roger Clemens: Why yes, I must not pitch until then. There's simply too much to do this summer. For one, my spouse and I wish to glide around the world on a parachute constructed of dollar bills and gilded pennies. My beaches need tending as well. And of course I must watch my son Koby play baseball. Did you know he recorded a hit last night?

Brian Cashman: Yes I know, you tell me every ten minutes. You also keep asking me to cut Jorge Posada and start Koby at catcher. I can't do that either. Forty million is as much as I will pay you.

Roger Clemens: Well I never! How droll you are, Mr. Cash Man. To think that a man with such a moniker can only pay like a pauper. I will call the Red Sox on my Roger Clemens customized cellular phone, the one with alabaster buttons and chrome screen and tell them that I will play for them!

(Five minutes pass)

Roger Clemens: How sad, the Jewish merchant who is in charge of the Red Sox will not pay me the 120 million I demanded. He even refused to buy me an ivory, bronze-tipped shotgun to hunt wild ostrich. I will pitch for you, Mr. Cash Man, if you buy me this gun and a Hummer to chase the ostriches with.

Brian Cashman: That can be arranged. However, I don't understand why you need another Hummer. I recall that you already have six.

Roger Clemens: Nine actually, Mr. Cash Man. But they are all H3 models and I wish to have new model customized for a man of my stature. I wish for my face to be carved in each of its twenty-two doors...

Brian Cashman: You want a stretch-Hummer?

Roger Clemens: Affirmative. It must have twenty-two doors, twenty-two wheels, twenty-two pistons, twenty-two gas tanks, twenty-two plasma TVs, twenty-two computers, twenty-two crystal statues of me, and twenty-two android servants draped in Turkish velvet to serve me and my friends champagne.

Brian Cashman: I will let you indulge in your sick lust of the number twenty-two if you sign for twenty-eight million instead of 120 million.

Roger Clemens: You will give me my customized Hummer and ostrich rifle?

Brian Cashman: Yes, but I want you to pitch by June.

Roger Clemens: Only if you present me with a prostitute of a different ethnic heritage before each of my starts.

Brian Cashman: Deal.

Roger Clemens: (smiles deviously) One more thing Mr. Cash Man...

Brian Cashman: What?

Roger Clemens: I want the announcement of my signing to be made public at this Sunday's Yankees-Mariners game. The jumbotron much read "Rogers Clemens is now a Yankee" and all of the peons below must cheer for me as if I am their God. After this is done, I will be flown from the press box on a throne propelled by hydrogen rockets. In my hand I will to hold a sceptre engraved with the number twenty-two. A blue cashmere cap will flow to my knee-caps. When this throne lands on the pitcher's mound, all twenty-five Yankees must scurry to the mound and support it on their unworthy backs. I will descend from my throne, walking on the bowed heads of Yankee players as if they were stairs made of flesh. Then a virgin cow will be flown down to home plate from a helicopter. Once on home plate, the cow will be sacrificed in my name. You will drink its blood, Mr. Cash Man. Give me that and I will pitch for your baseball squadron.

Brian Cashman: Err...how about we stop after the jumbotron message but instead I offer you an extra prostitute before each start?

Roger Clemens: I accept, Mr. Cash Man.

Brian Cashman: Welcome back to the Yankees!

Friday Special: Rawwwwwr, I Will Make You Suffer, King Ghidorah

2007-05-04T18:01:00.000-05:00

Every Friday we at BBBC bring you a very special message from a professional athlete/monster. This week's guest is mutated dinosaur Godzilla.

Stop shooting at me, you retards. I'm trying to kill this three-headed pussy and you keep trying to hit me with your missiles. Seriously, stop. Get the fucking Tokyo militia off of my ass, I got this shit covered. I am Godzilla after all.

Oh sorry, didn't see you there. While I shoot an atomic blast from my mouth that can incinerate iron, I want to give my thoughts on a few sports stories. You see, I love sports a lot. I usually avoid crushing baseball stadiums, especially the Tokyo Dome. I'm a die-hard Yomiuri Giants fan. I've followed them since I was spawned from a nuclear explosion back in the 50's. Fuck. General Hirakawa, if you fire one more ultra-plasma ray gun blast at my neck, I will stomp your fucking face off. Oh sorry about that, I try not to swear but it's just that this stingy Japanese military always feels the need to get in my way. They always bitch about me sitting on a hospital or something, even though I save the world at least four times per year from a galactic space monster or a renegade smog-beast.

I was able to watch a lot of the Warriors-Mavericks series this week. Wow, that was just amazing. It was an even bigger upset than the time I beat the first Mechagodzilla. That metal thing wouldn't quit. The Warriors' play was really inspiring. Don Nelson coached a great game, running the small quick players at the Mavericks who Ghidorah, what the hell man, what the hell? I am trying to share my thoughts about the NBA playoffs and you're blowing a goddamn lightning blast at me? You really are a dirty fucker. That's gonna leave a mark, you know. Look, it's all blue on my knee now. Faggot. Sorry for the interruption. I was saying that I really enjoyed the way Don Nelson forced Nowitzski to take all of those outside shots instead of letting him drive to the hoop. The Warriors play basketball the way it's supposed to be played. And what else can you say about that Oakland crowd? True basketball fans, really. When I rampage in America later this month, I'll make sure to only partially destroy Oakland. They earned it.

As that pasty small American Bill Simmons points out, the crowd can really make a difference in the game. I know what he means. The people of Japan rarely cheer me on when I'm going toe-to-toe with an evil radioactive space-mutant. They always run away, shrieking really loudly. Hey geniuses, how about parking your little hybrid cars nearby and getting on those rooftops to root for me? Don't you think I would've beaten Gigan more quickly with a little support? Even now as I fight King Ghidorah, the Tokyo militia, and the soon-to-be-arriving Anti-Godzilla Task Force, the only fans I see around are the crazy homeless guy who always sleeps in that parking lot and a pigeon who's either asleep or dead. All I want is a little Jesus Christ that plane flew into my fucking eye! Who the hell did that? Commander Owakaza, you are fucked. This tail is going to flatten your whole tank squadron. Then I will snap all of your bones on my nine rows of awesome white teeth. Sorry again, I was saying that all I want is a little support. Is that so much to ask for?

You will be my bitch forever and ever, King Ghidorah.

Later tonight I think I'll catch the Yankee game. I've been a huge fan of Hideki Matsui since I ate his uncle about twenty years ago. They even nicknamed Matsui after me! It's so flattering, really. When he went on the DL last year I was so depressed that I sunk an oil tanker. The best part about Matsui's game is holy shitcakes, I am going to kick your ass so bad, Ghidorah. Fly those batshit wings of yours in my face, will ya? I think you're pissed off because you have three heads and no dicks. That's right, golden bird feathers don't count, you asexual fuck. Don't be a whiney bitch just because my phallus can't even fit in the Kyoto tunnel. I was saying that the best part of Matsui's game is his ability to drive the ball to all fields and hit lefties and righties equally. I also would like to point out that his left field defense isn't as bad as everyone says it is.

Keeping up with the box scores is getting harder these days. I'm usually punching the clock 9 to 5 (sometimes literally, I knocked down the clock tower in Edo last week) and I don't get much time for rest. Mothra is always whining about some new threat that I have to take care of. Sometimes I just feel like destroying Japan once and for all and taking a nice long vacation in Bermuda or some other tropical island. Boom fucker, I knocked your ugly face into that missile silo! Sit down Ghidorah, I'm gonna take a nice big atomic green shit all over your chest. Then I'm dropping your saggy ass in the Pacific. There you can think about being a loser with no friends and no penis. Raaaawwwwwrrrrrrr!!!!!!

I want to thank BBBC for allowing me to post my sporting opinions. When I bathe the BBBC headquarters in atomic flame next week, I'll try not to char your innards too badly.

Prince Fielder's Daily Work Out Regimen

2007-05-03T19:29:00.000-05:00

In celebration of the Milwaukee Brewers' first place record, BBBC presents an exclusive copy of Brewers slugger Prince Fielder's work out regimen. BBBC appreciates all of the Brewers fans and hopes they treasure this item from their hero.

7:30 AM- Wake up, jog three times around bed.

7:45 AM- Finish jogging, call personal chef to prepare breakfast.

8:15 AM- Eat breakfast of mashed potatoes and gravy, Twix bars, fried bacon strips, frosted Eggo waffles, chocolate lard, and a sesame-seed bagel (extra cream cheese and butter)

8:16 AM- Request seconds.

8:17 AM- Begin half hour "power nap."

12:10 PM- Overdo power nap to build more power.

12:30 PM- Drive to ballpark, stop at Mario's Famous Pasta Barn. Eat brunch of baked ziti, jumbo lasagna, salted/fried cheesecake, and basket of garlic bread.

12:32 PM- Eat two more garlic bread baskets.

12:50 PM- Arrive at ballpark. Jog around first base four times.

12:56 PM- Finish jogging, begin stretching routine. Stretch quads, shoulders, and stomach rolls. Do 10 sit-ups. Do 5 push-ups if physically possible.

1:00 PM- Hit soft-toss, ridicule Bill Hall for being anorexic.

1:50 PM- Study film of tonight's pitcher. Order stuffed crust pizza from Dominoes, request sausage bits, bacon grease, and chicken strips be forced into crust.

1:53 PM- Finish pie. Do not give any to J.J. Hardy or Rickie Weeks.

2:15 PM- Raid Dave Bush's locker, consume power bars and 10-pack of Jack Link's Beef Jerky.

2:18 PM- Tell Dave Bush rodents ate his food, offer condolences. When his back is turned, eat piece of chili left on clubhouse carpet from Tuesday.

3:00 PM- Sleep in clubhouse, eat healthy salad. Give rest of salad to Bobby the clubhouse attendant.

4:15 PM- Awaken, do jumping jack in left field with teammates. After jumping jack, sit down on grass and stretch calf muscles.

5:00 PM- Take batting practice. Practice hitting to left field. See hot chick in third row, start hitting to right field.

5:20 PM- Batting practice again. Eat case of Ramen noodles after second round. Attempt to have sexual relations with hot chick.

5:40 PM- Geoff Jenkins asks hot chick out first. Bludgeon Geoff Jenkins with bat rack. Blame the rodents again.

6:15 PM- Throw warm-up tosses with Kevin Mench. Ask Kevin if he smells cheese fries.

6:35 PM- Finish tosses, ask food vendor by first base line for a medium-size container of cheese fries.

6:36 PM- Change order to large.

6:50 PM- Starting lineup announced over PA system. Blow huge fart in Kevin Mench's face when his name is announced.

7:00 PM- Game time. Eat good-luck packet of licorice. Blow one more fart in on-deck circle.

Zero Hour Has Arrived!

2007-05-02T17:24:00.000-05:00

I report this news with great sadness but "Zero Hour" has come. Our friend Mel Kiper Jr. fought bravely with a battalion of supporters but his efforts were in vain. His last words before being forced back into the cryogenic chamber were "Holy fucking Christ, not again! Why, God, why?! Stop laughing Berman, you fat fuck!" Profound, so very profound.

The resistance movement to save Mel Kiper Jr. ultimately failed...

...because of this

It's a little-known-fact that ESPN has a fully operational squadron of robots...

...and they also have the one true weapon of total destruction...

Yup, we're all fucked

Dr. Orgasmo's Time-Travel Journal

2007-05-01T18:13:00.000-05:00

BBBC's animal correspondent Dr. Orgasmo recently journeyed twenty years into the future in a time machine. His mission: to document the changes in the world of sports. The good doctor accomplished this task thanks to BBBC's time-aeronautics engineering lab hidden under a rocky crevice in northern Idaho. We at BBBC are not sure if we are willing to share the secrets of time-travel technology with the public but we are more than happy to share Dr. Orgasmo's view of the future. (The good doctor is pictured above in his time-travel suit)

Note: Entries were translated from Dr. Orgasmo's native language of Portuguese

The world of 2027 is a strange and bewildering place. First of all, no one wears underpants. I don't know why but I think it is just a fashion trend. At some point I hope to journey another ten years into the future to the year 2037 to see if the world has rediscovered underpants. I'm sure you want to know other things about the future before I delve into the world of sports. I am sorry to report but there are no flying cars. Just flying tricycles. Again, I am not sure why. The president of the United States is a homosexual, black, communist woman. Nah, I'm just kidding. I think he's a white guy named Steve Johnson or something generic like that. The most popular piece of technology is a toothbrush/computer/cell phone/condom-holder/music-player/letter-opener/DVD store called the iLotsofShit, which is produced by Macintosh. When I visited in April of 2027, the most anticipated movie (it was coming out in June) was called Awesome Action Explosion Force 9, starring the much older Olsen Twins. Again, I was quite bewildered.

The iLotsofShit is the most popular gadget in the year 2027

Now I will discuss the sporting world. Like everything else in 2027, the world of sports make little sense to we of the year 2007. The most popular sport in America is American Idol Gladiator Death Boxing, a reality-show/sport that incorporates singing and dangerous combat. I am not quite sure how the sport works. When I watched it on my MechaHD TV (MechaHD allows you to actually see the germ cells of people on TV) there appeared to be four feminine-looking men jumping around on trampolines with spiked boxing gloves. They were singing some song by the Bee Gees and trying to punch one another. After a few minutes, a referee clad in a white tunic parachuted down from the top of the arena and administered an electric shock to one of the contestants. I really was confused by the whole affair.

I should talk more about the traditional sports. Baseball, football, and basketball are each popular but pale in comparison to AIGDB. NASCAR was outlawed after Tony Stewart's drunken rampage in 2016. I believe he slaughtered hundreds in the Los Angeles area with his murderous driving skills. The NHL is now a semi-pro league existing only in Mexico and Canada. In the future, the Mexicans seem to like Hockey a lot.

Valerio Ojeda Galragesazanzo scores a goal for the Cancun Spider Monkeys

The defending World Series champion is the San Jose/Fremont/Boca Vista Athletics, who defeated the Kansas City Royals in six games. The Royals won both the 2024 and 2025 World Series thanks to strong pitching from Felipe Bernstein (he won 20 games both years) and slugger Sammy Sosa Jr., who is 7'3'' and weighs 400 lbs., making him the second largest player in baseball. The A's were the underdogs going into the '26 season and won because of Julio Franco who at 68 years of age hit thirty-two homeruns. It was widely speculated that Franco spliced lizard DNA with an HGH serum. As of April of 2027, he was the only player to have a tail and two stomachs. Other than these oddities, baseball is relatively unchanged. The highest paid player makes 100 million dollars per day (players are paid daily in the 2020's) and the average utility infielder hauls in about 5 million per day. Due to crazy-ass inflation, a loaf of bread costs 800,000 dollars, thus making these salaries seem less insane.

I totally forgot to mention that Felipe Bernstein is a Jewish robot

I didn't pay as much attention to football and basketball. My chimpanzee curiosity only takes me so far. I did read in The Daily Future News that the Cincinnati Bengals led the league in suspensions again. There was talk that the Bengals were going to form their own crime syndicate instead of playing football because apparently selling high-grade uranium to terrorists pays better than football. Morten Anderson, now in his 60's, still kicks in the NFL. Commissioner Goodell approved the use of a cybernetic leg around 2023, thus prolonging Anderson's career. Also, all uniforms in the NFL are bright orange because the commissioner signed a five-year sponsorship deal with orange-flavored Gatorade.

In the year 2027, every fucking football jersey looks like this

Basketball is a little different in 2027. The ball is made out of a shiny green goo and all players must wear gloves when handling the ball. Michael Jordan clone #3 dominates the NBA, averaging 245 points per game. The hoop is now only four feet high so scoring has become much easier. Unfortunately, short-shorts are back in style and are even shorter than they were in the 80's. It is not an uncommon sight to see Michael Jordan clone #3's clone testicles. I should mention why clones are now playing. The NBA was the only sport to permit clone participation. All other sports banned clones after Michael Jordan clone #2 tried to play baseball but instead impaled the entire Detroit Tigers' roster with his super-clone fist.

Michael Jordan clone #2's fist of fury that killed so many Detroit Tigers

I hope to travel more and document my visits to these strange new worlds. Next time I will travel to the year 2037 and investigate the underpants issue mentioned earlier. After that quest, the sky is truly the limit. If BBBC continues to finance my expeditions, I could be telling you about giant gorilla ping pong in the year 3954 or ice age hockey in the year 12000. Perhaps I will journey backwards in time as well. I always wanted to kick King Phillip II in the balls for some reason...Ok I'm rambling now, happy trails, you crazy homo sapiens!

The Big Q with...Bill Belichick

2007-04-30T19:00:00.000-05:00

BBBC: Today we have a very special guest for the Big Q! More special than that fairy Rich Hill. Welcome to the program, Coach Belichick.

Bill Belichick: (mumbles)

BBBC: Although we are Jet fans at BBBC, we really appreciate what you've done with the Patriots. What has been the toughest part of coaching this great team?

Bill Belichick: Many things. I cannot elaborate further.

BBBC: Ok...Are you excited for the Brady-Moss tandem? How will Moss impact your team?

Bill Belichick: There will be an impact of some degree.

BBBC: But what degree?

Bill Belichick: To a certain degree or extent.

BBBC: How is your relationship with Jets Head Coach Eric Mangini?

Bill Belichick: I cannot disclose any information on my relationship with this possible coaching figure.

BBBC: Possible? He is the Head Coach! Please, answer the question.

Bill Belichick: Eric is a person.

BBBC: Why are you so fond of the 3-4 defensive scheme?

Bill Belichick: I don't know of such a scheme.

BBBC: Yes you do, you secretive asshole.

Bill Belichick: I can't confirm or deny anything.

BBBC: Did you enjoy playing football at Wesleyan?

Bill Belichick: If I did attend such a school and play such a sport, I can only answer perhaps.

BBBC: What makes Tom Brady so special?

Bill Belichick: (mumbles) Tom could possibly be playing quarterback this season but nothing is definite.

BBBC: Are you telling me there is a chance Tom Brady won't start this year?

Bill Belichick: If this player exists, then this possibility could occur in the near future unless other circumstances arise.

BBBC: You're fucking kidding right? You won't even acknowledge that Tom Brady exists?

Bill Belichick: The status of my player's existence or non existence is not available to the public at this time.

BBBC: Will you tell me anything at all about your coaching career, life, family, hobbies, or even fetishes?

Bill Belichick: The Patriots organization, which might or might not participate in the 2007-2008 NFL season, forbids any disclosure of such matters.

BBBC: Do you have sand in your vagina?

Bill Belichick: I cannot disclose the status of my possible vagina(s).

BBBC: Would you screw a llama for two thousand dollars?

Bill Belichick: Depends on the girth.

BBBC: What?

Bill Belichick: Nothing.

BBBC: If you could be any other person besides yourself, who would you be?

Bill Belichick: Perhaps I would be a gray, ambiguous blob that dwells in some sort of non-descript housing area. However, I cannot confirm if this is true.

BBBC: Thanks for your time. Asshole.

Happy Birthday, Dead Horse!

2007-04-29T19:38:00.000-05:00

As I type this, trumpets play in the background and thousands are in mourning. Today would would have been Barbaro's birthday, the sweet horse who died just a few months ago. I personally never knew or spoke to Barbaro and never much cared for horse racing. However, this horse, with his galloping, neighing, and eating of grain truly moved me. Barbaro was more than just a horse. He was the single greatest being to ever live on this Earth. He was the Horse Jesus. Nay, he was the Horse God! I hope that somewhere in Horse Heaven he is watching over humanity, thinking about all the things he thought about when he was still alive, such as food, sex, and defecation. I also pray that his remains are made into the finest and sturdiest glue this country has ever seen.

Because Barbaro was so truly special, I would like to start a fund to build a memorial for Barbaro. I suggest that this memorial stand at exactly 200 stories and consist entirely of oats, because I heard Barbaro loved oats. This behemoth memorial can be built in the shape of horse, with eyes made entirely of rare crystal. Since I am from New York, I hope Mayor Bloomberg will demolish several homes or schools to make room for Barbaro's memorial. The citizens of New York will understand.

Happy Birthday, Dead Barbaro. You were the brownest and the most horse-like of all the horses.

(Photo from The Onion, America's finest news source)

The BBBC Guide to Old-School: Part I

2007-04-28T21:32:00.000-05:00

We've all heard the term "old-school" applied to sports. An announcer or coach will often call a player old-school, using the term as a form of praise. Old-school players are usually associated with good work ethic, strong character, and a certain scrappiness or "never say die" attitude. What else constitutes an old-school player? We at BBBC have commissioned a scientific task force to analyze this issue and create the perfect formula for the old-school player. For your convenience, we have translated this complex formula into a guide. The traits of the perfect old-school player are listed below.

Trait #1. Whiteness. All old-school players must be white. White old sportswriters/coaches/announcers love to identify themselves with nonathletic white players. For example, David Eckstein is beloved by the baseball community because he is the consummate old-school player. He lacks height, weight, power, strength, and melanin. Thus, he is the perfect the old-school player. In addition, in the eyes of many in the sports community, Latinos, Blacks, and others are not hard-workers. They are hot dogs who like to listen to rap CD's, get drunk, and frequent strip clubs. Old-school players do not do this. After all, in the old days players like Ty Cobb never listened to dirty music or had rampant, unprotected sex. Instead, they beat up black people, cripples, and cursed at small children. And then they went home and slapped their wives senseless until they cooked them a roast turkey. They just don't make 'em like they used to.

Trait #2. Mild obesity. Not all old-school players need to be overweight, but a slight beer belly or man tits never hurt. In the old days there wasn't any weight-lifting, dieting, or sports medicine. The only medicine was a buttered bagel and side of sausage. Fans and sportswriters love players like Bob Wickman for this reason. Wickman has never been a particularly great pitcher, yet he was adored in Cleveland. This adoration stemmed from the fact that his blood is actually composed of gravy, not oxygen cells. Gravy blood=old-school.

Trait #3. Being born in a small-town. The sports world loves the small-town player. "Delbert Forgenzstonksi grew up in Pasty Nuts, Iowa. He learned to hit by swinging a wooden plank at corn seeds and having sex with baby cows. Because he was raised in a small-town, Forgenzstonksi has great work ethic and selflessness which he inherited from his father, who was a farmer, truck driver, coal miner, manure extractor, and semi-pro swamp boat racer. Father and son woke up at 3 o'clock each morning and took five hours of batting practice next to the old red barn which was thrice destroyed by raging tornadoes..." You get the idea. Old-school players come from small-town America because unless your town or city has a population under 4,000 people, you are a lazy fuck.

Part II will be available soon, you impatient plebians.

I Have a Very Small Favor to Ask...

2007-04-27T22:20:00.000-05:00

Yeah, um, Yankee starting rotation, it would be like really nice and stuff if you, well...I'm not sure how to put this, if you um...pitched (awkward cough) betterish. I mean, n-not that you're pitching bad or anything, no no, I would never imply...that. It's just, like there (stammer) are nine innings in a game and of course you know that, you are all smart, smart people, yes very smart, and I would just like, I mean I beg...oh that's too strong a word, I politely request that you pitch more than five innings. You know, if it's not too much trouble and all that would be fantastic. Well, maybe five is a bit much. Four? Yeah you're right, four is kind of stressful. How about three? Oooh, I know what you mean three innings is a third of nine, right? Yeah, that is a lot. Two innings? Two's a great number, you know what they say about two...(Pause)..great things come in twos and...well (awkward cough) I forget the expression. Glad we got that out of the way because Scott, Luis, and Sean look a tad tired. I mean, not that tired because it's not like you're not going deep into games. It's just Scott's arm kind of looks like jell-o...but not the bad jell-o like lime or anything. It looks like cherry, which is good I guess. Can I have a word with Mariano? Thanks, I appreciate it. Hello, Mariano, I know it's been rough. I mean great. Super great. If you could err...perhaps, not lower but, maybe adjust...very very slightly, your earned run average. It seems a bit, and I stress a bit, high. Not high, no Mariano, not at all. You don't have to stare like that. I mean you can if you want to. Yes, I do bleed easily.

Cool, I am soo glad I told you all of that. I didn't mean to offend, really. Wait, why do you look so angry? I am sorry, ok! Jesus, don't hurt me. Yeah I have a sore back so putting me in the laundry cart would hurt and...oww my back is kind of tender, so the iron rod isn't helping. Oh...OUCH...ok that's enough, you can let go of my pants. I mean, please let go. Thanks. I'm gonna go head over and talk to Bobby for a minute. I won't be long.

Heyy, Bobby, what's going on? I see you're not hitting well, I mean hitting well, I mean hitting very well, exceptional even. But I just think you could be even more exceptional. Ok, not more exceptional because you're perfect but slightly more perfect. Just raise the greatness a little. Sure Bobby, you can punch me in the chest but only a maximum of six times. Great, it's good to see we're on the same page. Here's the thing: on a scale of one to ten you're at about a forty-five. But usually you're at fifty. Fifty-two I mean. Fifty-six. Err...I had pink eye last month so jamming that utensil there might not be a good idea...unless you think it's a good idea, then it's a great idea! Stupendous! Yes Bobby, I'll get in the laundry cart. Sorry for the inconvenience I might have caused you.

Friday Special: What a Load of Shit!

2007-04-27T15:34:00.000-05:00

Every Friday we at BBBC bring you a very special message from a professional athlete/entertainer. This week's guest is comedian George Carlin.

George Carlin here. What's going on? Don't answer that, because I don't give a shit. I'm gonna riff a little about the current world of sports. Don't you hate when some cocksucker says "riff"? It's some new-age bullshit word some phonies use to sound more "hip." Here's something hip for you, new-age losers: jump off a fucking building! It will be one less strand of stupid DNA on this twisted planet.

How about that NFL draft? What a load of horeshit. It's a bunch of old white men drafting young black men. You know what that sounds like? A fucking slave auction. "With the first pick of the draft, Al Davis, wrinkled white man, selects JaMarcus Russell, young black buck". But that's hardly the worst of it. It's only made worse by the fact that this mind-numbing shit isn't even entertaining. At least back in the 19th century slave auctions were kind of exciting to watch. You had a white guy with a waxed mustache and a crazy accent shouting crap in a big room. What do we have now? Roger Goodell. Whooptee-fucking-do. This douchebag gave Brian Urlacher a fine for wearing the wrong fucking hat! Guess what, Rog? I'm gonna fine you a 100 grand for being a waste of space. Fucking idiot. Here are the following things I would rather do than watch the draft: lick balls, rape a horse, play backgammon in hell, fellate Michael Moore, count grains of sand in a library, and die. Yes, I said die, you deaf fucker.

Let's talk about the pansies in baseball. I hear Torii Hunter might get suspended for mailing a bottle of champagne to the Kansas City Royals. First of all, the Royals suck so much that they should drain about 50 bottle of champagne to forget about how fucking terrible they are. Secondly, who gives a shit? These rule pricks are such tight-asses. They probably graduated from some high school in Frog Balls, Connecticut and think they own the world. You wanna worry about a problem? Take a look at the fucking homeless. There are a lot of homeless out there, rule pricks, so maybe make a rule to fix that. Lay off Torii Hunter. Wait, never mind, this pretentious fuck spells his name with two "i's". Now that's spelling like a wacked-out putz. You see me spelling my name Geoorgee Carlin to try to be different? Fuck and no. If you need to change the spelling of your name to be different (like that asshole Jhonny Peralta) than your life is emptier than Kevin Federline's brain.

Oh yeah, I forgot, the NBA is having their little playoff series. Of course I kid when I say "little". This shit lasts longer than the French Revolution. I hear Shaq is still playing. I would love to be Shaq for a day. I would walk down the street, big and black, and just fuck up anyone that has pissed me off. Smug hippie, you get punched in the kidney. Corporate fat cat, you get impaled by a gardening hose. Being Shaq would kick ass. My teammates would thank God after a victory and I would lumber over with my giant black torso and tell them that God doesn't watch basketball or give a rat's ass about your puny lives. Then I would run out on the court and dunk one hundred times because I could.

I would talk more about sports like Golf and Hockey except for the fact that they aren't sports. Hockey is just a combination of people fucking around with sticks and beating the shit out of each other. And Golf? Anything that my retarded great-aunt could play is not a sport. End of discussion. Now go home and get a life, you small-dick loser. I got shit to do.

Babe Ruth or Babe Dahlgren? Vol. 2

2007-04-26T15:29:00.000-05:00

Babe Ruth or Babe Dahlgren is a periodic feature that highlights five ballplayers/teams that are succeeding (like Babe Ruth did!) and five ballplayers/teams that are failing miserably. This is a blatant rip-off of Baseball Tonight's 3 up/3 down segment except I am discussing 10 players instead of 6.

*Note to all those who don't know who the hell Babe Dahlgren was: the other Babe played with the Yankees and some other crappy teams for 12 seasons during the 30's and 40's. His career obp is a robust .329 and his career slugging percentage is an awe-inspiring .383. God, you plebians don't know anything.

Babe Ruth

1. Alex Rodriguez- No one stops The Rod anymore. He can hit any pitch and screw any bitch. He should surpass Hank Aaron's homerun total by August.

2. Travis Hafner- Pronkers has decided to work on hitting a lot of singles which is cool when he's hitting about 4 of them per game. Throw in some more dingers, Travis, and you will be the alpha dog of this list.

3. Sawwwx- Average Boston Red Sox fan, take it away: "The Sawwwx raped the shit out of those fackin' Yanks and it was more than wicked awesome. The score in the first game was like 176-4 Sawx and Schill pitched all nine. That was sweet, man. Then Murph and I had a lagah and smoked some cigahs and banged some broads in front of the Auerbach statue. Let's go Celtics!"

4. Jake Peavy- Peavy would be higher if he hadn't stunk in his start against the Diamondbacks last week. Sixteen strikeouts in one game gets him on the list because strikeouts are like philly cheese steaks: they are soooo satisfying.

5. Ian Kinsler- Kinsler has eight homeruns and is attempting to be like A-Rod, but we all know that it is impossible. Still, Kinsler might be good enough to be A-Rod's stunt double.

Babe Dahlgren

1. Carlos Delgado- Carlos, you are killing my fantasy team. You hit like a sick baby. Do better, and you will be rewarded handsomely with extra playing time on my squad.

2. Washington Nationals- I have a feeling they will be in the Babe Dahlgren zone all year. Nick Johnson won't even want to come back to injure himself again.

3. Gary Sheffield- Sheff recently wrote a book filled with angry rants. With the way Sheff is hitting, Jim Leyland might have an angry book of his own in production.

4. Alex Gordon- The Great White Hope of Kansas City is slugging a robust .290. But look at the bright side, at least the Royals are...um, well, doing sort of bad and...well, you have your health and then there's the fun of playing baseball and...Ok fuck it, there really isn't a bright side.

5. Gerald Laird- Gerry, baby, heyyy what's going on? I heard you're a catcher for the Texas Rangers now! How's that going, old buddy? Ohhh, you're batting .113. Yeah....Gerry, I would try carpentry or interior decorating. Rewarding careers, I'm tellin' ya!

Sal Fasano's Ravioli Will Now Be Heated In A Major League Microwave

2007-04-25T19:06:00.000-05:00

The Lord of the Mustache is ready to reclaim his rightful place in the realm of Major League Baseball. Pleasantly plump Sal was promoted from Triple A to join the Blue Jays after an injury to Greg Zaun, which is now officially the most awesome injury ever. Fans all over the country adore big Sal for many reasons. For all not aware of Sal Fasano's greatness, here are five arguements for why he should be in the Hall of Fame.

#1. The Fu-Machu

#2. The Fu-Manchu

#3. Sally Meatballs!!!

#4. There is no need for reasons four and five. Sal Fasano is a God among mortals.

Prepare yourself, American League. The Violent Man-Beast That Is Sal Fasano will dominate you all.

The Big Q with...Rich Hill

2007-04-25T15:58:00.000-05:00

Hello and welcome to Bring Back Bubba Crosby's popular question and answer segment, the Big Q. We are here with Chicago Cubs left-hander Rich Hill.

BBBC: Why have you been so successful this year?

Rich Hill: I've really been locating my off-speed pitches. My curveball has had a lot of break this year and my change is deceptive enough to get these hitters out. Another reason for my good start is confidence. When I go out there, I always feel like I have a chance to win.

BBBC: You've been called the "Gay Barry Zito." Any thoughts about that?

Rich Hill: It's a great honor to be compared to such an outstanding pitcher. However, I am not a homosexual.

BBBC: You hail from Milton, Massachusetts. What is it like growing up as a gay man in Massachusetts?

Rich Hill: I would not know because I am not gay.

BBBC: What was your "welcome to the big leagues" moment?

Rich Hill: It would have to be the first time I ever jogged out to the mound at Wrigley Field. The grass was so green and everything was electric.

BBBC: When you have group sex with the other Cubs players, are you on the top or bottom?

Rich Hill: I am not gay.

BBBC: Bigger man sausage, Carlos Zambrano or Derek Lee?

Rich Hill: I must reiterate that I am not gay.

BBBC: Who is the toughest batter that you have ever faced?

Rich Hill: I would have to say (Albert) Pujols. He kills the pitches in and loves going the other way. It is almost impossible to get him out.

BBBC: Favorite color?

Rich Hill: Blue

BBBC: Favorite ice cream flavor?

Rich Hill: Chocolate Chip

BBBC: Favorite sexual position?

Rich Hill: I don't know how to answer that.

BBBC: If you didn't play baseball, you would have been a...?

Rich Hill: Probably a school teacher. I love to work with kids and help them learn new things.

BBBC: Like the proper way to ejaculate in someone's mouth?

Rich Hill: Ok, I've had enough. I am ready to leave.

BBBC: Sorry about that. I promise I won't ask any more questions related to your obvious homosexuality. What is your favorite band?

Rich Hill: Green Day and AC/DC

BBBC: Does my bright green tie frighten you?

Rich Hill: No

BBBC: How many pieces of bubble-gum can you fit in your sternum?

Rich Hill: Jesus Christ, I have no idea. This is absurd.

BBBC: The one item you can't live without? No wait, I'll answer that one. Dildo.

Rich Hill: Fuck you, I am getting out of here. This was the worst experience of my life.

BBBC: Thanks for your time, Rich. We'll be back next week with another great interview!

Please God, I Don't Want To Be Put In the Cryogenic Chamber Anymore

2007-04-24T17:48:00.000-05:00

ESPN's NFL Draft guru Mel Kiper Jr. would like to share a few words with football fans everywhere

Greetings, fellow football fans. Draft Day is nearly upon us and I know you are all excited about the players your team might pick. However, I am not here to analyze the draft and discuss such top-rated players like JaMarcus Russell (excellent throwing arm, ran a 4.71 at the combine, can bench press 320 lbs., and is above average in the shuttle run) or Joe Thomas (strong pull blocker, adequate vertical leap, and can push a blocking sled 50 yards in under thirty seconds) or even Gaines Adams who can...damnit Mel, you're not here to talk about the draft! Remember that!

Sorry everyone, I know I said I would not discuss the draft. I want to speak to you about more grave matters. You probably are not aware that I only see sunlight three out of the twelve months of the year. Some of you might be shocked by this but other one-sport analysts endure similar fates. Dick Vitale is only allowed four and a half months of "living time." Pedro Gomez is forced into the darkness when Barry Bonds is not in the lineup. The darkness I speak of is the Bristol Cryogenics Lab, where many analysts are kept frozen in suspended animation during the off-seasons of their respective sports. I am writing you, the beloved fans, for one simple reason. I want to end this practice once and for all.

You do not know what it is like to be put in a cryogenic chamber. My family never sees me. My dog doesn't recognize me. I haven't experienced the glory of summer since I was 28. I want to watch something other than college football highlight tapes! I want to see a real college game. I want to feel the excitement of watching an NFL game on television with a few friends and a cold glass of beer. That stupid ovine Chris Berman is allowed to live in the open all times of the year! I want that too! I even remember that there used to be other sports played in the summer, like baseball and tennis. Is George Brett still playing? Was Miami Vice ever cancelled? My ESPN bosses forbid me from acquiring outside knowledge of other sports and culture. Please God, Jesus, or even Jewish God, help me!!

I don't know what else to do. "Zero Hour" is three days after the draft. In the past I have tried to resist it, I really have. The ESPN men in suits always find me. Each time the serum that they put in my ear hurts a little more. In a fit of blind rage I try to fight back but I am always dragged through the halls of ESPN headquarters, past that traitor Stuart Scott and that virgin Scott Van Pelt. It all happens so quickly. I am thrown into a chamber that is constructed of glass, quartz, and lined with steel rods. My mouth is gagged and my hair is filled with industrial strength gel to keep the roots from dying. Then it is over. A frosty haze fills my body cavities and ice stabs my skin like a thousand rusty daggers. My world turns to crystal. Nine months later I emerge, forced to write massive quantities about another NFL draft.

They all pretend it's ok. Berman is always ready with a "hey what's going on, Big Mel?" when I leave the cryogenic chamber. I give him an icy stare and reach for his throat, but an ESPN sentinel is always there to stop me. Do you know why I seem so perky on all of those draft telecasts? Because the pigs at ESPN inject me with adrenaline shots and radioactive amphetamines. I am always cold. The frost never leaves my cuticles and I am forever sterile. My blood is thinned to the point that any small abrasion might kill me. However, the insidious devils at ESPN ensure that I am always alive so I can earn money for their NFL Draft coverage machine.

It must end now! I implore you, the people at home, to rise up against the oppressive and totalitarian regime that is ESPN. Fight them in the streets, fight them in the forests, fight them in the Bristol coffee lounge! I want to live life, goddamit. Bring me freedom and great riches will await you! Not only will you have my eternal gratitude, but you will also win a free subscription to ESPN the Magazine (6 months), a free copy of Mel Kiper Jr.'s 2007 Draft Guide, a PTI coffee mug, and two tickets to the ESPY's. Fight with courage and do not hesitate to kill. Mel Kiper Jr. will be freed from the shackles of ESPN slavery!

Let's Dish About 'Roids

2007-04-23T18:23:00.000-05:00

An inside source wrote to BBBC about the rampant steroid use in Major League Baseball. He/she wished to report his/her findings with the rest of the world.

We all know who's 'roiding and who's not, right? Wrong. I've been around quite a few clubhouses this past year and let me tell you, there are many ballplayers juicing up who you might not know about. Take that imp David Eckstein, he's totally on steroids. The little guy is pumping hormones in his ass every other hour. Remember those multiple homeruns he hit last year? Steroids....I'm sure you think Prince Fielder is just a fat fuck who stores jelly donuts under the folds of his man tits. Little do you know that he also stores syringes in there too....Guess who else is raging on 'roids? Jose Valentine. Anyone with a moustache like that has to be hiding something....Ok, enough hitters. We all know they have shrunken testicles and shortened lifespans. How about some pitchers? Mike Hampton is on the DL again and will not pitch in 2007. Last year he had something called "Tommy John" surgery which is a bullshit fabricated excuse to cover up the fact that he uses more HGH and horse steroids than an Austrian street fighter.....David Wells is fat and has diabetes. Little do people know that the yodels he eats for breakfast are laced with gorilla hormones, amphetamines, and extra potent HGH.....Oh and how about that closer Billy Wagner? Only 23 years ago he could barely throw 80 mph and now he is throwing 98 mph routinley. That guy is taking some good fucking steroids.....Last, but certainly not least, is Jason Kendall. That lying, constipated raccoon managed to more than double his homerun total last year. One homerun is hell of a lot more than zero, you roided up motherfucker.

That's all the dirt I have for today. I want to thank BBBC for funding my investigation and strategically placing me in all of those laundry bins and closets.

Hair Here, Hair There, Hair Everywhere!

2007-04-21T23:32:00.000-05:00

The 2007 Boston Red Sox: Hairier than any team in the history of baseball? Perhaps. Not since the 2004 Red Sox has the world laid eyes on such atrocious head and facial hair. Some scientists have even classified Manny Ramirez's locks as a living organism. David Ortiz's beard-like thing has an atomic number. Kevin Youkillis has been placed on welfare solely because of the reddish fuzz sprouting from his face. Curt Schilling thinks the feathered mullet is cool. Clearly the Red Sox hair situation needs some further examining.

First, a look at OBP machine and Jew Kevin Youkilis

Yooks has a lot of class by donning the VT hat. But after that, it's all downhill. The beard screams either "Mazel Tov!" or "sir can you spare some change." It's thick enough to store an extra grilled cheese sandwich if he is hungry, but other than that I don't see much use for this beard. By July the pools of sweat on his face will be so immense that he will be depositing spare gallons in Mike Lowell's water bottle and giving the rest to malnourished African children. And of course, small animals will find the warm crevices of his beard too inviting to resist. "And here's the one two to Youkilis, the pitch is...what the hell? A small rodent, possibly an opossum, has sprang from Youkilis' beard and is running onto the field! He's escaped, ladies and gentleman, and he looks hungry."

Next we have Disgustingly Fat, I mean Big, Papi

David Ortiz has always been known for interesting facial hair. This year he has gone beyond the realm of interesting and into the realm of insane. What is that on his face? You don't know. I don't know. Theo Epstein doesn't know. I don't even think Big Papi knows. It's as if he pasted a flat piece of tar on each cheek instead of bothering to grow any hair. That's a Halloween costume waiting to happen.

And finally, here's ManRam

What do we make of this? Perhaps fiery serpents have laid their seed in Manny's skull, producing these frightening serpent offspring. Perhaps Manny's hair requires nourishment, just like all other organisms. We can even give those little guys a name. Or names. The red ones can be Jose and Abner. We can call the black ones on the left Big Mitch, Horatio, and Julio G. The rest of Manny's hair will remain nameless to honor the fallen lice who died bravely in Manny's scalp last week. Fortunately, the lice colony will continue to thrive, creating a harmonious society that is certain to last for generations to come.

The BBBC fashion task force decided not to breakdown Curt Schilling's feathered mullet because they believed society already knew that the mullet speaks for itself.

I Have Not Forgotten About the Large Men and The Peach Baskets

2007-04-21T10:24:00.000-05:00

Yes, yes, I know today is the beginning of the NBA playoffs. Who doesn't love playoff basketball? I do, but I can't help but feel the climax being drained slowly out of the whole thing by the fact that I will still be talking about playoff basketball in June. Let's at least make the first round 3 out of 5 and cut a round out of the postseason. I have a few other requests/demands as well... I want Dikembe Mutumbo to always play in the playoffs because nothing is better than hearing Dikembe utter a syllable. Furthermore, I want each player to have to grow a playoff beard and wear a huge afro (even the whiteys) because it will entertain me more. In addition, Nate Robinson must be allowed to fight anyone he wants during the halftime of all games; he can fight fans, announcers, cheerleaders, mascots, small children, large basketball players, and a cardboard cut-out of himself. I also demand....

"Umm Ross, your demands are absurd. After the plea to shorten the first round of the playoffs, I completly lost you."
"Alter ego, I don't care what you think. My demands are awesome and should be implemented now."
"I believe Nate Robinson would violate six different laws by partaking in that brawl. Surely that would be bad for the league's image."
"The league's image doesn't concern me. I only want to be entertained."
"That is very egotistical of you."
"That is very egotistical of you."
"Do not mimic me."
"Shut up fuckface, you have no say here. You are the second-string ego and I am number one. You are the Chris Weinke of alter-egos."
"Sorry, master."
"That's right, my bitch."

Now that I have sublimated my alter ego, I bring you my predictions for the first round of the NBA Playoffs!

Miami over Chicago- Ben Wallace looks hungry but Shaq can definitly eat more blueberry pie and vanilla wafers

Detroit over Orlando- Someone needs to feed Tayshaun Prince. The Magic have a chance in this series if Prince is blown off of the court by the Palace's ventilation system.

New Jersey over Toronto- My Nets will kick the shit out of Chris Bosh and co. after Bostjan Nakbar drops 123 points in game three. Oh yeah, and Vince Carter will do stuff too.

Cleveland over Washington- No Agent Zero, no fun. But hey, the fans can look forward to crazy catch phrases that back-up center Calvin Booth has in store.

Houston over Utah- 5'3'' balding white man and 7'5'' Asian unite for victory!

Phoneix over LA Lakers- Kobe and co. fall to the magical Canadian and his large black friends.

San Antonio over Denver- Tim Duncan will show his violent and passionate side by putting his towel next to Manu Ginoboli's locker without asking for permission first.

Mavericks over Warriors- Pitying the Warriors, the Mavericks let the Fort Worth Community College Wombats play the second half of game four.

Game Recap: Somehow Hideki Okajima Is Now Better Than Mariano Rivera

2007-04-20T22:18:00.000-05:00

There comes a time in everyone's life when they just say "what the hell??" really loudly. After tonight's 7-6 loss to the Sawx, I had my "what the hell??" moment. Alex Rodriguez continues to be Roy Hobbs (the good Roy Hobbs who hit about 100 homeruns during that montage and never ever hit a single) which of course is awesome. No one should be surprised by this: the man just plays baseball at a higher plane than everyone else. The real shock came from Mariano Rivera's second blown save of the year. He's been Superman for so long and now he's getting knocked around by little elfs like Marco Scutaro and Coco Crisp. C'mon Mo, don't let the elfs beat you. Yankee fans might want to freak out but most sane fans realize that Mo is entitled to his moments of suckitude and will most likely pitch well again.

The real purpose of the post is to hand out some game awards. I don't usually give out awards for individual games, but this crazy contest makes it seem worthwhile.

The "Boogie Nights" Unintentional Porn Reference Award- Yankees broadcaster John Flaherty, who spent a good two minutes discussing Jason Varitek's "soft hands" and "his ability to receive the ball."

The J.C. Romero Award for Royally Fucking Up- Mariano Rivera. Sorry Mo, but it just was not your night.

The Roys Hobbs Montage Where He Hits A Million Homeruns In Two Games And Breaks That Clocktower Which Was Badass Award- Alex Rodriguez. Who'd ya think would get this one, Will Nieves?

The Asian Memorial Award for Best Asian Pitcher- Hideki Okajima. During his wind-up, he jerked his head more times than the average call girl in a three way.

The Kool-Aid Man Award for Most Timely Hit- Coco Crisp, who like Kool-Aid man, knew the right time to break through that wall and offer up some fruit punch Kool-Aid.

The Julio Franco Senior Citizen Medal of Honor- Jason Varitek. He might be an old, broken-down, blind, and senile dog but he certainly hit the crap out of the ball.

The Chris Farley Look-a-like Award- Curt Schilling. He clearly is enjoying his peanuts and ice-cream and the scraggly blonde hair only adds to the image. Yeah Schill, you stay classy.

Friday Special: I Do Not Not Hate Alex Rodriguez

2007-04-20T18:02:00.000-05:00

Every Friday we at BBBC bring you a very special message from a professional athlete. This week's guest is Derek Jeter, shortstop for the New York Yankees.

Hey guys, it's Derek. What's going on? I wanted to clear up a few things about my relationship with Alex Rodriguez and I decided to do it here on the internet. I know my fans love to read blogs and I have decided to communicate through this medium.

Before I start, I wanna give a big shout out to all my young fans out there. Keep working hard and studying and all of your dreams will come true. School comes first, kids. If you want to improve your batting while still having time to hit the books, check out my hit away batting trainer. Buy one for yourself, one for your friend, and nine more because you love the Yankees.

Ok, so I know a lot of things have been said about my relationship with my teammate Alex Rodriguez. I support him 100% of the time at least half the time. I am extremly happy that he has hit 10 more homeruns than I have and has doubled my rbi total. I am glad that he is no longer viewed as a weak, selfish, choker who cries in his sleep after popping up with the bases loaded. Alex and I have a fine relationship. We're like two peas in a really, really big pod.

The newspapers like to speculate about a lot of silly things. They say I told the Yankee fans to stop booing Jason Giambi when he was having his health issues. They also say I did not support Alex when the fans were angry at him. This is a complete lie. I told the fans to stop booing Alex many times. It was a sad coincidence that no reporters were around to hear my cries of support. Alex and I still maintain a healthy relationship. When he gets a hit, I clap for him. My clapping does not grow softer after every hit Alex gets and I do not wince when he crushes a homerun. I am in no way jealous of his tremendous strength.

Alex and I still hang out. He will come to my place to sip some tea and sit quietly. Then I will come back and he will leave, but he will always say good-bye on the way out the door. I even shared my Porsche with him once. I let him drive mine when his limo had a flat tire. I didn't even mind that he left a disgusting brown stain on my car rug. I didn't mind at all. I am the captain and I have to maintain a good relationship with everyone for our team to function. If I am playing cards with Jason Giambi, I always make sure to allow Alex to watch our game. He can even pass out tips if he so desires.

Some say that the "shoe is on the other foot" this year because I have been struggling in the field. Alex has hit and fielded flawlessly while I have not done the same. This does not bother me at all. I always made sure to pat Alex on the back or say "good job buddy" when no one is looking. I don't need to show affection in public. Alex knows how I feel in private and this all that matters. A person with true character does not act differently if people are watching. No matter if he is struggling or succeeding, I always make sure to treat Alex the same way. I remind him of his duty to the Yankees and to wear the pinstripes with pride. I remind him of the four World Series rings I won. If he forgets what our wonderful organization is all about, I will pull out my four rings from a special container in my locker and show him the rings again. Occasionally I will allow Alex to wear a ring so he can experience what it feels like to be a true champion.

Alex is a great competitor and winner. He wins our batting practice homerun derbies. He wins when I feel like playing him in a board game. No one competes harder when we are swimming laps in the private hotel swimming pool. Alex is a top-flight competitor in almost everything he does. I can only tip my hat to him. He has the courage of a mouse and the brain of a lion...I mean the courage of a lion and the brain of a mouse. Oh wait, I meant owl. Yes, owls are smart, aren't they?

I hope this has made everything clear. I have nothing but the utmost respect for Alex. He is an integral part of our team and hopefully will continue to thrive with the Yankees for years to come unless he opts out of his contract after this season which I hope doesn't happen because it would mean I would be all alone in the infield, once again the superior player on the Yankees. Alex is my good friend. I don't want anyone to think otherwise. I definitly probably don't not hate Alex Rodriguez in anyway. Go it?

Mark Buerhle Owns You All

2007-04-19T19:13:00.000-05:00

By now you know that the White Sox's Mark Buerhle has pitched a no-hitter, etching himself in the history books with legends like Bud Smith and Hideo Nomo. Buerhle only walked one and worked a quick two hour game. Perhaps he has finally rediscovered awesome 2005 Buerhle and ditched fantasy baseball-killing 2006 Buerhle. All kidding aside, it was a great job by the lefty. Seriously Mark, kudos and congratulations and salutations and whatever.

I don't write this blog to praise others. I write it to piss you off. That's right, you. But today I am going to try to be less offensive by simply playing oddsmaker. Who will be the next pitchers to pitch no-hitters? I'll set the odds with the assistance of my odds-monkey, Dr. Orgasmo. (That's the good doctor in the picture above)

5:1 Johan Santana- Johan is the Sandy Koufax of our generation. He's left-handed and can buzz you with the heater or drop the dirty change. His name also sounds Swedish, which is a huge plus.

9:1 Jeff Weaver- Bums like Jeff always seem to walk into the no-no's. Weaver is just crazy and lucky enough to do the same. His name also sounds Swedish, which is a huge plus. (Dr. Orgasmo insists this is true but I have to disagree)

20:1 David Wells- The diabetes ain't helping the cause but the Hefty, I mean Morbidly Obese, Lefty might have one more magical start in the tank. He's a True Yankee and True Yankees never ever ever fail to deliver the magical goodness. (Dr. Orgasmo insists there are many Yankees who are not good at baseball and have no "magical goodness." The good doctor is a real downer)

50:1 Rick Vanden Hurk- Who? Exactly. He pitches for the Marlins, a team that already had a no-hitter last year from Anibal Sanchez. Vanden Hurk has the combination of anonymity and an amazing foreign-sounding name to become a baseball immortal. And yes, his name actually sounds Swedish. (Oh shit, according to Yahoo! he was born in the Netherlands which means he is actually a foreigner and most likely a fan of Bjork. Dr. Orgasmo has similar musical tastes)

300:1 Carl Pavano- "Pittsburgh, PA- Carl Pavano's first start as a Pittsburgh Pirate was truly magical. Pavano pitched 9 glorious innings en route to the second no-hitter of the 2007 season. He walked one and struck out fourteen Cardinals, looking every bit the dominating player he was thought to be. Pavano expressed joyful relief after retiring the final batter. 'After the Yankees put me on waivers, I thought my career was over,' said the right-handed hurler. 'But thanks to my loving girlfriend, my faith in God, and the sudden disappearance of numerous injuries, I now feel that I can play a part on this great Pirates team.' Pavano and the Pirates are now atop the Central Division, while his former employers the Yankees sit in fourth place after a 14-2 loss at the hands of the surging Tampa Bay Devil Rays..." (Seriously Dr. Orgasmo, go fuck yourself. That will never happen. The Yankees rule.)

10,000:1 Dr. Orgasmo- You are a failure, doctor. Monkeys can't pitch because they don't have adequate motor skills. Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha. (I must concede that you have excellent aim when throwing your clumps of feces. You're the Greg Maddux of shit-tossing)

I Want To Be On the Cover of Madden '08!

2007-04-18T15:37:00.000-05:00

A football player wrote in to BBBC asking to voice his opinion about the new Madden 2008 cover. We acquiesced to his demands and allowed him to sound off on our site.

Yo, what the hell man? Why aren't I on the cover of Madden '08? The Tank needs to be on with his fucking ammo and shit! Yo Vince, you oreo pussy, get the hell off of my cover. Tank Johnson wants to roll all over that. I'm marketable and can sell that game faster than anyone. Who ain't heard of Tank? Tank's all over the news because he gots what it takes. I played defensive tackle for the Super Bowl Champion Chicago Bears! (Ed. note: The Indianapolis Colts actually won the Super Bowl. We feared telling Mr. Johnson the truth) That skinny shit Vince Young ever won something like that? Nigga, all he won was some division six college bowl game that no one ever watches except Vince's ugly mom and maybe Lovie Smith cuz he's scouting prospects and shit.

I've been playing that fat ass' game since the fucking 90's man. I was rolling out with Drew Bledsoe's ass on the Patriots throwing bombs to that fucker Terry Glenn. I was designing crazy ass defenses like "omega bullet" and "monster crash 4,000 super gorilla." Vince was sucking his momma's milk while being raped by his dad. He's a loser. Tank's a winner! I been winning since my pee wee days, runnin' all over some asthma kid and his mom on the way to the endzone for my touchdowns. That's right son, the Tank played both sides of the ball like he played both sides of yo sister. But that's not the only reason Tank's qualifies (big fucking word I know, I learned it from the cops) for the Madden cover. My brain's as big as my one-eyed chocolate cobra. (Ladies know why they call me Tank) Check this shit out at the wikipedia site that has pages and stuff about sexy bulldogs like me.

"He (Tank Johnson) attended McClintock in Tempe, Arizona where he had a B-plus grade point average."

Tank demands that he play both offense and defense in Madden

B-plus fuckers! That's like five C's put together. Now you know how Tank had his assault rifles all orderly and shit in his crib? I know how to organize! Vince Young can't even take a piss without his agent helpin' him unzip his baby-sized fly cuz his dick and brain are small. Vince got like a 6 on his Wonderbread test before the draft. Tank got a 9. Again, my crazy math skillz are crazy. When I was in school in super-Math calculoid class the teacher was all like "what's the square root" of some shit and I was like "nigga I don't have to tell you, I'm Tank!" and that pasty fool would shut the hell up becuz no one gets in Tank's grill askin' questions. Anyways, my giant-sized brain qualifies me for Madden.

Oh yeah, I also forgot that I own on the football field. Fucking own. That turf is my bitch to hump all night if I want. No o-lineman in the league can stop me. Kids play Madden with the Bears and click on Tank all day cuz they knows he can get that quarterback blowing shit bubbles in his pants. No one can stop this nigga. It's all about respect, you know what I saying? Tank walks down the street carryin' the M14 and all the pretenders clear to the side. Only Tank walks the walk cuz he knows what shit is going on. And he knows he should be on Madden. I'm gonna call my agent and fly his ass to the Madden crib and fuck that saggy-balled fatass up until he makes Tank the cover nigga of Madden. Then he will know my super power that could get me like a 99 rating for tackling.

Yeah and Vince Young, you mine next year. I don't care if we playin' the Titans or not, I'm gonna mess you up for stealing the Tank's glory. The Tank is gonna roll his treads all over your face and then he's gonna roll through your house and leave the treadmarks on yo momma. Tank Johnson 4EVER!!!!!!

John Kruk Interviews French Prime Minister Jacques Chirac

2007-04-17T22:09:00.000-05:00

BBBC international correspondent John Kruk was a gracious enough to take time out of his busy schedule with Baseball Tonight to interview French Prime Minister Jacques Chirac, who will be leaving office in May of 2007.

John Kruk: Hello, Mr. Chirac. Nice to meet you. Let's get right down to buisness.

Jacques Chirac: Yes, sounds fine.

JK: I see that you're a Prime Minister now. What's that like and stuff?

JC: Well, it is a fascinating and nuanced profession. I have had to handle many pressing domestic issues such as the Clearstream affair and the Islamic riots. However, I believe our administration has handled these domestic issues with aplomb. Economically speaking, my administration has pushed for more privatization of business and a more unrestricted economic policy. This has to be balanced with our nation's affinity for a more central and interventionist style of government. Free trade needs to be preserved but with certain restrictions. As a Prime Minister, I must be aware of the different sides to issues, like one needs to be aware that there are many sides to a polygon.

JK: Hmm, yeah but how would you deal with the pressing issues of when to serve French toast, French fries, or those awesome French muffins they sell at the Bristol deli for like 3.99 and come with the extra butter packets?

JC: I do not understand how this question pertains to me. The French government is a parliamentary democracy that does not have jurisdiction over the foodstuffs served in local restaurants and cafes. Intrusive domestic policy is not our aim.

JK: Ok Jacky, but what do you think about the NL East? Do the Mets have enough pitching to win it?

JC: I do not closely observe American baseball to conclusively answer that question.

JK: Did you see me in that awesome fantasy baseball commerical in leather? Leather is sweet, man, sweet. Sweet like a boston-cream donut from that Dunkin' Donuts on Crest Street where on Mondays there's extra sugar for the coffee. Ohhh...I could use one of those and box of jelly-filled munchkins right now, man. You ever had a huge hoagie, with a spicy salami with those crunchy onions?

JC: Your question confuses me.

JK: Oh, sorry, you know I'll wipe that drool off of your shoes later. Hey wait where'd you get those loafers?

JC: They were custom-made by a tailor of mine in Versailles.

JK: I'll drive down there next week and pick up a pair. Anyway...

JC: Mr. Kruk, you cannot drive to France from America. There is an ocean that separates our countries.

JK: Look eggo waffles, I don' t have time for your geography lessons and syrup. Sweet syrup, poured slowly on a steaming hot pile of pancakes with a side of raspberries...and nine strips of bacon burnt on the tip. The tip, man.

JC: Are you feeling well, Mr. Kruk? Your pupils appear cloudy and the saliva has not ceased rolling from your lips.

JK: Jesus, pecan pies. Big fucking pecans.

JC: I don't think you are mentally fit to do this interview anymore. I will be leaving.

JK: Dammit, don't take my marshmallows, (Lenny) Dykstra. I want my fucking marshmallows. You sonofabitchmotherflamerwhore come back with the fudge pringles, man. You too, Mitch (Williams). Ahhh gravy! Gravy everywhere!!

JC: Thank-you for your time, Mr. Kruk. I hope to see you again when you are not delirious.

JK: How do you answer your critics who believe there is perceived social rift between those living in more opulent urban areas and those dwelling in the more rustic countryside? Hello? Mr. Chirac? Dammit Krukie, you gotta stop thinking about food when guests are around. But I am as hungry as an anorexic Ervin Santana. I think I'll head down to the deli and pick me up some fried chicken and Haagen Daz. Stevie (Phillips) man, get your ass in the Honda, we're going to the deli!

What the F--k, Ryan Freel?

2007-04-17T20:34:00.000-05:00

I hate you Ryan Freel. I really think your soul is full of darkness, your heart and its aortas as frosty as Satan's. You wanna know why I am saying this? Do you, you little piece of shit? I put you in my fantasy baseball lineup all the time. All the fucking time. What do you contribute? Almost nothing. An occasional steal isn't enough for my squad, Ryan, it isn't enough. You think you are so cool by being eligible at 2B, 3B, and OF? Well you aren't fucking cool. I benched you tonight because you were sucking immensely. I played Freddy Sanchez in your place, you waste of space. What does Freddy Sanchez do? Oh...how about he didn't even fucking play. Already screwed once, I hoped you would fail again because your stats wouldn't count for tonight. Instead, like the rat fink turd you are, you got 4 motherfucking hits! In 4 fucking at bats! That's a 1.000 batting average, you community college reject. You even had the audacity to throw in a fucking double (like the only one you've hit this year) to piss me off even more.

You know what Ryan? I've had enough of this bullshit. I'm way too old for this. You wanna hit only when you sit on my bench, fine. The next place you will be hitting is on the waiver wire which is as cold and lonely as a witch's tit. I'm going to give you one more chance. Tommorow night I will play you at second base. Your ass in on the line. Produce, or go home. And if I ever see another 4-4 game on my bench, I will personally fly to Cincinatti and tell Adam Dunn that you fucked his mother extra rough. By the end of the day, your vertebrae will be in fifty different pieces and your urine will be as red as fucking wine.

That's all I have to say, Ryan. Don't fuck me over again.

Ha! You Lose Again, Luddite Society of America

2007-04-16T21:13:00.000-05:00

For the 20th consecutive year, Wrigley Field will host a night game. Baseball purists will weep on their Roger Kahn memoirs and gush about the days of pure, white, daytime baseball. They'll tell you how "them's was the good old days" and then they will rant about the new fangled wireless telephones and hand-held phonographs. Then they will tell you about a fat Irish utlity infielder who played in 1943 but had a heart of gold. And then you will walk away, bored and confused.

(Ed. note: A luddite is a person who is violently opposed to technological change. You dim-witted plebians really don't know anything)

Tony La Russa, Take Off Your F--king Sunglasses

2007-04-16T19:49:00.000-05:00

Dear Tony La Russa,

It has come to my attention that you always wear your sunglasses. By always, I mean during day and night games. Why do you need them during night games? There is a clear lack of sunlight during the nightime. Therefore sunglasses would be rendered useless under such conditions. However, you continue to wear your sunglasses during these ballgames played under dark skies. I am going to assume you don't have an acute eye condition that forces you to always wear sunglasses but that you wear sunglasses because you are an arrogant prick. People who wear sunglasses all the time aren't cool, Tony. I repeat, you are not cool. In fact, these sunglasses shout to the world that you are a pompous douchebag. I realize that your cock is still tender from the fellatio author Buzz Bizzinger gave you a few years ago in the book "Three Nights in August." Still, you should be able to realize that despite the tingly feeling you still have down there, you are a smug asshole. In summation, Tony, I beseech you to take off your fucking sunglasses.

Your friend, Ross

Yankees Loss Prompts Me to Come Up With Retarded Theory

2007-04-15T20:27:00.000-05:00

Today the Yankees lost to the Oakland Athletics 5-4, thanks to a 3-run homer by the immortal legend of greatness Marco Scutaro. The homerun was not given up by Kyle Farnsworth or by Kyle Farnsworth wearing a Mariano Rivera costume. It was given up by (gasp) Mariano Rivera! This gut-wrenching loss prompted me to come up with a strange, stupid, somewhat insentive, and most definitly retarded theory. Today's date is April 15th, the 60th anniversary of Jackie Robinson breaking the color barrier. Players across baseball are honoring Robinson by wearing number 42. But Mariano Rivera is not honoring Robinson because he is the only current player allowed to wear 42 after it was retired in 1997. Which means that the ghost of Jackie Robinson gave magic ghost powers to Marco Scutaro to hit the homerun off of Rivera because Robinson wanted revenge for Rivera not giving up number 42.

"Ross, that is so fucking stupid. Ghosts aren't real and you are a racist."
"Shut up alter-ego, you know I like the blacks."
"The fact that you are calling them 'the blacks' makes you even more of a racist."
"But c'mon, the theory could be kind of true, right?"
"No."
"But can you at least concede that if ghosts existed, they would have magic powers?"
"If ghosts existed, you would belong to MENSA. But they don't. So you are a stupid, mindless, monkey turd-eating jackass."
"Thanks, alter ego."
"Don't mention it."

We Need More Fans to Run on the Field

2007-04-15T19:15:00.000-05:00

Excuse me from not posting about Jesus, the contract demands of Johan Santana, or ultimate Japanese player showdowns. I want to talk today about the insanity that occurs when fans run onto the field, especially at baseball games. We all know how righteous announcers become when a crazed fan jumps the wall and zig zags on the outfield grass, avoiding furious security guards. They channel their inner Joe Buck, saying things like "this is so disgraceful" and "disgusting" and "awful." To avoid giving the fan on the field any attention, cameras will no longer pan to the action. We, the TV audience, are forced to watch the first basemen scratching his ass or the shorstop smiling sheepishly. This is horrible. I demand that not only the cameras show these attention-starved people but that more fans run onto the field.

A few nights ago I was watching a Phillies-Astros game in rainy Philadelphia. During the game, a fan ran onto the field and was chased around by security guards. Instead of seeing this awesome action, I was subjected to watching the pasty Craig Biggio chuckle. What the hell? I want to laugh too. Let me see awkward tackling by the security guards. Let me see the out of shape fan stumble breathlessly away from the outfielders. Who doesn't love the craziness of games being interrupted? I want more interruption. I want an army of fans jumping onto the field with nerf guns and super soakers. I want Manny Ramirez to have to spear some trashy bald guy trying to touch him. Then I want another trashy bald guy to hit Manny in the back with a nerf dart.

I know we can make this happen. We the common people can form organizations dedicated to fan interference. We can create 'Soviets', if you will, small organizations that are committed to deploying the proletariat on the battlefield. We can trip the right fielder, moon the umpire, or pour stale gatorade on the first base coach. We can even engage security guards in sissy combat, flailing at them until they realize we are weak and pummel us into the ground. You might ask why I want this. Why? For Freedom. For Sparta. (Um...ok I don't want this for freedom or for Sparta) I want this for my right to be Entertained. Dance, monkeys, dance and amuse me. Because the day we make Joe Buck cry from a righteous-indignation overload is the day we have succeeded. Now men (and women), I want you to come together and fight for what is right.

Misfits of the World, Unite

Friday Special: Hi, I'm David Eckstein And I Want To Talk To You About Jesus

2007-04-13T18:11:00.000-05:00

Every Friday we at BBBC bring you a very special message from a professional athlete. This week's guest is David Eckstein, shortstop for the World Champion St. Louis Cardinals.

First, I would like to say that I am very happy to be a guest at Bring Back Bubba Crosby. I do not know Bubba personally but I hope he succeeds in all endeavors he puts his mind to.

I want to discuss a very important subject in my life with you wonderful readers. That subject is Christianity, a religion that revolves around the teachings of the Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. I have been a devout Christian since my early years. I know I have been mistaken for being Jewish because my last name sounds very un-Christian. My father was raised a Jew but fortunatly I have been able to cure his dreaded disease and bring him over to the side of Jesus. Don't get me wrong, the Jewish community is very important to me. They will always be in my heart even as they burn in eternal hellfire.

However, I am not here to condemn the heathens. I am here to help you understand the role of Jesus in your life. Jesus made me who I am today. When people see me at the ballpark, they often think I am a young boy, a bat boy, a sick albino child, a sun-deprived mole person, an elf, a sprite, a white pygmy, a bat boy's child, the mascot, and a living lawn gnome. Despite my small stature (I am only 5 feet 7 inches tall) I have been able to play with the bigger ballplayers, earning the respect of my peers. How have I done so much with so little? Scouts and analysts like Mr. Joe Morgan say I am "gritty" and I have the ability to "outhustle" others. They praise my work ethic and my intangibles. I am thankful for this praise but none of this people know the true reason for my success. That reason is Jesus.

Jesus is with me wherever I go. He is with you too. Jesus is there when you are celebrating a birthday with friends and family. Jesus is there when you watch your favorite television shows. Jesus is there when you take a long walk on the beach alone, contemplating the universe. Jesus is even there when you committ sins, such as manipulating your penis to produce semen while having impure thoughts. Think of Jesus as a "super" Santa Claus. When you give your life over to Jesus, great things can happen.

Jesus was with me throughout the 2006 season. We had our ups and downs but I prayed extra hard everyday, knowing that Jesus would help our team make the playoffs and win the World Series. There were some spiritual crisises that truly tested me during the season. Jeff Suppan and I began a bible study program that was met with a less than enthusiastic response. I knew Satan had infiltrated our players' souls and they could not control themselves, but it was still frustrating when Chris Duncan didn't write his essay about the symbolism in the Book of Matthew. Our Japanese outfielder So Taguchi barely knew who Jesus was, forcing Jeff and I to consult the clergyman I always keep on speed dial. He suggested we flog our friend and force him to repent. After the flogging, we had a wonderful winning streak, passing the less devout Astros and making the playoffs.

Jesus made his presense felt in the playoffs. So Taguchi hit an important homerun in the NLCS, a clear sign that Jesus had forgiven So for his sins. So now prays with us daily and the flogging scars around his neck are barely visible. Yadier Molina delivered the final homerun of the NLCS against the Mets (who play in a Godless city) after I urged him to recite ninety-six hail marys the day before the game. In the World Series I hit very well, again thanks to Jesus Christ. One moment stands out in that series. It was a difficult at bat against a large, fierce Tigers pitcher. He was Goliath and I was the boy king David. I crouched outside the batter's box and offered a prayer to Jesus. Surprisingly, I heard catcher Ivan Rodriguez praying to the very same Jesus that I would strike out. Of course my love for Jesus is infinite and no one could ever out-pray me, not even a fiery hispanic. I ignored him, swinging at a fastball and driving it toward centerfielder Curtis Granderson. That is when the miracle happened.

I saw Jesus, aglow in a golden aura, hovering above the warning track. He held a sack woven from the hair of God. As Curtis tracked the ball, Jesus reached into the sack and pulled forth five angel feathers, each as golden as the morning sun. Jesus smiled in my direction. He tossed the feathers near Curtis and Curtis stepped on each one, tumbling to the ground in a pile of golden dew. The ball sailed over his head and I had a double. The announcers said the wet grass caused Granderson's fall but I knew better. "Thank-you Jesus," I said.

Jesus can help you forever if you accept him into your heart. I did and look what happened. I am holding that trophy you see in the picture, smiling gleefully like one of Jesus' cherubs. That trophy was not won by me. It was not won by the St. Louis Cardinals. It was won by Jesus. Next week I'll be back to discuss the eighty-four ways one can sin when being near a woman. Thank-you and God bless.

(Ed. Note: Holy shit, that crazy lawn gnome will never write for BBBC again)

Santana to Twins: More Money, Bitch

2007-04-12T18:42:00.000-05:00

SI's Jon Heyman (the Sports Illustrated version of ESPN's nebish, lovable, virginity-ridden John Clayton) reports that Twins ace Johan Santana has rejected the Twins' offer to add 18 million dollars per year for two years to his current contract. A club option would be included for the 2011 season. Santana says that he will not negotiate with the Twins until he hits the open market in 2008. Even though Jon HEY MAN! broke the scoop, I was fortunate enough to be the proverbial fly on the wall during Santana's recent contract negotiations.

Twins GM Terry Ryan: That is the offer, Johan. You will receive a pay increase that will bring your salary to 18 million dollars per year. A club option will be included for 2011.

Twins Ace Johan Santana: More money, bitch

TR: I understand that you want a contract like Barry Zito's. Unfortunatly, we are small-market franchise and cannot afford to pay that much for a starting pitcher.

JS: But bitch, I need more money. How will I be able to build a parking garage for my gold-plated escalade collection? How will I be able to buy a small Balkan country and rule over it as the mighty warlord, Johan the III?

TR: We are still offering you fine compensation for your services. 18 million is as high as I can go under my budget constraints.

JS: Mr. Rhino, bitch-

TR: It's Ryan. My name is Terry Ryan.

JS: Ok Tim, but my point is that the Yankees, Red Sox, Mets, and Giants can give me more money, bitch. The Giants GM promised me an offer of 70 years, 990 million when I go on the free agent market. He even promised to throw in the zebra farm I demanded.

TR: You might not even be alive in 70 years. What a moron...

JS: Bitch, can you even offer me one zebra? I'm getting a farm from the Giants dude and my agent tells me the old guy over in New York promised me 40,000-seat arena for chimpanzee gladiator games. And I can be the commissioner of the whole chimp-fighting league!

TR: Jesus Christ. Ok, how about this? I'll give you the 18 million through 2011 plus a rare albino zebra from the plains of Zimbabwe.

JS: Bitch, I want a Portugese sex slave too.

TR: What?

JS: And he better be Portugese.

TR: He? What? Who? My God...I don't know what to say.

JS: Good, because unless I get my sex slave, zebra farm, escalade garage, balkan country, more than 990 million, and a life-size bobble-head doll made entirely out of sour onion ruffles, I am ending negotiations.

TR: I think we can call it a day.

JS: Ok Theo Ringold, I'll see you later. Hey Manuel, bring out the Hummer! I want to drive around St. Paul and mock poor people again.

You've Been Pronked

2007-04-12T17:45:00.000-05:00

Travis Hafner (God among mortals) slugged his first homerun of the year to lead the Tribe to a 4-2 victory over the Angels. The game was played at Jacobs Field, of course.

"Ross, you're a dolt, they moved the contest to Miller Park. Don't you pay attention?"
"No."
"There was an abundance of snow in the Cleveland metropolitan area."
"Hey alter ego, you wanna know something?"
"Yes, I would like to know what you think."
"You talk like a fag"

For all of you who don't know, Travis Hafner is one of my favorite players. He comes from a town in North Dakota with a population of about 9 people, he eats the same cereal everyday, and he enjoys wrestling and chess. Seriously, that's a crazy combination of hobbies. He also was the greatest junior college player ever and never played in high school. In other words, Pronk is the big dude down the block who thinks the WWE is real, loves lucky charms, kicks everyone's ass at whiffle ball, and owns the nerds at chess. That's an MVP candidate Average Joe Soiledhimself can support. And as an Average Joe Soiledhimself, I officially cast my vote for Pronk.

Recap: The Super Ultimate Miracle 10,000 Happy Courage Energy Genki Dama Showdown of Destiny

2007-04-11T20:55:00.000-05:00

Ichiro: Daisuke-san, you have bested me. You are truly a great warrior. I am humbled to be in your magnificient presence. In numerous journies to the ivory plate of shimmering battle, I could not succeed in the task I set out to accomplish during my 300 years of secluded training.

Dice-K: I can only hope I fuelded the fire of valor that burns deep in your heart of purity.

Ichiro: Your miracle pitches were of too great a power. I must retreat to the mountains to train for our next confrontation. I will test your will again, Daisuke-san.

Dice-K: Ichiro-san, I look forward to raising my sprit energy against your bat of 1,000 surging swans once more. The light of competition glows in each of us, casting a radiant brilliance throughout the meadows of glorious Japan.

Felix Hernandez: ....the fuck are you talking about?

Babe Ruth or Babe Dahlgren?

2007-04-11T18:35:00.000-05:00

Babe Ruth or Babe Dahlgren is a periodic feature that highlights five ballplayers/teams that are succeeding (like Babe Ruth did!) and five ballplayers/teams that are failing miserably at baseball. This is a blatant rip-off of Baseball Tonight's 3 up/3 down segment except I am discussing 10 players instead of 6.

*Note to all those who don't know who the hell Babe Dahlgren was: the other Babe played with the Yankees and some other crappy teams for 12 seasons during the 30's and 40's. His career obp is a robust .329 and his career slugging percentage is an awe-inspiring .383. God, you plebians don't know anything.

Babe Ruth

1. Alex Rodriguez- So he takes off his shirt on Letterman? What's it to ya? Right now A-Rod could hit a homerun blind-folded while taking a dump and listening to Crime and Punishment on tape.

2. Arizona Diamondbacks- Baby backs yeah! Black Chris Young, Conor Jackson, The Drew Everyone Hates Less, the other other Hairston, and Orlando Hudson have this sizzling squad at 7-2.

3. Miguel Cabrera- Miguel Cabrera did one of three things in the offseason: A) Steroids B) Steroids C) Hard-core weight-lifting or D) ate at White Castle three times a week. Is he muscular, fat, or just plain ginormous? Either way he is crushing the ball like always.

4. Akinori Iwamura- "Now Ross, who the hell is Akiwhathisname Iwajima? Is he that dude from Street Fighter who's always screaming "aduken" or some shit like that?" Another stupid question by the theoretical voice in my head. A good 3B in Japan, the now slap-hitting Iwamura is slapping hits like Darryl Strawberry slapped his wives. He's batting a cool .458, making all four Devil Ray fans proud.

5. Felix Hernandez- Felix requested that I post his thoughts instead of eloborating on his performance. "No shifty Asian turd sandwich can outpitch the motherfucking KING! King Felix bitches! A thousand year reign of terror on the fucking American League of pansy tampon-wearing ass clowns! You say you throw a gyroball? I eat three fucking gyros a day and I can shit them out of my ass faster than you can throw your queer fucking gyroball!" I swear that's what he said.

Babe Dahlgren

1. Albert Pujols- The legendary A-Pu is struggling. .265 obp and only 1 HR this season means A-Pu has to step it up or he is in danger of being demoted to triple A Memphis forever. So Taguchi's Ruthian power could make A-Pu disposable by May.

2. Washington Nationals- They have scored about one total run in all of their games. Their team ERA is around 147.45. Kory Castro is a communist. Dmitri Young weighs more than a baby walrus. Things aren't going too well in the capital.

3. Ken Griffey Jr.- Quick, who has more extra base hits in 2007, Ken Griffey Jr. or Ken Griffey Sr.? The answer is.....neither one! It's a tie you mental reject. Jr. has yet to hit more than a single in 27 abs. Even his seven walks can't save him from this list.

4. Adam LaRoche- With 3 hits in 31 ABs, LaRoche is upholding the glorious tradition of Pittsburgh Pirate futility. He leads MLB with 14 K's and so far is a true 2007 Babe Dahlgren. Go get 'em, Adam!

5. Lance Berkman- Mr. Astro usually can slug with the best of them. But he's hitting .185 and something seems wrong. Lance requested that I post his thoughts here. "Man, fuck this team. Hey Carlos Lee, way to protect me in the lineup, you fat asshole. Oh and great job getting on base for me, Craig Biggio, you sodomizing douche. Too busy focusing on your 3,000 hits and the fans sucking your wee little pee pee to get on base? And don't think that I forgot about you, Ensberg. You might not be a Jew but you're sure Jewing me out of rbis. Oh and also, Mark Loretta has big fucking man tits. What a loser."

Again, I swear Lance Berkman told that to me.

Analyzing the 2007 NY Yankees...Cereally

2007-04-10T18:29:00.000-05:00

Cereal is awesome. No one can deny this. The combination of milk, flakes/cheerios, and sugar makes for the ultimate breakfast meal. Thirst and hunger are quenched simultaneously. You know what else is awesome? Baseball. More specifically, the 3-3 New York Yankees. Sure, many fans hate the Yankees but few can deny that they will probably make the playoffs again.

"But Ross, what does the awesomeness of cereal have to do with the Yankees?"
"Shut up, that's a stupid question."
"Ok."
"I'm kidding of course. Cereal and the Yankees go together like Adolf Hitler and anti-semitism. Or happy bunnies and Easter. Each Yankee position player has a cereal counterpart."
"That makes no sense."
"Shut up, no one asked you, I can say what I want."
"You're high again."
"Seriously alter ego, go away."

Without further ado, the 2007 New York Yankees compared to yummy and sometimes nutritious cereal:

C Jorge Posada-----Cheerios. Cheerios are bland but reliable. They are the cornerstone and backbone of the cereal world. Jorge Posada has been a consistent, healthy, and reliable franchise player for the Yankees. He isn't flashy and won't post hall of fame numbers. Did you see his Sportscenter commerical? Everyone is yelling "hip hip Jorge!" but Jorge doesn't care. He's too serious and focused on his work for that kiddy shit. But he is there. Just like Cheerios.

1B/DH Jason Giambi----Coco Puffs. You know what Coco Puffs are? Chocoloatly. Freakin' sugar and chocolate greatness everywhere. They're somewhat large, filling, but obviously not nutritious. Jason Giambi is big like Coco Puffs. His homeruns are the enticing chocolate. His high obp is like the great taste. But the strikeouts are like the shitload of sugar. His defense at first base is the eventual sugar crash you will get from eating too many Coco Puffs. Also, the Coco Puffs bird is always "Cuckooooo For Coco Puffs!" and appears to like partying (and perhaps doing bong hits) a lot. So does the Giambino.

2B Robinson Cano----Frosted Flakes. The flakes are like the average 2B but Robinson Cano is above average. He has the frosting! Tasty white stuff everywhere! Yum! When you look at a Frosted Flakes box it seems like there is so much potential for the cereal. And Frosted Flakes kind of lives up to that potential. However, there are warning flags. The frost isn't quite as amazing as it looks (Cano's high batting average is contrasted by his low obp). The flakes aren't super scrumptious (Cano's fielding needs work). Frosted flakes could be the Rod Carew of cereals but nothing is guaranteed.

SS Derek Jeter----Cap'n Crunch. The old mustachioed captain (cap'n??) leads by example. Ditto Jeter. When the Cap'n wants to take the kids on a magical pirate adventure to eat his cereal, god dammit those kids will follow him straight to hell if it means eating his cereal. Derek Jeter is the face of the Yankees and possibly baseball. The Cap'n is the face of Cereal. Jeter hits for contact but also has power. Cap'n Crunch has crunch berries. I needn't say anymore.

3B Alex Rodriguez----Raisin Bran. Raisin Bran is an all-around, five-tool cereal. The flakes provide the crunch and the raisins add the great taste and obligatory sugar. Alex Rodriguez has already hit 6 homeruns and is making all pitchers his bitch. A-Rod does it all, just like Raisin Bran. But how clutch is Raisin Bran? I sometimes find myself hungry by lunchtime after eating Raisin Bran. Shouldn't all cereals be very filling? Sometimes A-Rod and/or Raisin Bran doesn't deliver when it counts. Or I could be nitpicking and acting like a moronic sportswriter who says A-Rod can't make it in New York after he won the motherhumping MVP. The point is, Raisin Bran and A-Rod dominate their respective fields. Two scoops of raisin bran indeed, bitch.

LF Hideki Matsui----Lucky Charms. Hideki Matsui is a very lucky man. He was never injured in his career up until last season. He is worshipped as a baseball god in Japan. He is called Godzilla, a 300-foot atomic lizard who beat the crap out of numerous inferior monsters and is a complete badass. Matsui even owns a legendary porn stash. You have to wonder if he actually keeps a little leprechaun named Lucky in his pants pocket.

CF Johnny Damon----Fruit Loops. Johnny Damon is a colorful guy. According to Michael Morissey, last year he encouraged the Yankees to "free ball" for an entire game. No cup. No underwear. The lil' guy was unsheathed. Fruit loops taste great and bring a certain special quality to the breakfast table. Someone can look into your bowl, see the rainbow cheerios, and say "man that lucky bastard is eating fruit loops." Johnny Damon is that lucky bastard. Or the fruit loops. These analogies are really starting to confuse me.

RF Bobby Abreu----Corn Pops. Underrated sugar cereal. A consistent producer. Corn Pops might look boring and lame but watch out! Those mothers are crunchy. Bobby Abreu can look boring and lame at the plate too. "Oooh a walk," you might say. "Big friggin deal." Well it is a big deal, asshole. He fouled off like forty pitches to get that walk. And his obp is like .420 every year. Sure, maybe he wont hit a lot of sexy homeruns like A-Rod, but Abreu is a professional hitter. Pros before hos, as they say.

Sometime in the future I will do Yankee pitchers and Doug Mienkfdkakffdiavzzawicsz. But before I go, here's a special bonus cereal for a special former Yankee.

SP Randy Johnson----oatmeal. Old people eat oatmeal. It looks and tastes like crap. To quote Anchorman, it "smells like bigfoot's dick." I think the Big Unit and oat meal belong together.

The Jesus Christ Scouting Report

2007-04-09T17:05:00.000-05:00

Pretend for a minute that Jesus Christ is alive in 2007. What if Jesus, somehow walking amongst his blessed children again, played baseball? Here is a scouting report of a certain wiry ballplayer with the initials J.C.

Name: Jesus Christ
Birthplace: Bethlehem, Palastine
DOB: 10/25/0
Height: 5'6''
Weight: 120
Bats: Switch
Throws: Right
Posistion (s): Second base, Shortstop

Offense- Good two-strike hitter...cannot be tempted by outside pitch...knows how to go the other way...great at sacrificing himself to move runners along...adequate gap power but lacks homerun power...more power from right side...can turn groundballs into hits (or sometimes wine)...led majors in walk-off hits and hit by pitches...saint-like patience at plate

Contact Hitting: 41 (out of 50) Power Hitting: 28 Plate Discipline: 49

Defense- Poor throwing arm...ball sails in too high an arc...accurate/straight throws...footwork limited by lack of cleats (only plays in sandals)...struggles with pop-ups due to halo interference...good range due to light frame...excellent leaping/hovering ability...savior of balls hit up middle

Range: 44 Throwing Strength: 25 Throwing Accuracy: 38

Speed- Very fast...appears to float over grass...nimble...light radiates from feet...blinds fielders

Footspeed: 48 Agility: 44

Make-up- Strong leadership qualities...future manager...inspires teammates and leads by example...forgives fielders for making errors...12 person entourage sometimes interferes with practice...refuses to play on Sunday (possible liability)...very close to Father (former ballplayer)...loves his neighbors and opponents (possibly too much)...lacks tenacity

Injury History- Tore rotator cuff playing winter ball...quick healer...injured ACL and hand ligaments in off-season crucification mishap...resurrected career once riddled with injuries

How Alex Rodriguez Can Finally Win Over the Fans of New York

2007-04-09T09:15:00.000-05:00

I am a Yankee fan and I appreciate Alex Rodriguez's work. He is good at hitting baseballs. In fact, I will argue that he is better at playing baseball than 99.86% of the world. However, some fans do not think this is true. They think he is not "clutch" or a "true Yankee" or a "true champion" like Derek Sanderson Jeter, aka "captain intangibles." Because of this perception, I am afraid there is only one scenario in which Alex Rodriguez can truly keep Yankee fans from doubting his greatness. Observe...

It is game seven of the 2007 World Series. Game freaking seven. There are two outs in the ninth inning. The Yankees are facing the Mets, their hated cross-town rivals who they are told to hate because they are from smelly Queens and are New York rivals even though none of the players are actually from New York nor care about this rivalry. Billy Wagner is on the mound and the score is 4-1 in favor of the NY Mets. Wagner has just struck out Derek Jeter and Bobby Abreu on 102 MPH fastballs. Alex Rodriguez is at the plate and the bases are loaded. Despite batting .450 in the ALCS and .395 in the World Series, he is still deemed not clutch because non of the homeruns came in the ninth or tenth innings off of side-arm throwing Asian pitchers and non of the homeruns healed America in anyway. A-Rod swings and misses at the first pitch from Wagner. This prompts Tim McCarver, who is commenting on the game, to talk about a random at bat he had in Spring Training in 1968. Wagner then winds up again, throwing a 100 mph fastball that A-Rod fouls back for strike two.

Down to his final strike of the World Series, A-Rod's at bat prompts Steve Phillips to begin a poorly-written column for ESPN.com about how A-Rod is a failure at life and should be demoted to Double A to be taught intangibles and leadership by intangibles head coach Luis Sojo. ESPN.com's Jim Caple then has an orgasm thinking about A-Rod's potential strikeout. Meanwhile, a disgruntled Ben Afleck, angry at the Yankees and his multiple box office flops, hides in the bleachers and takes out his sniper rifle (which he bought with Matt Damon's money). He aims for A-Rod's heart, missing his mark but still shooting A-Rod in the stomach. The crowd gasps as A-Rod lies in a pool of blood. His uniform is stained red and he coughs up bloodied saliva. The umpire asks if he is ok and A-Rod says "no" but the umpire doesn't care and says "play ball!" Despite blacking out and bleeding profusely on home plate, A-Rod decides to continue the at bat. Billy Wagner prays to the pagan Gods of lightning, who grant him the power to throw a fastball at 5,000 mph. The pitch whizzes toward A-Rod but instead of being a loser and a choker, the bloodied A-Rod swings, breaking his bat and hitting the ball out of Yankee Stadium.

The ball lands in Iraq, blowing up into fairy dust which only kills Iraqis and terrorist insurgents. A-Rod jogs around the bases spitting up bile from his liver. However, he is hero because he has won the World Series and the War on Terror. The fairy dust that exploded from his ball turns out to be a cure for brain cancer as well. Billy Wagner is sentenced to fifty years in prison for praying to the pagan Gods of lightning. A-Rod dies as he touches home because he lost 70% of his blood. However, he is now a True Yankee.

And that his how Alex Rodriguez can finally win over the fans of New York.