Tuesday, June 12, 2007
A steam of consciousness from a Baseball in the hands of Scott Schoeneweis
Shit. Oh God please don't let him pick me up.
Please please please please please.
Fuck he's coming this way.
Look, I just want you assholes to get off the field as fast as possible so I can go absorb some more air molecules in the company of my brethren. Is that too much to ask?
I know some of my brothers just don't want to get hit, and I would be very happy if I were one of them, seeing as how you throw strikes less often than people fall for Nigerian prince e-mails. I just don't wanna be hit hard okay? You're a lefty, you're supposed to be better than this. Your WHIP is approaching the Mendoza Line. I know I'm supposed to have pity on you because you had cancer, but you're making enough money to buy the plant that I was made at. How about throwing a pitch down the plate?
Umpire: BALL ONE!
Oh, or you could just do that. You pussy. Do you see that Lo Duca is just sitting over the plate now? That he's given up on even trying to pick a spot for you?
**Ball flies over the head of Lo Duca, runners advance**
FUCK YOU! What the fuck man? Do you have four legs? Are you like a Dolphin or something? I mean if you're gonna fuck up this bad, couldn't you just make this more entertaining? Try to pitch the ball off your butt or something? Out of your butt? Lob it up and then kick it at the plate?
**Ball nearly hits the batter**
Muuuch fuckin better, slick. Yeah, you better rub your fucking hand on the rosin bag you piece of shit. Todd Hundley could throw better than this. Post-surgery. Don't even bother trying to grip the seams or anything bro, I'm afraid you might unravel me in your hands before you get the ball out of your glove.
**Scott Schoeneweis' game ERA is now 225**
**contemplates job security**
I'm scared. Too scared to even wet my pants.
Just relax and it'll come, son.