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[15 Nov 2007|11:26pm]

Do you think maybe if I offer to buy Mariwhatever a blowjob shot he would forget about that whole thing where I WAS TOTALLY MISUNDERSTOOD and totally did not even say anything about how the postseason was all his fault and totally not mine when everyone knows it's that bitch Posada's fault?

What? He's not staying with the Yankees. They wouldn't be that dumb.

I hired a new trainer today, dear diary. She's tall and she has broad shoulders and short curly hair and she smells like Driven. She really motivates me, diary. I don't know why. I just get a little bounce in my...step whenever she comes around.
1 comment|post comment

[09 Mar 2006|12:13am]

I've had a buch of magraits and I keep trying to make Utley do shots woth withever his name Jek or Vek or whatever is and they won't and they are all loosking ay me funny and I BLAME CANADA./ ROFFLE.

HUCCOME? WHAT HAPPEN? They told me I was gonna win...fghing bastids.
10 comments|post comment

[09 Jan 2006|12:10am]
::pokes diary::

Is this thing on?

GAWD, ladies, I have just been so busy the last few months, what with having to accept my ridiculously well-deserved MVP award and tussling with the great and painful decision about what to do with the World Cup of Baseball.

You guys, I'm only going to admit this to you. On the one hand, I really wanted to play for the Dominican, because we all know that they are going to kick so much ass and win everything in sight, and I just really really want to play for a winner once in my life. (OMG. I can't believe I finally said it.) On the other hand, D is playing for the US team, and I don't want him to go without me.

And then there's this whole thing where a certain someone's haircut gets more attention than the fact that I SAVED A KID FROM BECOMING A DAMN PANCAKE, and I can't have that. Y'all, this is my team. I can't have some interloping long-haired can't-speak-in-front-of-the-cameras-despite-wanting-to-be-on-TV-all-the-time slut trying to take over. And that's just his wife.

Gawd, what a WHORE. I hate people who do things just to get publicity. It's just so tacky.

I have to run, y'all. I'm giving pez to some inner-city kids tomorrow and I totally have to send out the press release because my GOD, I can't trust my agent to do things for me any more. The last time, I handed out cup-a-soup packets to a bunch of bums and nobody showed up. I was so embarrassed. For the hobos, I mean.
46 comments|post comment

[07 Sep 2005|11:01pm]
Read it and weep, bitches.

This livejournal shit is for PANSIES, bitches. I done got my own MAJOR LEAGUE BASEBALL FUCKING SPONSORED BLOG, homes. I bet you Bitchson and that blonde motherfucker Schilling don't have their OWN MAJOR LEAGUE SPONSORED BLOG.

YEAH, bitches. Who is the player of our generation? It's me. It's me. I don't see Barry 'OW MY KNEE' Bonds with his own MAJOR LEAGUE SPONSORED BLOG, do you? I don't see Roger 'I SWEAR I'M REALLY RETIRING THIS TIME' Clemens with his own MAJOR LEAGUE SPONSORED BLOG. I don't see Johnny "OH A CAMERA LET ME TAKE OFF MY SHIRT AND STAMMER" Damon with his own MAJOR LEAGUE SPONSORED BLOG. I don't see Derek 'LOOK AT MY BUBBLE ASS AND WONDER WHAT CRAZY MARIAH CAREY DID TO IT" Jeter with his own MAJOR LEAGUE SPONSORED BLOG.

I own you all, and it's time you sorry motherfuckers realized how lucky you are that I deign to grace you with my presence.

Yeah, whatever, hurricane, people dying, life sucks, get a helmet. Fucking Schilling whoring himself out by buying himself a family. MY BLOG IS THE NEWS, BAYBEE.
48 comments|post comment

[14 Aug 2005|12:05am]
So, you know, I'm sitting here checking to see whether or not my complete Strawberry Shortcake collection managed to sell on EBay...(look, if Terrell Owens is having problems feeding his family, I should probably start to worry about whether whatshername has enough ramen to snack on).

Anyway, so I start looking. And for some reason, I wind up (not because I'm a masochist or anything) looking to see whether or not any of my stuff from the ALCS made it onto EBay and seeing how many thousands of dollars my chewed up gum is going for. I mean, I haven't graced the playoffs since, like, '95, so you KNOW the vials of my sweat that I handed out to WFAN and the YES Network the fans are going for, like, the price of mansions on EBay. I mean, you KNOW people are dying for this shit, right? I mean, Christ, I Am America's Greatest Baseball Player.

So I'm looking, right? Right? And then...and then...I'm sorry, hold on, I need some chardonnay for this, Dear Diary...

I find...I find...this.

That...that...fucking....BITCHSON, with his shitty ass album, with his horrific cornrows, with his...BITCHNESS...had the...audacity to...sign...that...



::runs off sobbing::

127 comments|post comment

[20 Jul 2005|07:59pm]
Fucking Brandon, all "Look at me, look at me! I have a music career and I'm all technologically literate and shit." Whoooo, I sing my little songs and write in my little blog and all the girlies love me and blah blah blah.


Who covers Vertical Herizon, for shit's sake? 'Oh, look, here's a shitty little band from the 90s that suck worse than the Colorado Rockies. I want to cover them and have all the ladies throw their panties at me.'

You don't want me back
You're just the best I ever had

Ohhhhh, you're so eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeemo and coooooooooooooool.

Pansy ass twit. How many children have YOU saved? Yeah, that's what I thought. Too busy all strumming moodily and 'Dude, Eddie Vedder is a legend, man.'

Justin Timberlake, now. That's the hot jam.

Meet the new me, bitches. Kicking ass, taking names, and rocking out to J. Tizzy. You know how I do.
83 comments|post comment

[03 Jul 2005|11:01pm]
[ mood | loved ]

Hey, now, I'm an All Star. Get your game on...I'm already getting paid...

Take THAT, D.

Hey, Fuck You, Allright?

That'll teach that cocksucker to start shit with me in the locker room. I'm not America's Greatest Ballplayer for nothing, my bitches.

Awww, look who is reduced to being a part of the 'Last Man' competition? Awwww. I voted for Hideki. Yeah, you heard me right, motherfucker. You start shit with me, you best be ready to FINISH that shit.

I'll send all you bitches a postcard from Motown. Me, Sheff and HIDEKI, MOFOS. We're taking over.

32 comments|post comment

[17 Jun 2005|11:37pm]
Oh, Dear Diary, how I have MISSED YOU.

See, sometime a few weeks ago, I had some of the rookies over to 'the pad' to watch some movies- the powers that be finally realized that the world needed a James Dean box set, and you had better believe that occasion meant mojito night at Casa Rodriguez. God. I mean, have you seen East of Eden? The man just smolders. The eyes are just so incredibly expressive. God, Diary, just between you, me and the windows, I wish I could be that...that...cool.

There...was some baseball. Look, diary. I'm doing everything I can. I mean, we swept Pittsburgh! How great is that?! We swept a National League team. God, I'm so proud of this team.

Diary, though, I have to tell you a secret, and I'm going to be foulmouthed. I have to admit it, I've had one or two or maybe three Mai Tais, so I'm going to be honest. I hate this 'six games behind' nonsense. I mean, it's bad enough that we're behind the damn Red Sox, but the Orioles? Who do they have to make them so damn good? NOBODY, that's who. They don't have AMERICA'S GREATEST BALLPLAYER, do they?

I'm just so tired. I work so hard, I try and...oops! Spilled my drink. Hold on.

Anyway, I try, y'know? And I try so HARd, and it's like...we just can't break the plane. It's just like my relationship with the team, IO think. I try so very hard to get them to like me, burt it's Tino Tno Teeeeeno all the time and I try to sit down tnext to them inthe cafeteria and it;s 'Remember when we won the World Series four times?' and I sit there and eat my fruoit salad and it;s...WHOOPS! SPILLED IT AGAIN!

Yeah, so i sit down and its all like 'Hey, remember when we could mabage to beat the Red Sox in the AlCs and people idn;t get us stupid outs' and I;'m all like 'Right here, you guys!' and then Derek just won't talk to me and it's just...

God. I'm so lonely . And I am, suddne;y veby drunk. This is the last thime I let Wlss send me a liuqor baskt.

Wh won't derke CALL ME?
18 comments|post comment

[29 May 2005|01:49am]
I'm just a liiithle drinnk right now. How aree we going to losr to the Red so ff by sicteen runs>? Motherguckerf. dyck Rentwereoa qnywat. He's just jealus becayse he waints a rumg. I mwean, a RING. Whyicg is wht I plaw fpt the Yankeesz WOOOO PINSTRIPES. WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Wha? Whus? Dave Chapelte says 'Conaicgewa, bitchewas!' HI, HIDEKOIE!@

OMG< BITCSON JUST was all nyche and stuff and...HI CORNOW!


6 comments|post comment

[28 May 2005|05:45pm]

Do I have to do EVERYTHING around here, motherfuckers? I hit, I hit home runs, I get on base, I save small children from stepping into the path of an oncoming train, WHAT MORE DO YOU FUCKERS WANT FROM ME? Christ, do I need to pitch, too?

That's it. I'm sending vodka to Boomer's room. He can't do much of anything if he's hungover...right?

Piece of shit pinstripe motherfuckers.
15 comments|post comment

[27 May 2005|10:47am]
So the secret's out. I'm in therapy. Are you all happy now? Hey, look, everyone has to battle their own personal demons, and if mine happen to be wearing cornrows and bloody socks, what of it? It means nothing, my therapist says. Probably something from my childhood. Who knows?

Anyway, I don't want to talk about the therapy. The guys in the clubhouse are being nice about it, except for that asshole Sheffield, who kept asking me why I wanted to sleep with my mother and someone keeps leaving cigars in my locker. (I thought it was nice of them, or maybe one of the clubhouse attendants had a kid or something, but then Freud's picture is all over them and fucking Giambi started doubing over laughing when I started smoking them. I put it out. I figured it was one of those exploding cigars or something. I don't know why me smoking a damn cigar is that damn funny. Whatever. Children.)

So, what else? It's been a while since I updated. I've been so busy singlehandedly hauling my team out of the basement of the AL. Well, Tino helped, but that was probably the example I set for him. I hit some monster home runs the other say before some little bitch dared to plunk me. Don't you know you NEVER plunk America's Greatest Baseball Player. Thank God my teammates had my back. Eventually.

Oh! I saw Revenge of the Sith. Wow. What a great movie. I felt SO BAD for Anakin. Tempted to the Dark Side because he just wanted to be able to keep Padme near him forever and ever, and then it was joining the dark side that pushed her away? God, such a tragedy. I'll have to ask D. what he thought of it.

I think Mr. S. saw it, too, because he's been walking around trying to shoot electricity out of his fingernails. I don't have the heart to tell him that it would RUIN his facial peel if he succeeded. Just look what happened to that nice Chancellor Palpatine. Man. HE could use an RJ facial like no other.

Speaking of skin: GOD, was Natalie Portman's skin FLAWLESS in that movie or WHAT?

More later. I have to get something to eat. I've MISSED you, Dear Diary.
26 comments|post comment

[11 May 2005|07:47pm]
For the record, that wasn't an error. I don't do errors.

That was just my attempt to get the team into a better place, playing-wise. We really needed to snap out of our funk on the field, and I was just trying to give them incentive to do it. Look, I scored twice. What more do you want from me? I can't do EVERYTHING myself. Seven home runs in the last eight starts who does that asshole think he is this is MY team.

I'm going to go see if Tino needs some more help fitting in. If he just keeps living by my example, I think he'll do fine around here.

OOH! Fresh new Smallville tonight! GAWD, I love day games on Wednesdays. I hope Clark and Lana totally start making out. That would be awesome. Maybe D. wants to watch it with me. I'd better go pick up some fudge and chardonnay, just in case...
42 comments|post comment

[10 May 2005|10:21am]
That's three in a row, bitches. I TOLD you that the choreographed routine to 'Dancing Queen' would help turn things around. It really got the guys focused on the game at hand, and I could totally tell that they were getting really into the moves before yesterday's game. Let me just tell you, for such a lanky guy, RJ can seriously move. It's breathtaking. Tino's jazz hands? Magic.

Speaking of Tino, how awesome was my double last night? I know Tino's been having a hard time fitting in, being the new guy in the clubhouse and all, so I figured I'd set him up with a nice home run to make him feel at ease. Hey, man. That's just the kind of thing I do for my teammates.

OH! So I've been taking these massage classes from the local community college, right? I figured when this baseball thing is over, I might need some extra money, and massage therapy is the wave of the future. (Well, it's either that or kickboxing, but I'm a lover, not a fighter.)

D has been mighty tense out in the field for the last couple of weeks. I mean, he even started swearing at some guy sitting behind third base the other day. You shouldn't yell at fans. That's not the way to play. Unless they try to decapitate you with their bare hands, and then it's totally cool to shove them and all of the women around them. Anyway. So I figured I'd try out the new grip they showed us in class last week on him to try to get him to relax. I had to chase him all around the infield to get him to stand still long enough to get the massage. Man. He was SO excited about the win.

And someone took a picture!Collapse )

The whole thing involves trying to bring the ball of your thumb to meet the knuckle of your index finger through the layers of skin and muscle. You're supposed to use it on fleshy areas, like the thighs and buttocks, but D wouldn't let me grab him there, so I had to settle for the neck. It's supposed to feel really good.

Anyway, so I did that for a while, until he got wriggled stepped away and told me his back hurt. Well, I can totally help with that. I am an EXPERT back-cracker. NG told me I'm better at it than MH is. He keeps calling me and asking me to come to the Windy City to help him out with it. I keep telling him that my place is with D right now, and besides, MH keeps looking at me weird every time I'm there, like she expects me to steal her lipgloss or the silver or something.

Another picture!Collapse )

So I cracked his back, and for some reason, Sheffield just started giggling and rolling on the floor and pointing. KB looked like he was going to throw up. What? Am I missing something?

Anway, WANG is pitching tonight, so I should probably start batting practice early. Lord knows they're going to need me to do everything AGAIN tonight. God. This is exhausting.
31 comments|post comment

[08 May 2005|02:07pm]
Look, look, look! I finally have an icon. Wow. That's really one of my favorite pictures of me. I think my inner strength shows through, don't you? Funny story: I'd eaten a metric ton of chili that day, so I actually had pretty bad gas pains. Thank heavens for Tums, right? Am I right? Of course I'm right. I'm always right.

Anyway. We won. YUS! Due, I might add, in no small part to my three RBIs. Now, did the rest of the team appreciate that? Noooo. It was all 'Great Game, Moose' and 'That's the way to pitch, Mike' and 'I wish the rest of the staff remembered that the ball's supposed to go over the plate once in a while, Moose'. God. Like, HELLO? What do I have to do around here to get a little recognition?

Of course, the stupid Red Sox are winning their stupid game. That's the nice thing about this wireless deal we've got going in the dugout now- I can watch everyone else's games online While I'm waiting for my next at bat. It's great. Well, it's great when I'm not having to update every three seconds to see if someone busted up a certain dickwad's no-hitter. Oh, you better believe I was calling EVERYONE I HAVE EVER MET to tell them he was throwing a no-hitter. I even got the announcer to put it over the PA system at Yankee Stadium. That little dickbag doesn't need anything else to be cocky about.

Oh, wait. Gotta run. I'm up.
45 comments|post comment

[06 May 2005|11:23pm]
[ mood | pissed off ]

Fuck fuck fuckity fuck fuck fucksticks. Look, I'll be honest. I'm a little drunk right now. I've been mainlining tequila since that fucking game ended. I'm going to kick that motherfucking Bitchson's ass, too, because I got back to my room to a fucking 'Get Well Soon' fucking teddygram sitting in front of my door. Yeah, don't think I don't know who's responsible for that shit, motherfucker. It's on like Donkey Kong, Cornrows. You're going downtown to Chinatown. (Which reminds me, I need to ask hidekisan for directions.)

As if losing the game wasn't enough, as if me being SO FUCKING TIRED from sleeping in front of D's room all night last night wasn't bad enough, I fell asleep IN THE GOD DAMNED FIELD tonight, and got an error. ME. An ERROR. I KNOW. The umps were drinking, or something, because...I don't do errors. Apparently, they didn't get a copy of the memo I wrote them after the ALCS last year in which I very patiently and with very small words explained to them that I was not to be charged with errors, and that they shouldn't be making calls against the Yankees in Yankee Stadium, or anywhere else for that matter. Honestly. Who do those people think they are?

Speaking of errors, I need to call Mr. Boras and get my contract with SpeedStick straightened out, because I finally caught my latest commercial on the way home, and HA HA HA, ASSHOLES. YEAH. Didn't think I'd catch that little 'E5' in the lights, did you? Thought I was blind? Thought I'd be too busy making sure the light hit my dimples just right? Thought I'd be comparing my colors for the next commercial, did you? Well, okay, fine, I was, the first like, sixty times I saw the commercial. That was until tonight, when it was on in the locker room and I turned around to see how I looked in the fluorescent lighting the Orioles did tonight, and fucking SHEFFIELD was doubled over giggling. Very fucking funny, assholes. You'll pay. Oh, you'll pay. I know Kung Fu. Me and David Carradine, we're like this.

Fucking great. Some morons in the next room are yelling something about schadenfreude. I'm going to hve to go over there and slap someone soon.

I shouldn't drink tequila. It makes me angry.

157 comments|post comment

[06 May 2005|01:08pm]
[ mood | depressed ]

Which one of you bitches went and told Bitchson he could post in here all wasted? WHICH ONE OF YOU WAS IT? 'Fess up, you lameasses, or I'm going all Sheffield on your pansy asses. I will eat your livers and wear your rotator cuffs as a hat. Do not fuck with America's Greatest Ballplayer. I know Kung Fu. I watch Bruce Lee movies EVERY NIGHT on the road while I'm doing my nightly regimen, so don't think I can't hurt you. I can and I will slap a bitch.

I also demand to know which one of you motherfuckers paid the clubhouse attendant to pack up my locker and put 'Texas' tags on my suitcases. Like Mr. S. would ever trade me. I'm a GODSEND. You couldn't even FUNCTION without me, you sorry motherfuckers. Be a little more careful with that shit next time. That's Louis Vuitton calfskin, and it doesn't come cheap, fuckwads.

Oh, and the Ben-Gay in the jockstrap? Not fucking funny, assholes. Unless, of course, the equipment got mixed up and that was supposed to be for RJ, in which case, how considerate of you.

Is it pick on me day and nobody told me? I even baked you bitches individual bundt cakes last night to make you feel better on the plane ride. See if you get any of them now. They were even carrot cakes glazed with caramel sauce, but now I'm eating ALL OF THEM.

God. I should just be fat, alone, and miserable. Where's that chardonnay again? I need some time alone with me.

27 comments|post comment

[05 May 2005|09:43pm]

::throws pillows on floor::

Not ONLY can we not win a GOD DAMN GAME (Thanks, WANG. You SUCK. Your mom SUCKS. Your dad SUCKS.), but fucking Bitchson almost goes and pitches a no-no. Thank CHRIST for Carlos Guillen, because I would seriously have to go on a KB style rampage if I had to watch the national media sucking Bitchson's dick. It's been all I can do in the offseason to make sure he looks like a punk ass bitch, and I will NOT have all of my hard work undone now.

And now D. is sniping at people on his team who aren't 'true Yankees', because you have to grow up drinking milk out of Steinbrenner's TIT to be considered a fucking true Yankee around here. What the fuck do I have to do here, people? I save a fucking brat from becoming a fucking PANCAKE in Boston from szome manic truckdriver who probably had, like, two teeth and a MULLET. I hit TEN FUCKING RBIs in one goddamn GAME for you motherfuckers. What more do you want from me? You fucking shitbags are supposed to be bringing me my World Series ring on a silver fucking platter, here, and you can't even beat Tampa fucking BAY? Give me a fucking break. You little shits don't DESERVE to play with America's Greatest Ballplayer.


I'm sorry, guys. I just totally had SUCH a bad day. I couldn't sleep because I couldn't get comfortable on the floor in front of D's door. I went over to bring him brownies and riesling to cheer him up after yesterday's awful loss, and to be a good friend and listen to him in case Mr. S. chewed him out. He wasn't home, so I figured I'd wait for him. I fell asleep for a little bit waiting outside. I must have rolled over on a marker or something, though, because I woke up and my lips were all colored blue. It looked like I must have put my head down on a newspaper, too, because the ink transferred onto my face- all kinds of weird pictures drawn on my forehead and stuff. I found a margarita glass, too, which is weird, because why would I have brought a margarita glass with me for brownies and riesling?

I need a nap. And maybe a facial.
91 comments|post comment

[03 May 2005|01:11pm]
Now, nobody tell D., but I think I may know where this is going. I may have to change my userinfo AGAIN.

Y'all, I just don't know what's going on with this team. D. keeps walking into the locker room after games, sitting down and staring into his locker like there's a naked picture of M. in there. RJ stormed off into the equipment closet muttering something about catcher's masks, and now he's on the DL with a stiff groin. JP won't talk to me...I don't know what's going on. I keep trying to lighten up the mood by doing karaoke for the boys, but someone stole my 'You Can Sing Madonna' CD, and I can't do 'Like A Prayer' without it, which sucks, because I spent all night last Saturday working on this whole choreograped routine to it. I even went and bought the crosses and stuff so I could have the same backdrop as the video. For some reason, GS and BW aren't speaking to me now, either. I don't know what I did. Somebody's doing a lousy job as Captain. I'm just saying.

Also, who is this bitch in Baltimore and what is he doing with my Player of the Month award? I am America's Greatest Ballplayer! What gives? He plays in Baltimore, for Pete's sake. The only good thing they have there is the crabs. The crab DINNERS, you perverts. GOD.

I'm off to go find some new kid we just called up. I bet if Americas Greatest Ballplayer took him out to lunch, he'd be thrilled.
28 comments|post comment

[29 Apr 2005|01:39pm]
Heh. Take that, Bitchson Ar-oh-no. I laugh in your general direction.

Man. Who knew taking Mr. Watson out for sushi and sake would work out so nicely? I didn't know he liked performance art and greco-wrestling. Probably a good thing I have such a great supply of tapes at home.
139 comments|post comment

[27 Apr 2005|09:41am]
[ mood | nervous ]

I told you all I was America's Greatest Ballplayer. Sheesh.

Actually, I have a confession to make.

About twenty five years ago, I landed on this planet as a young child, sent as the only hope of a dying planet- planet Slapton. My father, Jor-Ma, knew that the only way the legacy of Slapton could carry on would be to send me away, wrapped in swaddling clothes, and with only a baseball bat clutched between my tiny Slaptonite hands.

I grew up, trying desperately to be a normal boy, living with the Rodriguez family, attending high school like any other boy. All was well- I was the All-American child, and my adoptive parents were so happy they'd found me in the ruins of a purse factory and brought me home to raise. I dated Lana Longball all through high school- it was she who first discovered my true nature- an alien being from Slapton.

Fortunately for me, Lana also discovered my one weakness- the dreaded mineral compound known only as E5. With Lana Longball's help, I learned how to fight E5 with the only known antidote- blue raspberry chapstick.

I stand before you now a man unleashed. Yes, it is I, SlapMan.

Just, y'know. Try not to tell anyone, least of all my nemesis, BronLex Aroythor. I trust y'all.

22 comments|post comment

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