Wednesday, September 21, 2005

The Bush Administration Has A Softball Team.

Alright, who we playing today? Brookings? Oh, Jesus. Unbelievable they’re still allowed in this league. I mean, are we the only team in this town that isn’t stocked with cheaters?

Who’s pitching? Probably that Reynolds asshole, right? Great. Another fucking POW war hero. Every time I step up to bat I’ll be worried he’ll mistake me for Victor Charlie and slit my throat. I’m telling you the guy is mentally unstable. Remind me to talk to the umpire about that.

Who’s umping anyway? Are you kidding me?! Schumacher?! I’m sorry, there’s no fucking way I’m gonna let him ump this game. What do you have Alzheimer’s, he fucked us all through last year’s playoffs! Every fucking call went to Treasury. Strike zone the size of your grandmother’s vagina. Fuck that. He’s not umping this game. Forget it.

You want a reason? I’ll give you a reason. Meghan’s Law, how’s that for a reason? What do I mean? I don’t mean anything. But let me ask you this: does it bother you that a convicted sex offender can hang around in a public park where mothers bring their children? Yes or no? Yes or no?

Wait a minute, who said he was a child molester? Did I say that? But did I use those words? No, no, did I use those words? That’s right, I didn’t. I simply asked a question.

Let me see the lineup.

This is all wrong. Totally ass backwards. No, shut up. If you knew what you were doing, I wouldn’t have to be here half a fuckin hour before the game starts every week, holding your hand and changing your diaper and making sure the umpire isn’t a mentally-unstable liberal pederast.

Did I say that? Did I say that?

Get your pen out, here’s the real lineup. You ready? Pritchard leads off. Then Miller, then Monkey Cock. Put Anal Wart fourth. Then me, then Taint, then Butt Munch, then Brownie, Pus Boy, Scooter and Dingleberry. Got it?

Scooter’s out? Since when? Well who do we got for a sub? Condi! Have you lost your fucking mind! Goddamnit, how did she even know we were looking for somebody? Was it you? I swear to Christ if I find out it was you, they’re gonna be playing croquet with your nuts down at Gitmo.

Well, of course she wants to be included. When does she not want to be included. Story of her fucking life. But you know what? She can’t play for shit, and this isn’t the University of Michigan. If I wanted cunts in the lineup, I’d call Lynne Cheney.

Do me a favor, call Bolton. Tell him Turd Blossom wants him to call Condi, have her meet him in New York. He can tell her it was my idea. In fact, have him tell her I’ll be there too. No, he doesn’t have to fucking go, don’t be an idiot.

In fact, ask him if he’s got a glove.

2 comments:

Mathis said...

Look, Saffron. This... see, this here? What you've written? Yeah. It's good. It's really good stuff.

Danny Fisher said...

Check.