St. Anger 'round my neck. He never gets respect.
What’s up, guys.
You may be wondering why you’re all bound and gagged and tied to those folding chairs. Further, you may be wondering why I’m standing before you, holding a pair of hedge clippers in a way that could be described as “menacing.”
Well the fact is… I’m going to kill you all like dogs right now.
Ah, I’m just kidding. I had you going there, though, didn’t I? Heh, well. Seriously, I’m just going to do a bit of gardening work and I needed to throw some oil on the ol’ clippies. But while I am here and you’re all tied and bound, I wanted to run something by you.
I know going into this season, a lot of folks didn’t quite know what to expect from me. I was… let’s say… the wild card. Was I going to be 2007 Josh, or was I going to be 2010 Josh.
So I stepped up my game. Toned down a bit on the whiskey and barbecue and punching random people on the street if I didn’t like the “cut of their jib.” And I think I’ve pitched pretty f$%king bad ass this season. Lights out in some cases. I’ve had at least a few opposing batters offer me their wives or a new set of wheels to take a day off when they come to town.
Things is, for all my work, I don’t have a whole lot to show for it. In fact, the last five times I dragged my ass out there, I’ve given up a total of seven runs over 34 innings. Now I don’t have to check my abacus to know that’s some pretty f$%king quality pitching there.
On the other hand, you guys haven’t really held up your end of the bargain. Of those aforementioned five games, I only got one win. So while I’m pretty f#$king pleased to be leading the team in ERA, you and I and this here pair of hedge clippers which I am thrusting into the air just to emphasize my point and not at all to threaten you know I should also be leading the team in wins.
Look, I’m a professional. And the fact that you’ve all still got your ears attached to your heads is testament to that. But I have my breaking point. Who knows? If I pitch my sack off tonight only to see you dinks score me one or two runs, I may just hit that point and cut the brakes on the team bus or lace the clubhouse beer with enough horse tranquilizer to make it so you don’t even feel me sawing off your kneecaps and fashioning a crude but ornamental necklace out of them.
I notice last night you bailed out my boy Lackey. What’s he got now, eleven wins? Tied for the team lead with Lester? Well, damn good for him. And if I took that ball gag outta his mouth, I’m sure he’d thank you guys for all the run support. Me, all I can do is say I envy that. And I hope you consider tearing ass with your bats tonight as well.
Don’t let the fact that I know where you all live, can identify your loved ones and the places they can most often be found, have enough live ammo on my person at any time than most militarized zones and have already proven that I can subdue each and every one of you before you know what hit you sway your decision. Just go out there tonight, take your cuts, and have a hell of a game!
Alright, enough of this bullshittin’. Who’s up for some cherry limeades at Sonic?
