Duncan: “Brave Commander Kick Arse–he well deserves that name–disdaining fortune with his brandish’d steel which smoked with bloody execution, carved out his passage. Redoubling strokes upon the foe, leaving them to bathe in reeking wounds. Alas, in the third, he took it in the pills, like a pinata at a fat kid’s birthday party.”
Macbeth: “Is this a base hit I see before me? The ball tailing out of Garza’s hand? Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible to feeling as to sight? Are you a false creation, proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain? Apparently, yes, you are but a vision. Because this man Garza has rendered the bat of every player on this bloody team about as worthless as my Daimer-Chrysler stock. And that flippy thing he does with his glove before each pitch? Extremely douche-like.”
Malcolm: “Bleed, bleed poor team. It weeps, it bleeds; and each new inning a gash is added to its wounds. This poor team shall have more vices than it had before, more suffering and more sundry ways than ever. And, wait. Look yonder. Surely that is not young Van Every coming in to pitch? Ulp, it is. It’s official, peeps. We’re f@#ked.”
Macduff: “Our fear in Lopez runs deep. And with good reason. Five earned runs in one-third of an inning? Whose cousin doth this man be? Of whom does he have photographs evidencing relations with horses and other barnyard friends? What crime have we, as fans, committed to be subjected to his treachery? Let the drums cry out his fate: Pawtucket! Pawtucket! Pawtucket!”
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And just because I’ve nothing more to say about last night’s game of which we will not speak, here’s a Shakespeare-SG blast from the past.
