Thank you all for coming. Please take a seat, and out of common decency for not just myself, but the right-minded people of our society, silence your cell phones, unless the theme song from “Dallas” is your ringtone, then and only then is full volume not only acceptable, but encouraged.
Today I announce my intention to sign with a fictional baseball team.
The choice was made easier by the movie industry’s inability to produce a fictional baseball film within the last fifteen years that warranted more than a groan and cursing the eight bucks a month on Netflix.
I’d like to thank all the fictional characters and their organizations that made this decision a tough one. I’d especially like to thank the two teams that were second and third runner-ups respectively. I’m barely above the baseball hat shell game where I initially pick up one hat and attempt to put it on, only to discard it at the last possible minute and go with the actual choice, but I’m still above it.
So I’d like to thank Billy Heywood and the Minnesota Twins for all their efforts to land me, but I can’t play for a teenage manager. Who is supposed to bail us out if myself and some of the other relief pitchers (let’s just suspend belief for just a moment and pretend I am the most-courted lefty-one-out-guy in the history of Major League Baseball) want to unwind in a Texas Roadhouse (an actual one) and get into a skirmish with some of the locals. Who are we supposed to call to get us out of a jam, the manager? Who’s going to drive him down to the police station and bail us all out and talk to the arresting officers about Mercucio, the setup man, because we all know how he gets after a few belts of Shiner Bock? It certainly won’t be the manager who can’t even drive. If I’m a professional athlete it’s my right to develop multiple addictions and raise hell on every occasion that I deem reputable. It’s his job to keep me alive. Plus, I wouldn’t even be able to borrow a pinch from him on occasion.
Also, the Twins of yore played in a dome. I’m most fetching with a slight tan. No way I give up half of my season indoors.
And I’d also like to thank Jimmy Dugan and the Rockford Peaches for the opportunity, but we just couldn’t come to terms on my role with the team. In the All-American League, I’m an ace, no doubt. He wanted me to come on as long relief. Now I have no problems playing against girls, especially ones from the 1940’s and potentially inflating my strikeout numbers, but a man has to have some pride and I will not pitch for the Peaches unless it’s as an ace. Good luck with Kit. Should have traded her when you had the chance. Plus they wanted me to room with Marla Hooch. I heard she likes to soak her feet in the sink for hours on end.
But, my grapes aren’t all sour. I decided to sign with the Cleveland Indians and play for Lou Brown. Brown doesn’t take crap from anyone. That’s the type of manager I want to play for. Granted the absence of Roger Dorn at the pitch meeting helped things, and Jake Taylor’s potential job switch to manager sweetened the deal, but my ardent devotion to my lord and savior Jesus Christ told me to sign there. Eddie Harris has been a spiritual adviser throughout my career and the opportunity to play in the town that Dolph Zigler made famous has only sweetened the deal and the pot, all in one fell swoop of sweetening.
Also, we have a real chance to win this thing as long as Vaughan can keep those black glasses of his focused on the target Taylor puts out there. I also heard that “Witness” billboard is still looking for a new resident.
Threw The Day 