A Bronx cheer for our Bums.
As another Dodger season meanders down the flush hole, let's all say a big cheer and thank you to the boys in blue who stunk up the joint from foul pole to foul pole. Where does one even begin? How about with the dividend destroying signing of a wretched and gnarled pitcher. Jason Schmidt pitched all of six games for the Bums, his three year $47 Million dollar deal as aromatic as an Armenian fart. Or how about the remarkably pathetic Nomar Garciaparra and his arterial blockage of first base, while a potent and endowed James Loney withered on the vine in Vegas. Or, p'raps the ankle spinning Rafael Furcal (you like the double entendre?), who made shortstop look like a position reserved for the Special Olympics. One could go on and on, hey I've got plenty of time. But it's time to get to...our man Grady.
Has there ever been a moron of this stature in the major leagues before? I'm not talking about the fans of LA (oops), I'm talkin bout this hillbilly cotton pickin varmint who made a mockery of the game of baseball in front of 3.8 million of the happiest go'lucky people on the planet who came to Dodgerland for the Dodger Dogs and the Wave (no doubt learned on 94.7 FM). Straight outta Casting (hey, is that a rap song?), Grady was hired to be the perfect animatronic manager. That certainly explains why he was anchored all season long draped over the dugout "protective" railing. That clearly was his power source, which obviously short circuited his hampster wheel pea brain. A book could be written, albeit a picture book, showcasing his now infamous managerial blunders. His alcoholic wet brain slopping enzymes down into his automatonish behemoth special hat sized head. There is a control room in there somewhere. Mad magazine couldn't have written this.
And how bout Ned Colletti and his merry band of gashouse guys. Let's all cheer Esteban Loaiza (uncle Estaban), Mark Hendrickson, Brett Tomko, David Wells (okay, effective at sea level), Shea Hillenbrand, and the call up of one thousand kids to further cramp a divided and racially impure dugout, right Mr. Kent?
I'd like to tip my hat to the women of the organization. Thank you Kim Ng, you dragon lady you, for making sure that Jeff Kent got his 550 hits thus vesting his $9 Million dollar option for '08, just keep those cards and numbers coming. And Camille "back off Bob Harvey" Johnston for supporting her wunderling Josh "I'd rather be singing" Rawitch. Oh and let's not forget our lady in waiting, Mrs. Jamie "Hadassah" McCourt and her paisley seats. Kenny Lofton and Juan Pierre would like to thank her personally, in her boudoir that is.
But most of all, I would like to thank an Irish drunk from Boston, Mr. Frank McCourt. God bless you and sure and be'gorah. You managed to take and take and take from wee little people of LA LA. and turn it all back into lucky charms for you and your family. The product you oversaw in '07 will never be forgotten, and truly will never be matched for embarrassment and ineptitude. Your parking lot dreams now realized, you have turned your attention over to the "concourse", where bathrooms and kitchens co-mingle to create the ultimate shitty experience for the fans. Gold dabloons, flush em. God forbid you should take the time to learn the fucking game pal!
Congratulations Dodgers on turning 50 in LA, and to Tommy for turning 80. "I don't get heart attacks I give 'em". I think its time you gave one to this team on life support.