“It’s a long season, you know, and we’re going to right the ship,” millionaire Joe Mauer said today from a hot tub deep in the bowels of Target Field after Monday’s 7-1 season opening victory over the Kansas City Royals.
“Fans know what to expect from us; we’ve lost our last nine season openers. When we take the field, we want them to watch us and say ‘Wow, these guys play like a bunch of peglegs.’ What you saw yesterday was not Twins baseball. We’re going to get the schooner pointed in the correct direction.”
The Minnesota Twins return twenty of twenty five players from last year’s team, which lost 103 games.
“We’ve just got to focus. We’re like a clipper that is going sideways.”
Many in the locker room believe the club can replicate the massive failure of 2016, and then some.
“Talking to the guys on the ‘poop deck,’ which is what I call the locker room, we all came to a general agreement that, as professional ball players raking in all this booty—doubloons, pearls, golden chalices—we owe it to ourselves to really blow that 103 number out of the water. Many of us believe we could be mathematically eliminated from the playoffs just after the All-Star break. Yeeeaaarrrgh,” said Mauer.
When asked if catching the 1962 Mets, a team that lost 120 games, was possible, Mauer had this to say: “We’ve got all these parrots in here. And look, there’s a chest full of gold. While you’re at it, visit Mauer Chevrolet.”
Mauer’s brother has a car dealership.
“International waters, that’s where it’s at, man,” Mauer went on. “Nobody owns the ocean. You can do whatever you want out there,” he said, devilishly petting a parrot that he had corralled.
Mauer was then informed that this article sucked and had wandered hopelessly from any sort of cogent or sensible conclusion.
“I wish to be a pirate,” he said, holding a hand over his face, pretending it was an eye patch.
It’s been a rough week for perfect Minnesotans. The superior breed is really letting Blair Walsh have it after the Vikings kicker missed a 27-yard field goal near the end of the team’s 10-9 loss to the Seattle Seahawks. Here are thoughts on Blair Walsh from people who have never made a (televised) mistake in their lives:
“Kickers make that 27-yarder 99% of the time. People are going to remember this for years to come,” said a cow milker who one time couldn’t figure out how to open a condom wrapper, and instead of using the 99% effective rubber birth control device, decided to have unprotected sex and now has to make child support payments for years to come.
“I could have made that,” claimed a vending machine repairman, whose bathroom floor is puddled with urine that never made it into the toilet.
“He stinks,” said an out-of-work dog whisperer who never learned to wipe properly and is perpetually surrounded by a faint poopy smell.
“Little purple gnome miss point and I mad,” said a camouflage enthusiast who does not fully understand English, his first and only language.
“He didn’t focus,” observed a fast food connoisseur who bit her own finger off after thinking it was part of a batch of chicken fries.
“I like to drag my ass on the carpet. Like a dog,” said a guy who likes to drag his ass on the carpet like a dog.
I’m sitting here watching the MLB All Star Game. Joe Buck’s forehead, which is somehow simultaneously advancing up over his scalp and down into his face, raping and pillaging any hair or sensory organs that cross its path, gave me the idea for a joke.
It will amuse nature lovers.
Sports fans might get it.
It incorporates the ancient art of rhyme.
The very masculinity of Buck himself is brought into question.
Sports, nature, poetry, and machismo in a delicious multi-layered taco dip of a joke. Here goes:
Joe Buck? More like Joe Doe!
I never said the joke would be funny. I’m very sorry.
Topical humor time: I compiled a list of indie band names and monikers of horses that have participated in the Kentucky Derby over its 141 year run. It is up to you to guess whether each following group of words identifies a band, a horse, or a Band of Horses (that one is a band). Now, I present to you the list:
I Don’t Know If I Should Cry Or Fart
I Would Have No Problem Shooting A Kitten In The Face
Slovakian Bubble Bath
I Am A Horse That Has Raced In The Kentucky Derby
This One Is A Band Name
The Annexation Of Puerto Rico
The Courtroom Doll That Is Used As A Device For People To Point Out Where The Bad Man Touched Them
Why Is A Midget Slapping Me With A Stick
There you have it. Think you did well? Read on, and award yourself one point for each correct answer.
I Don’t Know If I Should Cry Or Fart—This one is neither a horse nor a band. My friend Ryan said it one time.
I Would Have No Problem Shooting A Kitten In The Face—Another trick question. My other friend Jeremy once said this.
Slovakian Bubble Bath—This also is not an animal or a group of humans. It is a despicable act my pal Brad made up, involving fellatio and flatulence in a tub filled with water!
I Am A Horse That Has Raced In The Kentucky Derby—The name implies this is a horse that has raced in the Kentucky Derby. In reality, it is just something I typed.
This One Is A Band Name—This one is NOT a band name. How many have you gotten right so far? I’m shooting 100 percent.
The Annexation Of Puerto Rico—This was a trick play used by football-playing children in the 1994 film Little Giants.
Sentient Toilet—Can you imagine if toilets became self-aware? Wouldn’t that be terrible? And getting back on track, also not equine or musical in nature.
The Courtroom Doll That Is Used As A Device For People To Point Out Where The Bad Man Touched Them—This is a doll that lawyers hold up to people and ask “Where did the bad man touch you? Point to the corresponding area on this doll,” not a horse or a band.
Cassandra Morningfart—This is what shows up on my cellular telephone when my girlfriend, Cassandra Morningfart, calls me.
Why Is A Midget Slapping Me With A Stick—This is something that horses in the Kentucky Derby wonder. There are also people in indie bands that ask themselves this question. Sometimes people in indie bands get slapped with sticks by midgets.
Now give yourself one point for each correct answer.
0-4 points: You don’t know shit about indie bands or the Kentucky Derby!
5-9 points: Impressive, but you are still not very good at knowing things about horses and bands.
10 points: You are me.
The recent Adrian Peterson controversy is one with many possible angles and viewpoints. Is it okay to beat a four-year-old child with a switch and rip open his scrotum if it is going to make him behave? We’ll never know. Is it okay to beat a 29-year-old man with a stick and puncture his nugget pouch for tearing into a four-year-old’s gonad bag? There is no scientific answer.
But the most disturbing question of all is this: why has no one offered up a proposal that would force the NFL star to change his name to Adrian Beat-his-son? It shames him, it’s a fun play on his real name, and the NFL would make even more money when Vikings fans have to re-buy updated number 28 ‘Beathisson’ jerseys.
All I’m asking is for the government and NFL to give some good old fashioned public humiliation a shot.
Here’s a photograph from last summer, the day the gal I’m going steady with and I attended our first Minnesota Twins game together. They played the Phillies on what turned out to be a gorgeous June evening. It’s a good picture—you can see the Minneapolis skyline in the background, and hometown hero Joe Mauer at the plate. She kind of ruined it by talking, but it’s still a fun memory.
From The Sports Desk—————-Over the weekend, a multitude of NFL teams drafted heterosexual men, franchises including the Houston Texans, St. Louis Rams, Jacksonville Jaguars, Buffalo Bills, Oakland Raiders, Atlanta Falcons, Tampa Bay Buccaneers, Cleveland Browns, Minnesota Vikings, Detroit Lions, Tennessee Titans, and New York Giants, as well as every other organization in the league.
After months of analyzing, speculating, and debating, each team looked at its personnel needs and took into account every available player’s potential, skills, knowledge of the rules and strategy related to American football, attitude, discipline, size, 40-yard dash time, bench press, vertical, personality, criminal record, mental health, vision, weight, height, body fat percentage, and collegiate performance, seemingly with little regard to the fact that the near majority of athletes chosen were sexually attracted to women.
Draft analysts are still searching for evidence as to whether preference for intercourse with female genitalia or a man’s rectum, or both, is of any relation to performance on an NFL gridiron. It takes a dedicated, mentally-tough individual to show up every Sunday, wriggle into skintight spandex pants and haul around a leather air sack reminiscent of an enlarged, sickly-looking testicle. Time will tell if the heteros can handle it.
When the 2014 season concludes, franchises will evaluate how the straights handled life on and off the field during the grueling 17 week work year, and possibly break down more barriers in the 2015 draft, where it is whispered that a white quarterback may be chosen, if the whole event doesn’t turn into a violent pansexual free-for-all first.