I Hate to Cut This Meeting Short, But I Gotta Take a S–t.

Your fastball is really buzzin’ out there kid. I’m damn proud of you. If we were at war, I’d need you in my foxhole. That’s how I like to thinka things’ when we’re out here, us against them, digging it out in the trenches….

And speaking of that….

I gotta take a shit.

I don’t mean to be rude, and I’m sorry to be frank with you, kid. But I gotta drop a monster fucking load and I’m gonna do it in that clubhouse right back up that tunnel there. I’m gonna do it and there’s not one person in this stadium that can stop me. Not you kid, not the fans, not the owner of this team, no one. Did you see the way I was walking out there in left center field before the game? That’s because I couldn’t stop imagining what that clubhouse, big league porcelain would feel like with my wrinkly old ass pressed up against it.

You might think I look funny, kid; with my all black high-top turf shoes and constant windbreaker on. Yeah, yeah, I’m a funny looking pitching coach. But I know my stuff, and believe me when I tell you: I know when I gotta shit.

Did you see me in here when you were looking to get your signs last inning? I was rocking back and forth and had worked myself into quite a sweat. That wasn’t because I was nervous about your break-even delivery with the bases loaded. That was because all I could think about was getting you through that inning so I could go back up that tunnel there and destroy that second stall from the left with a disgusting ass-custard pie.

I’ve got to stop skipping those pre-game meals in our locker room when my wife makes meatloaf. Meatloaf is the distant cousin of the devil. This week she decided to add onions to the mix, and now I’ve got a belly full of vidalia and meat shit-stew. I’m gonna obliterate that toilet in there son, and it’s not gonna be pretty. And when I get back, I wanna talk about your change-up.

When you see me heading down below with this newpaper tucked under my arm, I want you to get out of my way. Nothing can stop me from a shit storm that rivals Hurricane Hannah at that point. The sounds that you’re likely to hear if you’re down in that lavoratory won’t be pretty. They’ll be the same sounds heard at the Apocalypse, kid.

I’d advise that you pass word onto the bat-boy for me, kid. For his own sake. Make sure the trainers and clubhouse attendants clear out as well. I wouldn’t want them to have to burn any of their garments because of what is about to exit me. That wouldn’t be right, plus I may get charged for it. Pitching coaches don’t make much these days. We’re in a time of economic crisis, you know.

I’m going to go make a mess of that shitter, kid. If I’m gone a long time or if you hear me holler do not be alarmed or motion anyone for help. I’ll be fine. I once struck out Duke Snider, kid. If you think I can’t handle squeezing out a turd the size of a cantalope, you must not know me very well. Don’t act shy when I get back either, kid. I might smell like endangered canned tuna, but I don’t think you should raise an eyebrow at me for it. Yours doesn’t smell like daisies either you know.

I won’t be gone too long kid, I promise. If Baker asks of my whereabouts, I need you to tell him I’ll be back shortly. If he scowls you tell that fucker I quit. Then I’ll be able to at least shit in the friendly confines of my own home.