Home / Homer Bailey / I’m here to drink beer and rack ass; and we’re about fresh out of beer

I’m here to drink beer and rack ass; and we’re about fresh out of beer

By on February 19, 2010
Hey Paw, did you hear that shit?

That little bald-headed fucker Jocketty wants me in camp, ASAP. Let me respond to this e-mail back to him real quick.

(opens e-mail, hits reply)
(begins typing)

Baldy:

FAH-Q

Bailey.

I’ll report to camp when I want to report to camp. I was the best pitcher in the game the last six weeks of last season.

One thing is for sure, at least that silky-haired lump of shit Dick Pole won’t be back. I don’t know what was worse with that guy; him teaching the fundamentals of pitching, or the stench of the shits he took that stunk up the clubhouse all fuckin’ day.

Besides, they’re all concerned with teaching me the fundamentals of pitching. I’m more concerned with the fundamentals of fuckin’.

One thing about camp this year, is it’s in Arizona. Do you know what there is a lot of in Arizona? Cactus. And seniorita pussy.
There’s 43 days until I’m on the mound in Cincinnati to make us 1-0 to start the season. That means if you count the flight time……

(begins adding in head)

…… carry the 1

Fuck it. I’m gon’ fuck me about 138 senioritas before I head back to Cincinnati to all those brush-hog lookin’ women. And maybe a redhead.

That’s what Spring Training is all about. Budweiser, and eatin’ hot seniorita jalapeno asshole. My fastball is ready. All I need is the Bailey Express, and a jug of moonshine, and we’re gonna fuck all day come April, paw.

I’m thinking 25-0 this season. Naw, fuck it. That new fuck-nose Bryan Price will definitely fuck one up. So we’ll say 24-1. But at least that toad head Weathers is out of here. That guy not only couldn’t pitch, but he’d scare all the pretty bunnies out of Homer’s back yard! And when Homer’s huntin’ bunnies, you best keep that lip tied up and don’t make a sound until I got about a half dozen of them crawling on me!

I’m gonna fuck every hitter in baseball this season at least once, and every hitter in the National League is gettin’ fucked twice! They ain’t gonna know what hit em’. Fastballs, Curveballs, Cumballs. It’s Homer’s time.

And when I’m finished, I’m gonna slide into a pair of fishing wader boots wearing nothing else; and I’m gonna find me a momma down at some little hole in the wall tavern and turn her clock back about two decades.

Yee-hawww mother fuckers! Spring has arrived!
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