Did you hear that Paw?
They’re fixin’ to make me a damn bullpen pitcher. And not the closer, neither. They’re talking about making me the long-relief guy.
You know what’s said about a guy who throws the 4th, 5th, 6th, innings? They got no nuts. Now that Harang is gone there won’t be much use for someone in that spot anyways. But if they think I’ll go quietly down to the pen to sit with Burton, Bray and all the other turds down there, they’ve got another thing cummin’.
(skins some jerky off a deer’s ass with a Bowie knife, eats it)
The Homer Bailey Express was born to fuck. And it was born to fuck for a full nine innings. None of this pussy shit of entering in mop-up roll to clean up Mike Leake’s mess and taking in the smell of Dusty’s Goldstar Chilli smellin’ ass for the rest of the night. I’m here to get balls deep, and I can’t do that unless you’re lettin’ me unleash this nasty motherfucker from the first inning on.
You gotta wonder about the mopes that are callin’ the shots at the forefront of this runaway steam engine. When I get to Spring Training in Arizona Imma sit down that Polar Bear lookin’ motherfucker of a pitching coach Bryan Price and Baldy and I’m gonna ask them plain and simple if they wanna fuck this year.
When you’ve got tools for fuckin’, you don’t wait until the time is right to use them. You whip those tools out at that instant and you ride hard all night until the coyotes wake you in the mornin’ from all the howling.
(sharpens boot spurs on a grinding wheel)
Thing is, Homer isn’t always just all about Homer. He’s about the cause. He’s about helpin’ his teammates fuck too. And the best course of action for that to happen is to let me out there from inning number one and let me throw this fastball like it’s the 11th commandment of the good Lord right through the core of that fucking catcher behind the plate.
Bullpens are for guys who don’t know how to ride, guys who don’t know how to be rode. It was created for guys who throw 83 with a good change-up that spot their stuff well. It ain’t for guys that were born to fuck everything in sight and take em’ a few dozen Apache war prisoners out on the open range.
(grabs balls over top of blue jeans for a minute)
Yeah, I’m gonna strike out 300 hitters this season, and when I’m done I’m gonna head to the bar and drink moonshine until I need diapered and helped to shelter like some kind of damn cripple.
(loads six shooter)
You’re tellin’ me that you got the finest weapon of use in a war since Colonel Colt’s revolver, and you want to hide it in the bullpen? You got one of the hardest cocks in the West, and you want to sit him down in the pen for most of the game until he can come in and retire a right handed hitter or two? You got a human cum slingin’ Gatling gun in your infantry and you want to hide it and keep it in the barn until the battle is over?
I wasn’t conceived on the hood of a Chevy so that I could do things like chart pitches and click a pitch counter all night. Leave that for the fellas who are used to jackin’ off and fuckin’ the spot between their mattresses. Guys like Mike Leake. The best part of him ran down the back of his momma’s leg when he was born. He’ll be great for charting your pitches for you. Homer is here to impregnate a whole host of little Kentucky darlins’ and there ain’t no chart to plot that. There’s enough cum to do more then just dot a map, and it’s not gonna be spread equally if I’m throwing 1 or 2 innings an outing.
(shoots out chandelier)
That little bald-headed stooge Jocketty called me a ‘situational righty’ the other day. I got news for him. The only ‘situation’ I’m gonna consistently find myself in this season is with my head buried in the crack of a blond’s ass with a brunette topless and throwing Johnny Cash on my pappy’s record player.
(begins loading buckshot into a muzzle loader)
I’ve been workin’ awfully hard on the farm this off-season, and I’m ready to run wild in 2011 like this world has never seen. I feel something special from deep within my balls–the year 2011 will be the year of The Homer Bailey Express. I’m ready to do a lot of fuckin’. And when I start, there ain’t nothin that will stop me til’ I see nine zeroes hangin’ on that scoreboard and a dubya next to the great name Bailey.
(hits horse with a bull whip, horse runs off)
Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to whip out this Texas wood-pile Copperhead snake out of my britches and let em’ start bitin’ somethin’. You best move before you get some of that venom on you! You hear me Matt Holliday? I’m coming for your ass this year! And boys, there’ll be plenty of time to count our pelts when the fuckin’ is over! The Homer Bailey Express is ready for spring! YeeeeeeHawwwwww!