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THE A-ROD & MADONNA SHOW!!

Get out of the way Tori & Dean, and make way for America's Wackiest Couple:

THE A-ROD & MADONNA SHOW!

This week featuring special guest star JOBA CHAMBERLAIN!

 

Madonna - A-Rod, honey, is that a baseball bat in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?

 

A-Rod - It's a baseball bat.  I want to do some batting practice.  But I can't find my balls.  Have you seen them?

 

Madonna - I'll say!  I was up half the night polishing your balls.  Don't forget, Rabbi Schwartzberg is coming over today to convert you to Judaism.

 

A-Rod - Why do I have to become Jewish?

 

Madonna - Because I only eat kosher meat.

 

[doorbell rings]

 

A-Rod - Someone's at the door now. 

 

Madonna - Why, it's our next-door neighbor, Joba Chamberlain.

 

[audience applause]

 

Joba - Sorry to bother you, but I just happened to be passing by and I smelled food.

 

A-Rod - No problem.  Madonna, will you fix Joba something to eat?

 

Madonna - What would you like, Joba?

 

Joba - I'm not really too hungry.  Could I just have six Big Macs and a dozen donuts?

 

A-Rod - Madonna, have you seen my equipment bag?  I have to return Jason Giambi his gold panties.

 

Madonna - Why don't you get your own gold panties?  Why do you have to borrow Jason's?

 

A-Rod - It's a guy thing.  You wouldn't understand.

 

Madonna - That's what you think!  Anyway, I threw out that stinky old equipment bag.

 

A-Rod - You what?!?!?!!!!

 

Madonna - Don't worry.  I'll buy you a new one.

 

A-Rod - Madonna, you don't understand.  That equipment bag was filled with money.  There was two hundred and seventy-five million dollars in that bag.  George Steinbrenner had to take out a second mortgage on the new stadium to get me that money!

  

 

Madonna - Why didn't you put the money in a bank?

  

 

A-Rod - I was going to, but when I lifted it, I injured my shoulder because the money was so heavy, and   I had to go on the Disabled List.

 

Madonna - Wait, I know!  Maybe they haven't picked up the garbage yet.

 

Joba [talking with food in his mouth] - You're out of luck.  They already picked up the garbage.  I saw them throwing A-Rod's equipment bag in the back of the truck.

 

A-Rod - Oh, no!  I'm broke!

 

Joba - Maybe if we rush over to the garbage dump you can find your bag before it gets covered up too deep in garbage.

 

A-Rod - Good idea!

 

[they all rush out]

 

[A-Rod, Madonna and Joba Chamberlain are at the Great Kills Garbage Dump in Staten Island, where they are standing up to their butts in garbage]

 

  

 

Madonna - Whew, this stinks worse than my last movie!

  

 

Tony the Garbage Man - Wow, this my lucky day!  I'm the luckiest garbage man in New York City!  A-Rod, Madonna and Joba Chamberlain all at my garbage dump!  What are you looking for?

  

 

A-Rod - A gym bag full of money.

  

 

Tony - You mean like this one?

  

 

A-Rod - Hey, that's my bag!  Hey, IT'S EMPTY!  All that's left is a bunch of rat $#!T!

  

 

Tony - The rats must have eaten the money and left you their $#!T for the change.

  

 

A-Rod - Well, we might as well take it along with us.

  

 

Madonna - What are you gonna do with a bag full of rat$#!T?

  

 

A-Rod - Maybe I can take it to Las Vegas and sell it as sports memorabilia.

  

 

Will A-Rod sell the rat$#!T in Las Vegas?  Will his wife, Cynthia, return from Lenny Kravitz' house in Paris and accuse A-Rod of holding her hostage and forcing her to wear the "F*¢& You" t-shirt at Yankee Stadium?  Will Madonna go to the aide of her ex, Keith Hernandez, and smash José Reyes over the head with a dumbbell?  Tune in next week.

THE FINAL ARMAGEDDON BETWEEN GOOD AND EVIL FOUGHT AT FLUSHING MEADOWS! WHO WILL PREVAIL, THE YANKS OR THE METS? READ "THE YANKEES ARMY"

Welcome To My Nightmare

  A couple of weeks ago, after Wang Chien-Ming broke his foot while running around third base in a game against Cincinnati, where the Designated Hitter Rule does not apply, Yanks Baby Boss, Hal Steinbrenner, went ballistic.  "Why doesn't the National League adopt the Designated Hitter Rule and join the 21st century?" he railed.

 

He went on to moan that baseball pitchers have developed into specialized pieces of equipment, and they shouldn't be subjected to such mundane pursuits as batting and running bases.  In this, Yanks manager Joe Girardi, to his everlasting credit in my estimation, brought Steinbrenner up short, rebutting, "Baseball is an athletic sport, and running is part of the sport."

 

Right on!

 

But Steinbrenner is not wrong either.  Baseball seems to be in an evolutionary stage.  If you can alter the evolutionary characteristics of dogs every two years, think what you could be able to accomplish with baseball players:

 

"Yeah, in this cage we got Yankee Joe.  We bred him for long arms for catching fly balls.

 

"And over here we're breeding a thick, muscular guy who is built like a fire plug so he can be a catcher and block home plate.

 

"This guy's biological parents were both Olympic hurdlers.  And this one's were acrobats from the Bejing Opera.  They should be great for jumping out of squeeze plays.

 

"We are gonna field a helluva team."

 

So, Steinbrenner is not wrong to see the Yanks as a bunch of performing robots, like in a Japanese car factory.

 

(The only problem is, all his Asiatic stars seem to be breaking down.  First, Wang.  And now Matsui is on the DL for his knee, before that it was his elbow, and before that his wrist.  Matsui is a great star and a great Yankee, but we can't get the spare parts in stock fast enough to keep him in the production line.)

 

But the evolutionary form of pitchers seems to be evolving into a fat, blubbery dude who can shake like a Jell-o, with skinny little string beans for arms, who can generate a lot of motion with all that fat, and then the little arm shoots around from the centrifugal force and flicks out the ball like the tip of a whip, like Zorro The Spanish Fox!

 

This is evidently the same kind of blubbery earthquake motion that is generated when fatso golfer John Daly swings the golf club.  Just don't stand behind him because, being a gross, disgusting tub of lard, Daly generates a lot of intestinal gas that blows out of his butt when he swings the club, and you stand to get knocked down by a backdraft of stinking methane gas, especially if he was at Hooters before the match, wolfing down shitloads of Buffalo chicken wings and cheese nachos.  Ugh!

 

But you can't expect John Daly to run.  And forget about Roger Clemens, Joba Chamberlain or David Wells.  Cleveland starter C.C. Sabathia doesn't look so slender either.  He must chow down on Dominican garlic mofongo and beans and rice until his butt erupts like an explosion of volcanic gas forming a new island chain off the coast of Hispanola.

 

But anyway, now the Yankees have brought in a new starting pitcher, Sidney Ponson, who exactly fits the aforementioned inflatable fatman profile.  He loves bars, and he's not too much in awe of authority, which is why he got sacked from his last job pitching for the Rangers, even though he was doing a fine job for them with four wins and a .300 ERA.  Evidently, he told management a joke that they didn't think was so funny.  Texans aren't that smart.  Even they admit it.  One time, when I was vacationing in Mexico I had occasion to drink with a group of Texans at the pool bar over the course of several days.  One day, as a joke I congratulated them on Lance Armstrong by joking that Armstrong, who lost a testicle to cancer, had proven that "one Texan ball is worth two French balls anytime."  The Texans just looked at me like I was an escaped lunatic from the moon.  But don't worry about me: that's not the first time that has happened to me.  When the Yankees picked Ponson up, out of desperation , with Wang, Kennedy and Hughes on the DL, they didn't consider how the Texans had reacted to him.  Yankees front office knows what morons Texans are.  They have to deal with Dallas all the time.  Look what a moron Bush is.  When he gets things wrong, he high-fives the joker sitting next to him.  He figures, "That idiotic little knee-slapper will go down great in Houston."

 

Ponson started out real hot in his first appearance with the Yanks, shutting down the Mets with six fine innings of scoreless pitching.  But if you're thinking of coming out to his welcoming ceremony into the rotation, don't wear your judicial robes.  Ponson hates judges.  He hates them so much, in fact, that back in his home, the ancient Caribbean pirate haven of Aruba, he served 11 days in jail for beating up a judge.

 

Eleven days for beating up a judge!  If you beat up a judge in Brooklyn you get eleven freakin years!  If they were handing out 11-day sentences for beating up judges in that fair borough, the line of enthusiastic participants, armed with bats and 2"x4"'s  with protruding spikes would stretch around the courthouse and all the way up Flatbush Avenue to the Metrotech Center.

 

It's probably better that they are handing out longer sentences for assaulting judges.  Look at it this way, with a long sentence, there will probably be time the corrupt, thieving prick who sent you up the river to eventually join you there for a reunion after he himself gets nailed for corruption.

 

Anyway, Ponson at least claims to have an alibi for his whereabouts on the night Natalie Holloway disappeared in Aruba, so keep your cell phones in your pockets.  You can't pin that one on him.

 

But Sidney Ponson probably won't last any longer with the Yanks than he did with the Rangers.  When Jason Giambi tries to get him to put on the Magic Gold Panties that all the Yankees have to wear, Ponson will probably just blow a blast of hot gas out of his butt.

THE FINAL ARMAGEDDON BETWEEN GOOD AND EVIL FOUGHT AT FLUSHING MEADOWS! WHO WILL PREVAIL, THE YANKS OR THE METS? READ "THE YANKEES ARMY"

THE WITCHES OF GLOUCESTER

  Now the story can finally be told about the witches coven in Massachusetts that is having all the babies.  A whole gang of teenage girls in the fishing village of Gloucester went out and got pregnant at the same time.  They signed a written pact to raise their babies together.

 

I say, "Go, Girl!"  The Catholic church has been insisting on Right to Life for a long time, so they must be thrilled.  The only problem is, a 14 year-old girl decides to keep the baby, guess who ends up footing the bill?  Catholic Services ha-ha!

 

Unfortunately, if you live in a depressed hick area, everything you know about life you learn from watching those execrable hick TV stations that they got out there in Flyover Cuntry.  Jerry Springer is king out there, and so are the celebrity shows.  And what does one see on the celebrity show?  Angelina Jolie with her current load of babies.  Britney Spears and her babies.  Anna Nicole Smith's baby.  The Tori and Dean Show on the side of the city bus has got him strapped to a baby while she's got another bun baking in the oven.

 

Babies, babies, babies everywhere you look there's freakin babies!  Where's Alice Cooper and his pitchfork now that we need him?

 

But if you think those girls from Gloucester MA were taken in by this boring load of bollocks, you're dead wrong.  What is Gloucester near?  Foxboro MA, where the Patriots play.  Oh yeah!  What else is it near?  How about Salem MA, which is famous for witches and witchburnings.

 

These girls are part of a diabolical plot by Freako-**** Belichick to use the Forces of Evil to take over football and make it into a sport of zombies.  He figures, if he can make the NFL the entry point for the demons of hell to infiltrate the world so he can hypnotize us into believing that Satan is the Supreme Quarterback, and just like those dummy broads, we will go over to whatever we see on TV.

 

That is why he personally impregnated every single one of those girls at a witches' coven in Salem.  And let me tell you, he must have got a huge load of steroids from Roger Clemens to do this performance, because 14 year-old girls expect to get their spine rolled, and ol' grampa Belichick is not up to that kind of ball delivery.

 

Belichick's plan is to bring these kids up to be the most horrible, nasty football players outside of jail, and he intends to get them so wired on steroids and reefer that they will turn into the worst, most soulless bone-crushing thugs that ever ran a ball.

 

In this he is helped by the witches prayers that they invoked over the bellies of each one of those expectant mothers, meaning that these muthers will be able to FLY!

 

And we'll be sitting there like a bunch of bear-guzzling drunks, saying, "Oh spit, I gotta get with this team!"  As a result, Belichick will get elected president.  And the first thing he'll do when he gets elected is to sign the whole country over to Satan.

 

[No way, Bill, are you going to get me to sell out America for a couple of flying wide receivers.  OK?]

 

Now, the only person in America who can save this country is Senator Arlen Spector of Pennsylvania.  He has already been investigating Bill Belichick.  Spector knows a conspiracy when he sees one.  He's the guy who developed the single-bullet conspiracy after the Kennedy assassination of 1963 (just to show you how long this ancient relic has been around.  He should be in the freakin Smithsonian Institution next to the dinosaur).  This theory held that one bullet passed through nine different guys.  If that ain't amazing enough, he's still got the bullet.

 

This Spector dude is as big of a freak as Belichick.  I can't figure out why he is not in the Batman movies, playing himself.

 

Now, what Spector has to do is shoot Belichick with the Magic Bullet, after fighting him on the roof of a moving subway car.  Then the Hulk can throw him into outer space.  And the world will be saved.

THE FINAL ARMAGEDDON BETWEEN GOOD AND EVIL FOUGHT AT FLUSHING MEADOWS! WHO WILL PREVAIL, THE YANKS OR THE METS? READ "THE YANKEES ARMY"

The Spanish Inquisition

If a tree falls in the forest and nobody is there to hear it fall, does it make a noise?

 

If the Mets assemble the greatest team in baseball, and there is nobody in the news media who speaks Spanish to interview its stars, do they exist?

 

One of the great genius sports writers who covers the Mets recently complained in his column that if he wanted an interview with the team, David Wright and Billy Wagner were the only English-speaking players he could communicate with.

 

Now with all that loot that The Post is raking in, taking kickbacks from the Dolan family and from the big banks and insurance companies to bury Hillary Clinton, you'd think that they could afford to hire a sportswriter who speaks a little Spanish, but ooooooohhhh noooooo! those knuckleheads evidently can't imagine anyone would care what's on the minds of some of New York's star attractions.

 

OK, these players are not Shakespearean actors or nuclear scientists.  The conversation, if there was any, would be about dirty sliders, missed opportunities, batting slumps and all the other sundry, mundane details that compose a ballplayer's universe.

 

But sometimes the great historical wisdom of the ages is expressed in simple, childlike terms, as in the fables of Aesop and Lafontaine, or the histories of Hansl and Gretl and Cinderella, that were transformed into great operas and ballets.  No one ballplayer is font of cultural wisdom (maybe Yogi Berra or Casey Stengel), but all the cumulative wisdom of all those great athletic heroes certainly has as much relevance and impact on human civilization as any hot air emanating from the supposed centers of power and culture.

 

This country is filling up with foreign immigrants at a breathtaking pace, and we welcome them because, actually, our geographical landmass has the capacity to support a much larger population, and in the future a country that has aspirations of greatness, like we do, is going to need an immense population to compete with the other superstates.  Europe is now at 450 million paying customers, not to mention China, India, Brazil, etc.

 

This great wealth of population can be expected to make many great contributions to our culture, but these contributions will be of an exotic variety.  These people will never be real Americans in the sense that we understand it.  That is because they will never understand baseball.

 

Baseball is one of the greatest manifestations of culture that America has endowed upon the world.  It is a game of stealth and deception, wisdom and patience, of grace and suspense and speed, of balletic precision and acrobatic attainment.  Baseball relies upon throwing more than any other game in the world.  Everybody has to be able to throw, not just the quarterback.  No other game places so much emphasis upon throwing.  Americans are rocket people.

 

The rules and terminology of baseball are so arcane and obscure that they have to be learned at a very young age, like French, and the older you get the more the facility slips away from you.  For an adult foreigner to learn to watch baseball (never mind to learn to play it) is an absolute impossibility.  That's how they used to catch **** spies during World War II.  The guy might sound legitimate, but if he didn't know Tinkers to Evers to Chance, lock him up!

 

 I'll tell you the worst - did you ever go to a baseball game with a foreigner?  Talk about misery:

 

"Why do they call it a Texas League single?  Is he from Texas?"

 

"If the batter is allowed to hit as many foul balls as he wants, why did he just strike out?"

 

"Because that was a bunt."

 

"What's a bunt?"

 

The worst experience was when I tried to comfort this foreign guy for something he did wrong.  I said, "Even Babe Ruth used to strike out."  The guy said, "Who's Babe Ruth."

 

Oy vey!

 

So, there is no way you can be a Real American if you don't know baseball, OK?  I hope I established that fact.

 

But in this we are joined by our Latin American cousins, who learned the arcane beauties of the game from us.  Santo Domingo, Cuba, Venezuela, Panama, Mexico have embraced the game with the same depth of emotion that they ordinarily reserve for the Pope or Gloria Trevi.  They bring to the game a base of machismo and athletic prowess that are the perfect complements of our own, and with a glorious passion for sport that is entirely their inspiration.

 

There is not enough band width in cyberspace to enumerate all the great Latin Players who have enriched the game.  Let me just quote you a couple of names: Johann Santana, Pedro Martinez, Carlos Beltran, Carlos Delgado, Jose Reyes.  Reyes is my favorite player.  He is like a sparkplug with a firecracker attached to it.  One game recently he hit two triples and then followed up by almost getting an inside-the-field homerun.  Reyes attacks the game like a starving man plowing through a Big Mac.

 

Spanish people are fiends when it comes to baseball.  You go to a game in the DR, which has had an organized baseball league since 1908, and they have a meringue band in the center field bleachers for between innings.  The fans bring conga drums and flags, and the vendors sell pina coladas.  When a player makes a great play, the place erupts like a bullfight.  That's what I'm talking about, folks, emotion!

 

Take Mets pitcher Orlando Hernandez.  When he winds up and throws that wild kick in the air, he looks like a wild tropical bird on a rock at the beach in Cancun.  What Anglo-Saxon pitcher would adopt such a wild delivery?  The coaches and the other players would browbeat it out of him.  "Forget the kick," they would tell him, "You don't need it."  Look at all the grief they give Joba Chamberlain for the dopey little arm pump that he likes to do when he strikes out a batter.  America does not appreciate irrational exuberance of surfeit expressions of style.  Latin baseball has contributed a wild love of life to the game the same way their soccer has revolutionized that sport.

 

How did Hernandez get that kick?  We don't know, because no sportswriter has enough Spanish to ask him.  Not that the answer would be that illuminating.  "I kick high because it helps me throw harder."  Well, a gold mine rarely consists of a two-ton boulder of gold.  It usually comes from the cumulative weight of zillions of tiny grains of gold, and that's what Mets fans are missing out on.

 

So it's a terrible tragedy that the players can't talk to the fans to give them their point of view about batting and fielding grounders, training tips and injuries, all because the sportswriters are to ignorant to interview 90% of the team.  It's not because they are taciturn.  Spanish people love to talk about baseball.  It's the sportswriters.  Billy Wagner and David Wright are very important players and very intelligent guys, but how is a fan ever going to really have any feeling for the Mets if many of the team's most important stars are ignored by the press?

THE FINAL ARMAGEDDON BETWEEN GOOD AND EVIL FOUGHT AT FLUSHING MEADOWS! WHO WILL PREVAIL, THE YANKS OR THE METS? READ "THE YANKEES ARMY"

Cry Me A River

 What man alive

Will yet survive

To tell the glorious tale

Of New York City baseball

[hack hack cough cough puke puke - not me!]

 

Willie Randolph died for your sins.  He didn't die yet, but he will soon.  This is the story of the captain who went down without the ship.

 

Actually, the Mets have got a better team than the Yanks, who are really stale.  Jose Reyes is the most exciting player in baseball.  David Wright, Ryan Church, Johann Santana, Beltran, Delgado, etc.  Wright hits the long ball as far as A-Rod, and he doesn't even to wear a pair of ladies' panties to help him!