Sunday, March 6, 2011
Will Rhymes Gets a Surprise Visitor
RHYMES: Think we’ll both make the team this year?
NI: I hope so. But plobabry not. We are both vely tellible.
RHYMES: Haha…you’re a riot. I’m just loving having a chance to prove myself alongside guys like Sizemore, Worth, and Santiago, you know?
NI: If you say so, smarr infierdel man. Some of us go to McDonards and get doubre cheesebulgels. You want to come, Wirr?
RHYMES: Haha…dude, you’re too much. No, I’m gonna take a shower and watch some film of my batting practice today. I’ll see you later.
NI: See you ratel…
RHYMES: Let’s see. Time for a Tweet. “Another great day in Lakeland. Luv this team to death. LOL.” There.
/loud pounding on clubhouse door
RHYMES: Now who could that be? Did Fu forget his wallet again? Or should I say, “warret”. Haha…
/door flies open
RHYMES: Kirk Gibson? Holy crap!
GIBSON: Jesus, boy. I’ve got veins in my dick bigger than you! You’re really trying to make the Tigers? MY TIGERS?
/turns up volume on NASCAR race
RHYMES: Um…aren’t you a Diamondback now?
GIBSON: Aren’t you a bit tiny to have such a big f-cking mouth? Yeah, I work in Arizona, boy. But Gibby’s a Tiger for life. That’s why I’m here. I’ve heard a lot about you lately, kid.
RHYMES: You have? Sweet.
GIBSON: No, dipsh-t, it’s not sweet. It’s terrible. You’re scrappy. You’re gritty. You’re a dirtball. I get it. You’re small and try hard. Like Dave Bergman's cock. Another Eckstein. That’s great. It still doesn’t make up for the fact that you suck a fat baby’s dick when it comes to playing baseball.
RHYMES: Hey, Mr. Gibson…
GIBSON: Shut it. And look at you. Your uniform is all dirty again. Some people like that and think that a dirty uniform somehow means that you try harder than the talented players on the team. Some people are also really f-cking stupid. See, Gibby thinks that all those brown stains all over your britches there come from spending so much time up Jim Leyland’s wrinkled, old ass.
RHYMES: Are you kidding? I work my butt off out there, sir! Like Dustin Pedroia of the Red Sox, I don’t think my size matters at all.
GIBSON: Well, Dustin Pedroia’s pretty good. You, however, are goddamn horrible. And you have bad hair.
RHYMES: Can I go, now?
GIBSON: No. Ya know, looking at you reminds me of a story. Back in ’83, Rozema and I were out at some club in Chicago loaded out of our minds. He bets me $500 that he can drink a liter of Jack in a half hour. So, I buy him a bottle and he chugs it. Haha, Rozey’s wasted and saying to pay up and I tell him, “Look at the bottle, jackass.” It was a bottle of Jim Beam. I told him, “That’s not Jack, you idiot, you pay ME!” Well, Dave doesn’t like that, so he stumbles to the bar, throws down a hundred dollar bill, and starts chugging on a bottle of Jack. I probably should have stopped him, but it was just too damn funny. Well, he finishes that bottle and can’t even speak. He waddles over to this table where there’s a hippie couple chilling out and he drops trough and takes the biggest dump I ever seen right on their table! Anyway, long story short, you look like that dump that Rosey took that day. Except smaller.
RHYMES: Sigh. Mr. Gibson, is there a reason that you’re here being mean to me? Don’t you usually have some sort of message hidden under your gruff speeches that should teach me something?
GIBSON: Yeah. Usually. But today, I just feel like being an asshole. You’re short and bad at baseball.
/scratches testicles and smells hand
RHYMES: Um, I’m gonna go now.
GIBSON: On second thought, wait a second, kid. You remind me of a guy I played with, now that I think about it. He wasn’t the best player on the team. He didn’t hit much. He was okay in the field, but not the slickest. But you know what? He worked his ass off, was a good teammate, and did whatever Sparky asked of him. We all loved him. His name was Tommy Brookens. I think he’s dead now…
RHYMES: Um, he’s our first base coach.
GIBSON: No sh-t? Ha. Do me a favor. Tell Tommy he sucks for Gibby. Okay?
/puts on John Deere hat
GIBSON: Yup. Good talk, kid. Knock ‘em dead. Hey, you ever go hunting?
RHYMES: No, sir.
GIBSON: Well, come on with Uncle Gibby. You look like some good ass bear-bait to me. Tweet that, you little f-ck.
RHYMES: I want to go home.
GIBSON: Haha…yup. That's what Brookens used to say, too.