Friday, May 25, 2007

Right Arm and Dangerous

Whattup, playas? The Truth truck is right on time today. Y'all playas are all getting two scoops with sprinkles. Cup or cone? It don't matter. In fact, be core, just take the scoops right in your hands.

Check it: I got some pressing mailbag sauce from my boy Paul in Boston, and even though he's probably a Sux fan, we're going to take this bull by the horns and powerslam it through a Truth table.

Dear C-Piddy,

Today on Espn, I heard you were headed for reconstructive elbow surgery and that all that the Yankee's $40 went to was only 5 wins. One reporter went as far as saying that you "would be picking up your check with a ski mask and a gun." Feelings on the subject ?

- Paul, Boston

Right off the bat: no ESPN analyst is core enough to talk shit on this beast. Except for Gammons. One time when I was still in the Boston system, I saw some guy talk shit to Gammons. Gammons reached into the dude's chest, pulled his heart out and held it over his head. Actually, it might be Kano from the original Mortal Kombat that I'm thinking of. Either way, it was fucking core.

Baller, please. A ski mask? I have the most famous right arm in the world; that's what I'd need to be disguising, but that ain't even the point, pimps.

Playa, C. Piddy don't need a gun if he wants to rob a sucka. My guns are attached to my shoulders, and they terrify ballers and jabrones alike. Hell, I can't buy shit in convenience stores anymore. I'll walk up to the register to pay, and the dude running it will be so intimidated by the Man-Hulk-Beast coming at him, he'll just throw all the money from the register at me and say he doesn't want any trouble. All C. Piddy wanted was a Gatorade, playa! I did take his money and used it to buy a fucking boss ass Sega CD at a flea market. Bill Walsh College Football, here C. Piddy comes.


P.S. They should make Gatorade gel that is just pure raw energy. It should come in a 64-ounce steel sphere that you have to open by punching it with the same force as dropping it from a 2,000-foot cliff.

Thursday, May 24, 2007

Don't Call it a Comeback

Whattup, playas? Y'all may have heard about my heinous-sauce injury news, but there's one thing that never has to go in for ligament replacement surgery: the Truth.

The Truth is so fucking jacked that it can grow ulnar collateral ligaments for days like it ain't even shit. So open up your brain piece and let this phat plane of Truth land in your mental hanger. Tray tables and seatbacks in the upright and locked position, thugs. We're about to take off. Or land or some shit.

Right off the bat: the media in New York is probably wondering if they're going to have to call today "Black Thursday" for the rest of their lives. Y'all playas can see why they're upset: the beloved Yankees are losing the best pitcher in the AL East for a calendar year. He's got to go in for a nice frosty mug of Tommy John sauce.

Should the team fold? Forfeit the rest of their games this season so they can sit in a corner and wail over this insurmountable loss? Nah, not even close. Why not? Allow me to quote General Douglas MacArthur: I'm gonna get my return on, motherfuckers.

Check it: My doctor, my boy Jimbo Andrews, says it's going to take my 12-18 months to recover. Now, he's the leading orthopedic surgeon in the world, and he's undoubtedly the biggest expert in his field, but he's full of shit. 12-18 months? Playa, C. Piddy will be back on the mound in 12-18 minutes. As a matter of fact, don't even put C. Piddy under for the surgery; I want to do some curls with my left arm during the procedure. I don't wanna lose one day from my workout regime. You've got a sterile 100-pound dumbbell, right?

Oh, and another thing. My flesh is so core that a normal scalpel won't cut into it. It's like trying to chip into rock. Either buy yourself a laser or a phat diamond-edged scalpel. You know C. Piddy's gotta get his bling on even when he's under the knife.

Playas, I know y'all wanna send C. Piddy a boss-ass get well card and a stripper with huge fake cans to make him feel better. No need. The Core Warrior inside me isn't even sick, and I'm never going to go on the DL of life. At this moment, C. Piddy could win a triathlon and then strangle an Ox in between my thighs. There's nothing here that needs fixing.

Check it: Fact. Most guys come back from Tommy John throwing HARDER. I'm not even sure that's physically possible in my case, but that means my fastball will be 160 mph and my changeup will dip down to around 135 mph. If anyone gets a bat on the ball (un-fucking-likely), it will just vaporize into a cloud of wood dust. Hall of Fame, get ready to open your doors.

C. Piddy will be back.

The AL East will pay.


P.S. I've been practicing playing Genesis with just one arm and a leg. So far I've beaten Buster Douglas Boxing and taken my Arch Rival team to the playoffs. Even with one arm I can avoid that banana peel to nail that tray, boyeee!

Tuesday, May 22, 2007

Alpha Mail

Whattup, playas? C. Piddy is doing all y'all a favor by handing out the truth for free on this blog beast, but sometimes one of you pimps has a more specific question. You want a personalized shot of truth sauce? Here it is. C. Piddy gets literally dozens of pieces of mail each week. Well, a dozen. More like a half-dozen. Actually, it's usually around five. Whatevs, let's get it on like Donkey Kong!

C. Piddy, what's the most core thing you can think of?
-Alex, Connecticut

Probably an elephant superplexing a hippo into an alligator's mouth. Who's hungry hungry now, motherfucker? Then the alligator eats a grenade and walks towards a wedding. Honorable mention: The time I beat Aladdin on Genesis with only three continues.

C. Piddy, why are you always buying new iPods? Why don't you just recharge the old ones?
-Young Hov, The B.K.

Pimps don't recharge; they reload.

Carl, it's your mother. We haven't heard from you in a couple of months, and we wanted to make sure you're okay. Please call soon. We miss your voice.
-Mom, New Britain, Conneticut

Carl? Does anyone see a Carl answering emails? I see a C. Piddy. Dumb bitch. NEXT!

Hey, C. Piddy. I think you are the greatest athlete of all time. Like if Michael Jordan and Jesus had a baby it wouldn't be as core as you. You could dunk on it, and the baby would just have to say, "Darn, that C. Piddy is straight boss." How are you so much better than Dice Gay?
-Reid, New York

Look, Reid. You may be my nephew, and you may be eleven, but this is absolute shit. I specifically told you to make fun of Dice Gay's "gayroball" in the letter. Did you put that in there anywhere? No, you didn't. You let Uncle C. Piddy down. I know I said I'd take you to Dairy Queen if you wrote an email, but I can't reward this kind of shit. Sorry, Reid. It's for your own good. No wonder your dog ran away; you're a fucking embarrassment. Tell my sister I'll call her back when I fucking feel like it, Charlene. I got mad shit to do.

C. Piddy, you are so HoTT!!! What qualities do you look for in a woman?
-Sexy, Virginia

In order - Tits. Face. Personality. Ass. Will let you and your boys train ride up in that. Sense of humor.

Carl, it's your mother again. You forgot your father's birthday, and he's been kind of sick lately. It would really make him feel better if you'd give him a call. Please. We love you.
-Mom, New Britain, Connecticut

Jesus Christ. You see the shit I go through? There's no "Carl" here, and this dumb cooze sends me like seven of these emails a day. Anybody know how to set up one of them spam filters?

C. Piddy, I want to make the major leagues some day, and I know you have a jacked-ass body. Do you have a special diet?
-Julio, Texas

Straight-up: we're pretty full up here. Quit wasting your time, "Julio," if that is your real name. But I'll give you my diet just so it's not C. Piddy's fault when you fail. It's called the "Ultra-Sauce Diet," and it's a C. Piddy special invention. Basically, if it ain't sauce, it doesn't go in your body. For breakfast, I have a nice cool glass of Hollandaise. For lunch, I usually slurp from the fat jug of barbecue sauce I carry with me at all times. Dinner, I go to Mickey D's, order 15 Big Macs and lick the secret sauce off of them. Eating the patties is peasant shit; hustlas throw 'em away. Playa, if you can't have phat lats after that, you need to kill yourself.

C. Piddy, what do you think of Barry Bonds breaking the home run record?
-Evelyn, San Diego

Check it: I think Barry's thankful C. Piddy went to pitch in the AL where he doesn't get to bat. C. Piddy had wondered the same thing, so I paid a scientist to calculate how many jacks I'd have if I stayed in the NL, and he spent two years running experiments in a lab. He came back with this answer, "Around a thousand or so. Two K, max." If that's all you get for a three-million-dollar private research grant, C. Piddy says it's money well spent.

C. Piddy, I'm a little... unathletic. I go to high school in a very competitive environment. Most of the kids here would even go as far to tell me that I'm a "nerd." I tell them that many athletes were nerds at one time. And that they shouldn't desrespect me because I'm weak or that I wear glasses. Am I right or not? Tell these bullies who's boss!
- Lance, Royal Ridge, Co

I'll tell you who's boss: C. Piddy. Don't even write me again, you fucking pussy; I can smell your nerdbreath from here. Unathletic athletes? Are you fucking kidding me!? Right off the bat: 9th grade, I was 6'2" 230 and I was putting up 300 in the gym. Just movin' plates like a fucking waiter. Here's what books are good for: ripping to show how jacked you are. My term paper in senior English was just me shredding a copy of the Brothers Karamazov with my bare hands and teeth. Hardback, playas. Sure I got a D+, but now I'm a millionaire 40 times over, and that's better than any novel you could ever tear. (Except Of Mice and Men. Damn, that shit makes me cry, playas.)

That's enough truth for one mailbag, playas. If C. Piddy didn't get to your shit, holler at, and maybe your gaping truth-hole will get filled the next time C. Piddy fires up the griddle. But don't cry like a bitch if your nose starts bleeding after you hit "Send." The truth hurts, playas.


Monday, May 21, 2007


Whattup, playas? C. Piddy's here to take his massive guns to a pinata of ignorance and spill some sweet truth candy over all y'all. Y'all enjoy that candy rain? Truth tastes like a Zagnut, playas. Feel that in your molar-piece? Those are truth cavities, playas. Goddamn, it hurts so good.

Right off the bat: C. Piddy knows what y'all playas want to hear. There's been big news lately, and this blog beast hasn't taken a stance yet. C. Piddy's a master of dramatic tension, but it's time to bust an opinion on your faces: Michael Vick is a political prisoner. How's everybody going to get down on him for having some little dogfights? Hell, if anything, they should be be mad at his dogs for being such pussies.

Point blank: his dogs are weak-sauce, playas. I'll tell you who won the time I went to Mike Vick's dogfights: C. Piddy. Playas, I ain't yet met the dog who can survived being powerbombed off a ladder. Same with a DDT into a steel folding chair. God, I get so amped just thinking about how fucking core it was to have those sharp slobbering fangs come at me and completely fight them off. Y'all playas should see me right now; I'm so fucking juiced that I'm breathing smoke. My jaw is straight numb. Brb, going to go see how far I can punt the neighbor's poodle. Straight spiral, playas.

Okay, cool, I'm back. They weren't home, but no bigs. (btw, 91 yards. And that's WITH an unfriendly bounce. Net, playas, not gross.)

Batter up: nice game tonight, Sux. If you can't tell, C. Piddy's sipping on the sarcasm sauce. Now your division lead's back down to single digits. You hear footsteps yet? Nice start this weekend by Dice Gay, though. Way to be a pussy and beat up on a National League team. Some of us are over that shit, Dice Gay. Y'all playas remember what happened the last time C. Piddy pitched in the NL? Oh, I don't know: sixth in the Cy Young voting. Nothing left to prove there, playas. Domination-sauce leaves a stain you can't wash out, not even if you use Stain Stick AND Chlorox. Trust me, playas. C. Piddy's tried.

Straight ballin': My man Giambi is right to speak out, and the media-piece needs to shut its truth vacuums. Steroids didn't turn him into the giant, bloody ox that is sitting in the corner of the clubhouse ripping through the Manhattan phone book before each game. Steroids didn't make him so fucking jacked that I once saw him rip the door off a cab and eat half of it before he realized it wasn't food. His fundamentally fucking boss body made him do that, and just because he foams at the mouth most of the time, it don't mean nothing. Jealousy's a sad thing, media types, and it's showing. Y'all wish y'all could be that core. My man is so phat he doesn't take showers, he just squeezes moisture out of every pore in his body to clean himself up. Like a cheetah (I think).

Straight-up: C. Piddy's working on some leads for a new elbow ligament. I told my nephew Reid I'd buy him like eight packs of Pokemon cards if he'd give me his, but his mom said no deal. I thought she was playing hardball and upped the offer to twelve packs, but no dice. Jesus, the kid's eleven; he could probably regrow the ligament during puberty or some shit. Whatevs, a hustla's gotta make a way out of "No way." If I'm not pitching back to back to back perfect games by August I can kiss that Cy Young goodbye. 81 up, 81 down, playas. You know how we do.


PS - Can you imagine Borat (that retard I was telling all yall about earlier) playing NBA JAM? Dumbass probably doesn't even know the code to get Air Dog. HIGH FIYEEEV.

P.P.S. Does anyone know what the "i" in iPod stands for? That shit's keeping me up nights, playas.

Thursday, May 17, 2007

Odyssey of the Pimp

Whattup, playas? It's been a week since I cracked open my mind-coconut and poured the sweet truth juice into your gulping throats, but y'all playas know that C. Piddy is like a case of the herp: as soon as you think he's gone, he comes back. I'M RICK JAMES, BITCH!!! (Y'all playas ever seen Chapelle's Show?)

So where has C. Piddy been? An easier question is, "Where HASN'T C. Piddy been?" And I'll give it to you straight. No bullshit, no gimmicks. I haven't been in civilization. I've been answering the call of the wild and running free like some sort of boss-ass antelope that also has grizzly bear teeth and claws. I've been in the wilderness, son.

Check it: things started to get a little too real last week. Every doctor who looked at my elbow-piece was telling me I needed some Tommy John sauce all slathered on it. They were literally begging me to get the surgery that day. They'd get down on their knees and say, "C. Piddy, you're the greatest living can't take any risks with that arm of yours, even if you are the biggest fucking hustla in the game today." Whatevs, C. Piddy was going to find a way around it.

My first idea was to get a werewolf tendon put in my elbow. How boss would that be? I'd be unkillable, could throw two-hundred miles an hour, and could get my fur on every full moon. So. Fucking. Core. Doc says the waiting list for werewolf tendons is like two years, though, and time is money, playas.

C. Piddy needed another way to free the beast within. I packed my suitcase full of leaves and shit and took off for the wilderness. You know how we do, playas: straight-up Central Park. If modern medicine wasn't going to cure my shit, I was going to get back to nature. Y'all don't even know what C. Piddy looks like in a loincloth, but let's just say sexy is officially BACK.

So that's where I've been. Ten days of nothing but eating berries and hot dogs, running with the wolves, and throwing the occasional shutout in a beer-league softball game. It was straight caveman-style. I slept under the stars, bathed in a stream, and took a fat dump to mark my territory.

I only broke three times and hit up a deli for some sandwiches. But other than that C. Piddy was true to the earth.

I learned so much about myself, playas, you had no idea. Like, did you know King of Queens is in my top ten shows of all time? Honestly I thought it was like number eighteen, max, until some fox told me so in a vision. Fucking trippy.

Some other shit I learned about myself: I hate camping, I can benchpress a bum, and pissing in public is illegal.

C. Piddy is back. C. Piddy is ready to return to the mound. I'm gonna drop my comeback-piece on y'all playas soon. Just wait. Mentally, I'm already back in Cy-Young-caliber form. I just gotta find a doc who will give me the green light that my brain-piece has already given me.

If not, shit, any of y'all playas got some extra ligaments? I'll trade you like three Genesis games. (Not Madden '96 or X-Men. I fucking love those two.)


P.S. Straight-up: how are we dropping games to the White Sox? I ain't been in a game in a while, but if your closer can eat the entire opposing team, do you automatically win? Because if so, maybe I can transition to the bullpen. I will fucking devour the Orioles and still have room left for most of the D-Rays. I bet you Delmon Young tastes like chicken.

Tuesday, May 8, 2007

Throw Dem 'boes

Whattup, playas? Crazy couple of days since I shot my firehose of reality all over the flames engulfing your minds, but C. Piddy is back in your brain. Feel me squishing around on your gray matter? Is the truth seeping into your subconscious? It's nice up here in your skull. You've got a little tumor sauce, but it looks benign. No bigs. C. Piddy can remove that ASAP after he wraps up this post.

Right off the bat: we need to rap on the big Yankees news. It's got the media all excited, and fans are literally weeping with delight. That's right, playas: I'm going to see Dr. Lewis Yocum to get a fourth opinion on this elbow-piece.

Y'all playas know it; suckers get one opinion, ballers maybe get a second opinion, but straight pimps get a fourth opinion! Booya!

Four opinions? You know it, son. Shit, I ain't about to rush in on anything, and my health insurance has a mad-low copay. True playas only make decisions after 19 opinions, and I'll keep going until I find a doctor who say my swag is tight. Y'all playas know Dr. Nick from the Simpsons? Is he based on a real doctor or some shit? If so, send me his digits. I'm gonna be up to my neck in opinions like 50 Cent, boyeeeee.

Check it: even if the elbow is a broke-beast, C. Piddy can play through the Tommy John surgery. Hell, I could probably play through the actual surgical procedure: just roll a gurney out to the mound and work on me between pitches. Just change the uni to a linen gown for the day; when you've only got one pitcher who's undefeated since 2005, you gotta use him whenever you can.

What? You want to know how I'll hold runners if one gets on first? Playa, have you even WATCHED me pitch? Nobody gets on first. Not even an issue. Alright, fine, you don't want to lose your medical license by performing surgery in a baseball stadium. After the surgery, I can still be the most core fucking center fielder ever to win two Gold Gloves in a single season, play third once A-Rod cools off, and teach Derek Jeter how to play D at short. Yeah, C. Piddy's going to be all up in that pennant race.

Shit, something else I was supposed to spit on y'all playas, I just can't remember it. Oh, right: we signed Roger Clemens this weekend. God, I'm so fucking amped, even if he is from Texas.

Y'all playas think C. Piddy is core? I once saw the Rocket eat a bellboy at the Ritz in San Diego in one fucking gulp. Roger tilted his head back, keeping the base of his skull parallel with the floor, lifted the bellboy up, and swallowed him whole. It was absolutely core. I asked him why, and he just burped up the guy's femur and said, "Felt hungry." That's pimp shit, y'all.

I got no idea why Cashman thinks we need another starter, though. Once C. Piddy comes through this injury, we'll already have the best rotation ever assembled, and $28 million, even if it is slathered in prorated sauce, seems like a lot to pay a long reliever. Whatevs, I ain't mad at ya, Roger: when we go to the Lob or straight-up get our Olive Garden on, you're paying. A little extra Snickers pie? Don't mind if C. Piddy does!

Alright, playas, I gotta get another seven or eight opinions today, and I gotta buy some more AA batteries for my Game Gear. These doctors' waiting rooms almost never have decent arcade games, just a bunch of copies of People and Newsweek. They nearly never update their Highlights magazines, playas. Piddy already spotted the differences and found the paintbrush in that drawing. Though Goofus is straight boss. Whatevs, I've got some phat Sonic and Knuckles lined up for this afternoon.


P.S. Did y'all playas see the Kentucky Derby? What about the big fight? Am I the only one who wants to see Street Sense take on Floyd Mayweather for the championship of the fucking mega-verse?

Saturday, May 5, 2007

Hey, De La Hoya, Mayweather. I Got Winner.

Whattup playas? Happy Cinco de Trutho. Enjoy some of these Trutho-coladas, and a seven layer burrito with Beans, Cheese, Beef, Whatever Carne is, Guacamole, Salsa and REALITY-sauce.

The last twenty-four hours have redefined "heinous-sauce." That's right: it's not just horseradish mixed with mustard anymore.

First, we got our asses handed to us last night by the Mariners. Don't adjust your eyeballs: you read that right. Kei Igawa pitched like a sucka, and we dropped one to the worst team in the AL West. At one point when Kei was pitching, I saw a shitty Japanese pitcher getting shelled, and I wondered if Dice Gay had snuck into the clubhouse, stolen Kei's uniform, and taken the mound himself, like some Scooby Doo shit or something. After a few minutes of pulling on his face, I realized it really was my boy Kei. So, Kei, if your translator is reading this, sorry about the scratches, playa; you're still nowhere near the worst Japanese pitcher in the AL East.

Whatever, no big deal, I'm used to teams losing when I'm not in the lineup. It's like when my boys have cockfights at home, the chicken whose head we slice off before fight time always loses. Fuck I miss those c-fights. So core.

What really pissed me off is that quack-ass doctor Jimmy Andrews telling me I may need surgery. First of all, C. Piddy doesn't go under the knife. Period. If you need to get in there, I'll tear open my fuckin skin-piece and you can do your shit sans-anesthesia, I don't care. I almost performed Tommy John surgery on myself a couple years ago with my teeth and a diagram I found on wikipedia. Secondly, I'm afraid of needles.

To make matters worse, My boy Cashman had this to say to reporters yesterday: "It clearly hasn't worked out. There's no doubt about that. We signed a player that we expected to be a horse in our rotation and it hasn't worked out."

Cashman, you look like a zombie, but did somebody eat your brain?

You think I'm not a horse!? Shit, I eat more hay than any other fuckin' player in our club house. Bar none. Secondly, I got branded in high school by my boy Garrett. Thirdly in seventh grade I once ran a mile in 1:56 flat. Beat the next kid by like... 500 furlongs. So don't tell me I'm not a horse. Saddle me UP muthafuckas

I'm undefeated this year (1-0) and I haven't lost a game since 2005. I mean, I've heard of unrealistic expectations but I don't know what he wants from me at this point.

I want to clean up this mess, so Cashman, here's the C. Piddy Guarantee. Surgery or not, take me off the DL and I will have a lower ERA than Kei Igawa. F'real, just put the ball on the mound for me. I'll throw it lefthanded, kick it towards the plate, carry it up and past the batter in my hat, it don't matter. There are no rules that state you have to throw the ball.

You want a horse? You're better off by actually purchasing one and starting him over Igawa. Just wedge that ball in between his cloven hoof, put some peanut butter in his mouth and watch him hurl it. I saw a special on Mr. Ed. That shit works.

Cashman, you signed this awful pitcher, and I can clean up your mess. Help C. Piddy help you.


ps - I saw this phat ass movie on Spectravision playa's. So. fucking. funny. It's called Borat or something and its about this Homo that walks around interviewing people, but get this: He talks like a retard. I was DYING. I keep doing impersonations of him in the lockerroom but I guess the other Yanks don't really get out much, cuz they aren't liking it one bit. I'm all "Hey Derek... HIYEE FIEYYYEEEEV!" Hahhahaha I can't stop laughing.

pps - YOU CAN DO IT!!!! God I love Rob Schneider, where is his Oscar?