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.
PEACEFROGS!
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.
Friday, May 25, 2007
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.
PEACE-CORE!
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!
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.
PEACE-CORE!
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 Reallycarlpavano@gmail.com, 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.
LEANINGTOWEROFPEACE!
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 Reallycarlpavano@gmail.com, 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.
LEANINGTOWEROFPEACE!
Monday, May 21, 2007
WOOF WOOF, MOTHERFUCKERS.
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.
CHICKPEACE
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.
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.
CHICKPEACE
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 pitcher...you 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.)
DETROITPEACETONS!
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.
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 pitcher...you 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.)
DETROITPEACETONS!
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.
UCANFINDMEINDAPEACE!
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?
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.
UCANFINDMEINDAPEACE!
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.
RECESSPEACES!
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?
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.
RECESSPEACES!
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?
Friday, May 4, 2007
Roll Tide, Playas
Whattup, playas? Get out your straws; it's time to slurp down another truth smoothie. Mmmm...y'all like that? It's because C. Piddy uses raspberry sorbet instead of ice. It's a little more expensive, but when you make ten million Washingtons a year, what's a little sorbet among pimps? In a pinch use sherbet playas. Ain't nuthin nice.
By now you've probably heard the heinous news: I've had another setback in my road back to my Cy Young form. I had a totally fucking boss bullpen session a few days back, and I was straight smoking them on Wednesday. F'real, I was so fucking amped that I had broken three bullpen catchers' hands when they tried to catch my heat. Don't laugh; a 145 mph fastball would hurt y'all playas, too.
Some of the Texas players looked into the pen while I was throwing, and you could smell the fear sauce dripping from their chins. Somebody told me later that Ian Kinsler pissed his pants. I was fucking ON, son!
Then my forearm just caught fire. Seriously, there was smoke all about my jersey-piece, coming out of my collar and shit. Playas, I've felt real pain, and this shit was real. Real real. I looked around to see if someone from the Rangers had popped me with his gat (Don't let his looks fool you: Michael Young will straight put a cap in a playa's ass.) Turns out it's some tendon shit or something, which never would have happened if the Yankees had agreed to pay for me to get a metal skeleton Wolverine-style, but I ain't mad at 'em.
So now I had to go to Alabama to see Dr. James Andrews. Y'all know this playa Jimbo? Homeboy fixes up everybody's broken shit, but he's kickin' it in the deep South. Alabama? C. Piddy likes to keep his shit cosmopolitan, but whatevs...I still got a shot at this year's ERA title if I get back fast enough. So now I'm in Birmingham, and playas, let me tell you: this place is wack and bozak.
So check it: yesterday I decided to do some sight-seeing out in the country. I went up to this farm, hoping I could drop some C. Piddy sauce on the farmer's daughter. Turns out she was a fuggle, but the farmer had this enormous fucking bull. Looked like he was made of steel and muscle and awesomeness. Must have weighed a ton. So core. The farmer said he was the meanest, toughest bull to ever walk the earth. I said we'd see about that as I jumped into the pen, and started wrestling it.
A normal man would have been killed, so how do you think it ended for your favorite core warrior?
Damn right: I chokeslammed that bull through a table. Didn't even have to take off either of the iPods I was listening to. I was about to drop an elbow on his weak-ass bull throat, but the farmer stopped me and said I'd proven my point. I thought I heard the Bull ask for best two outta three as I walked away but whatevs, I ripped the horns off to make earrings for my girl Gia. Baby, if you're reading, you gotta get a dress to wear with these. And do NOT use my fucking Amex again.
So I'm liking it down South. Y'all check it that we won two games yesterday? How many did the Sux win? Just one? And no thanks to Dice Gay, either. Maybe May is Shitty Start Month in China, Dice Gay, but don't worry, lots of great starters give up seven earned runs in five innings in America. Sure, they do it in Double A, but I guess the Sux are that desperate for pitching. Things would be might different if they hadn't traded C. Piddy for Pedro Martinez so long ago. They're still kicking themselves in their weak asses over that one. Fucking highway robbery, son!
PEACESAUCE
P.S. F'real, Dice Gay...giving up a double to Jose Guillen? Kill yourself.
By now you've probably heard the heinous news: I've had another setback in my road back to my Cy Young form. I had a totally fucking boss bullpen session a few days back, and I was straight smoking them on Wednesday. F'real, I was so fucking amped that I had broken three bullpen catchers' hands when they tried to catch my heat. Don't laugh; a 145 mph fastball would hurt y'all playas, too.
Some of the Texas players looked into the pen while I was throwing, and you could smell the fear sauce dripping from their chins. Somebody told me later that Ian Kinsler pissed his pants. I was fucking ON, son!
Then my forearm just caught fire. Seriously, there was smoke all about my jersey-piece, coming out of my collar and shit. Playas, I've felt real pain, and this shit was real. Real real. I looked around to see if someone from the Rangers had popped me with his gat (Don't let his looks fool you: Michael Young will straight put a cap in a playa's ass.) Turns out it's some tendon shit or something, which never would have happened if the Yankees had agreed to pay for me to get a metal skeleton Wolverine-style, but I ain't mad at 'em.
So now I had to go to Alabama to see Dr. James Andrews. Y'all know this playa Jimbo? Homeboy fixes up everybody's broken shit, but he's kickin' it in the deep South. Alabama? C. Piddy likes to keep his shit cosmopolitan, but whatevs...I still got a shot at this year's ERA title if I get back fast enough. So now I'm in Birmingham, and playas, let me tell you: this place is wack and bozak.
So check it: yesterday I decided to do some sight-seeing out in the country. I went up to this farm, hoping I could drop some C. Piddy sauce on the farmer's daughter. Turns out she was a fuggle, but the farmer had this enormous fucking bull. Looked like he was made of steel and muscle and awesomeness. Must have weighed a ton. So core. The farmer said he was the meanest, toughest bull to ever walk the earth. I said we'd see about that as I jumped into the pen, and started wrestling it.
A normal man would have been killed, so how do you think it ended for your favorite core warrior?
Damn right: I chokeslammed that bull through a table. Didn't even have to take off either of the iPods I was listening to. I was about to drop an elbow on his weak-ass bull throat, but the farmer stopped me and said I'd proven my point. I thought I heard the Bull ask for best two outta three as I walked away but whatevs, I ripped the horns off to make earrings for my girl Gia. Baby, if you're reading, you gotta get a dress to wear with these. And do NOT use my fucking Amex again.
So I'm liking it down South. Y'all check it that we won two games yesterday? How many did the Sux win? Just one? And no thanks to Dice Gay, either. Maybe May is Shitty Start Month in China, Dice Gay, but don't worry, lots of great starters give up seven earned runs in five innings in America. Sure, they do it in Double A, but I guess the Sux are that desperate for pitching. Things would be might different if they hadn't traded C. Piddy for Pedro Martinez so long ago. They're still kicking themselves in their weak asses over that one. Fucking highway robbery, son!
PEACESAUCE
P.S. F'real, Dice Gay...giving up a double to Jose Guillen? Kill yourself.
Wednesday, May 2, 2007
Make It Rain! WOOF WOOF!
T-Storms in Texas postponed the game tonight. Weather may delay baseball games but it sure as hell doesn't slow down playas like yours truly.
God, thunderstorms are so fucking core. What you playas don't understand is that I get energy from the rain and the thunder, and the lightning. It feeds my inner beast. The minute I heard that thunder, you shoulda seen me, I took a bat and I just ran onto the field yelling until my larynx was bruised.
My teammates were loving it, demanding I come back into the lockerroom and shit, but C. Piddy is an entertainer. I sprinted to the outfield, still screaming, and playas, believe me when I tell you what I did next. I climbed that foul post to the top. Pure energy.
Next thing I knew I was on the field under the tarp. Haha, such a blast.
Oh, I had some sweet Texas BBQ today too. You know how we do it: Two racks of baby backs! WOOF WOOF Playas.
Playa Tip #41: Leave the meat, pimps. Just eat the bones. Straight-up marrow-sauce style. Finger lickin' dry!
You shoulda seen the look on that waitress' face when she carried my plate away filled with rib meat in an 8 inch thick pile. Bones missing. She acted disgusted, but inside, she knew I was total boss. Either way, no tip for her.
Aight, my Smirnoff Ice is on tonight...time to get glacial, playas!
INDIANAPEACERS!
ps - My iPod ran out of batts again. They get smaller and smaller and they die faster and faster. No big deal, there's an Apple store near our hotel so I grabbed a fistfull of mini's on my way out and told them to bill me. That makes an even 200 for me. What do you playas do with all your dead iPods? Phat ass art project?
God, thunderstorms are so fucking core. What you playas don't understand is that I get energy from the rain and the thunder, and the lightning. It feeds my inner beast. The minute I heard that thunder, you shoulda seen me, I took a bat and I just ran onto the field yelling until my larynx was bruised.
My teammates were loving it, demanding I come back into the lockerroom and shit, but C. Piddy is an entertainer. I sprinted to the outfield, still screaming, and playas, believe me when I tell you what I did next. I climbed that foul post to the top. Pure energy.
Next thing I knew I was on the field under the tarp. Haha, such a blast.
Oh, I had some sweet Texas BBQ today too. You know how we do it: Two racks of baby backs! WOOF WOOF Playas.
Playa Tip #41: Leave the meat, pimps. Just eat the bones. Straight-up marrow-sauce style. Finger lickin' dry!
You shoulda seen the look on that waitress' face when she carried my plate away filled with rib meat in an 8 inch thick pile. Bones missing. She acted disgusted, but inside, she knew I was total boss. Either way, no tip for her.
Aight, my Smirnoff Ice is on tonight...time to get glacial, playas!
INDIANAPEACERS!
ps - My iPod ran out of batts again. They get smaller and smaller and they die faster and faster. No big deal, there's an Apple store near our hotel so I grabbed a fistfull of mini's on my way out and told them to bill me. That makes an even 200 for me. What do you playas do with all your dead iPods? Phat ass art project?
Tuesday, May 1, 2007
Everythings Drunker in TExas!!1
Playas, I am shitty.
Texas is ridic, we went out celebrating our win (well basically me and some dudes I met in the hotel lobby) and i got mad drunk at this arcade, right? Anyway, I woke up with a fistfull of quarters and a welt the size of a Street Fighter II joystick. No homo.
WWW.PEACE.COM
ps - Baby, if you're reading this, daddy is kidding, the wedding is still on, slut.
Texas is ridic, we went out celebrating our win (well basically me and some dudes I met in the hotel lobby) and i got mad drunk at this arcade, right? Anyway, I woke up with a fistfull of quarters and a welt the size of a Street Fighter II joystick. No homo.
WWW.PEACE.COM
ps - Baby, if you're reading this, daddy is kidding, the wedding is still on, slut.
Monday, April 30, 2007
I Fucking Love Pizza
Seriously. Pepperoni. Ham. Sausage. It has it all. Anyway, let's get started.
Whattup, playas? I know it's been a two-day break from this blog beast, but have no fear, Dr. C. Piddy is back with your prescription for a case of the Mondays: a big dose of reality. Stick in in your veins, playas, cause shit's about to go down before your very eyes. Just cock your head back, let your eyes roll back into their sockets, and let me get all up in your blood intravenously. Feels good, huh?
Check it: I meant to blog yesterday, but Sundays is busy as shit for me. First, I gotta go to Mass and get my tithe on, then I gotta drink my water. I drink all of my water for the week on Sunday morning. Straight-up fifteen gallons. Gulp. Gulp. It saves me mad time and hassle during the week. Time is money, playas. I got too much pimpin' to do to be lookin' for a bottle of Evian every two seconds.
Then I had to go watch us give one away to the Sux. Now, I know y'all are cryin' that your beloved Yanks, mightiest team ever, can't get a win right now. Seems like every time we take the field, we lose, right? Lemme give you a little C. Piddy scoop: we don't NEED to win games right now. If we did, shit would get boring as hell by August. You'd all be having to listen to these "Will the Yankees go undefeated?" debates, and I'd be all like, "Shit, playas, we're only 138-0...don't start jinxing us!"
Us losing these games right now is a gift to y'all fans who want an exciting season. Sure, C. Piddy could make 55 starts before the All Star break, but what then? Every batter in the AL East would break his wrists swinging at my slider, and the whole season would be over. Is that what you want? Shit, actually, I'm getting so amped just thinking about it. Alright, peep this shit: I'll do it next year. Just run through the division like a bull hippo through an African village, then take July and August off to get my relax on. Hungry hungry, motherfuckers.
So y'all stop whining like suckas and let up on my man Joe Torre. It ain't time for Big Joe to go yet, but when it is, let's just say the organization has a plan for replacing him. I don't want to tell y'all too much, but I'll give you a hint: C. Piddy - player coach. Shit, I've already said too much.
One other thing this weekend that did make me mad happy, though: I threw a phat bullpen session on my road back from this injury. 45 pitches, all of them strikes, with my velocity topping out around 120 mph. (For you Euro playas, that's 193 kilometers per hour. You know how we do.) I wanted to have a batter there, but Joe said it wouldn't be fair to kill a teammate's confidence by striking him out 15 times in a row. If you ask me, Melky Cabrera could use the work, but whatevs, I ain't the manager. Yet.
After watching me get my pitch on, Joe drove this truth train through the media: "For the first time being on the mound, I thought it was a good outing for him." I had a good outing, Joe ? I'm the best pitcher alive, and you thought I had a good outing? I think what Joe meant was, "The only question left is who's coming second in the Cy Young voting, playas?" Joe probably wouldn't put it street like that, but I'm throwin' again tomorrow or Wednesday...I'll give him some hot Lil' Wayne quotes to use to describe my sauce afterwards.
Alright, playas, time to bounce. No game tonight, so my girl Gia's asking me to take her out on the town. No offense, baby, but yeah right. My copy of Lemmings 2 I ordered on eBay just came in today, and it's going to take me at least all night to beat it. Bring C. Piddy a Red Bull and some salmon jerky, then go home...shit's about to get real for them Lemmings.
FIVEFOURTHREETWOONEPEACE
P.S. Anybody know how to take an iPod in the shower with them? Y'all know I gotta rock 24/7, and I can never get one to last more than twenty or thirty seconds while I'm scrubbing down the mean machine. Send it!
Whattup, playas? I know it's been a two-day break from this blog beast, but have no fear, Dr. C. Piddy is back with your prescription for a case of the Mondays: a big dose of reality. Stick in in your veins, playas, cause shit's about to go down before your very eyes. Just cock your head back, let your eyes roll back into their sockets, and let me get all up in your blood intravenously. Feels good, huh?
Check it: I meant to blog yesterday, but Sundays is busy as shit for me. First, I gotta go to Mass and get my tithe on, then I gotta drink my water. I drink all of my water for the week on Sunday morning. Straight-up fifteen gallons. Gulp. Gulp. It saves me mad time and hassle during the week. Time is money, playas. I got too much pimpin' to do to be lookin' for a bottle of Evian every two seconds.
Then I had to go watch us give one away to the Sux. Now, I know y'all are cryin' that your beloved Yanks, mightiest team ever, can't get a win right now. Seems like every time we take the field, we lose, right? Lemme give you a little C. Piddy scoop: we don't NEED to win games right now. If we did, shit would get boring as hell by August. You'd all be having to listen to these "Will the Yankees go undefeated?" debates, and I'd be all like, "Shit, playas, we're only 138-0...don't start jinxing us!"
Us losing these games right now is a gift to y'all fans who want an exciting season. Sure, C. Piddy could make 55 starts before the All Star break, but what then? Every batter in the AL East would break his wrists swinging at my slider, and the whole season would be over. Is that what you want? Shit, actually, I'm getting so amped just thinking about it. Alright, peep this shit: I'll do it next year. Just run through the division like a bull hippo through an African village, then take July and August off to get my relax on. Hungry hungry, motherfuckers.
So y'all stop whining like suckas and let up on my man Joe Torre. It ain't time for Big Joe to go yet, but when it is, let's just say the organization has a plan for replacing him. I don't want to tell y'all too much, but I'll give you a hint: C. Piddy - player coach. Shit, I've already said too much.
One other thing this weekend that did make me mad happy, though: I threw a phat bullpen session on my road back from this injury. 45 pitches, all of them strikes, with my velocity topping out around 120 mph. (For you Euro playas, that's 193 kilometers per hour. You know how we do.) I wanted to have a batter there, but Joe said it wouldn't be fair to kill a teammate's confidence by striking him out 15 times in a row. If you ask me, Melky Cabrera could use the work, but whatevs, I ain't the manager. Yet.
After watching me get my pitch on, Joe drove this truth train through the media: "For the first time being on the mound, I thought it was a good outing for him." I had a good outing, Joe ? I'm the best pitcher alive, and you thought I had a good outing? I think what Joe meant was, "The only question left is who's coming second in the Cy Young voting, playas?" Joe probably wouldn't put it street like that, but I'm throwin' again tomorrow or Wednesday...I'll give him some hot Lil' Wayne quotes to use to describe my sauce afterwards.
Alright, playas, time to bounce. No game tonight, so my girl Gia's asking me to take her out on the town. No offense, baby, but yeah right. My copy of Lemmings 2 I ordered on eBay just came in today, and it's going to take me at least all night to beat it. Bring C. Piddy a Red Bull and some salmon jerky, then go home...shit's about to get real for them Lemmings.
FIVEFOURTHREETWOONEPEACE
P.S. Anybody know how to take an iPod in the shower with them? Y'all know I gotta rock 24/7, and I can never get one to last more than twenty or thirty seconds while I'm scrubbing down the mean machine. Send it!
Saturday, April 28, 2007
You're on, Curt.
Whattup, playas? By now you saw us get robbed in truly weak-sauce action last night, and another Mariano Meltdown (you heard it here first, playas). We'll get to Dice-Gay's sorry-ass effort in a minute. First, I want to drizzle some sweet truth syrup all over Curt Schilling's pancakes. Get your knives and forks ready, playas; C. Piddy's 'bout to eat him for breakfast.
Schilling's blogging, too, like a sad-ass high school sophomore keeping a Livejournal about how nobody's going to ask her to the prom. Yesterday he steps up and says that he's sick of playas sayin' that bloody sock of his was painted on, and he bets a million bucks/four million quarters that nobody can prove it's not blood. Sounds like he needs a rich pimp to call his bluff, so it's up to C. Piddy to stick a big loaf of reality in his mouth.
Curt, I'll take that bet.
I can understand why Curt's cryin' like a little girl who lost her cupcake...not only is he on the AL East's worst team, he also doesn't even have the best blog in the division. 38pitches.com? You should change it to 38bitches.com if you're only going to complain, Curt. No, wait, that would totally make a sweet-ass name for a porn site with 38 honeys on it. Forget I said anything, y'all.
Anybody who knows how to start a website, hit the cell-piece.
And if I lose? Ain't shit. After my agent's cut and my tithe-sauce to the church, I'll still have $7 mil this year...but I ain't losin. I know what it looks like when you spill Boppin' Berry Kool Aid on your socks; I did it just last week.
So, Curt, when I get your million Washingtons, I just want for you to know that the first thing I'm buying will be this phat Game Gear carrying case I saw in the mall a few years back. The rest of it I'll probably spend on hot wings; this place by my house makes some that will melt your mind. I tear into those suckers like a cheetah ripping into a water buffalo's hide, but faster.
Ugh, playas. Last night's game hurt my soul. Seven-game losing streaks ain't shit to me because when I get back, I know we'll be going undefeated for the rest of the season. Seeing that pussy Dice Gay get a cheap win over us made me feel like my heart had been impaled on one of those spikes in the Pit from Mortal Kombat.
Dice Gay, you give up five hits and four walks in six innings? Shit, I thought the point of the game was to keep people OFF of the bases, but what does C. Piddy know about pitching? He's just a World Series champ and All-Star. You've been the best pitcher in Thailand for years. Nice "win," you lucky fuck.
Check it: this made it even worse. Joe T. made five pitching changes last night. Five! You know how long that takes? Shit, I was going to take my fiancee Gia to the movies at midnight, and I didn't want to be late. (See, I told y'all playas C. Piddy's an all-time great at romance, too.) We were going to see Stone Cold's new movie The Condemned, but we got there five minutes late, so I couldn't follow the nuances of the plot at all. Still, it was worth it. There were so many huge explosions. So. Fucking. Core. The usher kept having to come tell me to stop barking I got so amped. WOOF WOOF!!!
Alright, time to get ready to watch this slump we're in get busted by Tim Wakefield. We ain't losing to a pitcher old enough to be my great-grandfather, playas. Mark it down.
PEACEPEACEPEACE.
P.S. I stayed up all night playing Mutant League Hockey on Genesis last night. Goddamn, I wish we could blow shit up during games. That would be so boss.
Schilling's blogging, too, like a sad-ass high school sophomore keeping a Livejournal about how nobody's going to ask her to the prom. Yesterday he steps up and says that he's sick of playas sayin' that bloody sock of his was painted on, and he bets a million bucks/four million quarters that nobody can prove it's not blood. Sounds like he needs a rich pimp to call his bluff, so it's up to C. Piddy to stick a big loaf of reality in his mouth.
Curt, I'll take that bet.
I can understand why Curt's cryin' like a little girl who lost her cupcake...not only is he on the AL East's worst team, he also doesn't even have the best blog in the division. 38pitches.com? You should change it to 38bitches.com if you're only going to complain, Curt. No, wait, that would totally make a sweet-ass name for a porn site with 38 honeys on it. Forget I said anything, y'all.
Anybody who knows how to start a website, hit the cell-piece.
And if I lose? Ain't shit. After my agent's cut and my tithe-sauce to the church, I'll still have $7 mil this year...but I ain't losin. I know what it looks like when you spill Boppin' Berry Kool Aid on your socks; I did it just last week.
So, Curt, when I get your million Washingtons, I just want for you to know that the first thing I'm buying will be this phat Game Gear carrying case I saw in the mall a few years back. The rest of it I'll probably spend on hot wings; this place by my house makes some that will melt your mind. I tear into those suckers like a cheetah ripping into a water buffalo's hide, but faster.
Ugh, playas. Last night's game hurt my soul. Seven-game losing streaks ain't shit to me because when I get back, I know we'll be going undefeated for the rest of the season. Seeing that pussy Dice Gay get a cheap win over us made me feel like my heart had been impaled on one of those spikes in the Pit from Mortal Kombat.
Dice Gay, you give up five hits and four walks in six innings? Shit, I thought the point of the game was to keep people OFF of the bases, but what does C. Piddy know about pitching? He's just a World Series champ and All-Star. You've been the best pitcher in Thailand for years. Nice "win," you lucky fuck.
Check it: this made it even worse. Joe T. made five pitching changes last night. Five! You know how long that takes? Shit, I was going to take my fiancee Gia to the movies at midnight, and I didn't want to be late. (See, I told y'all playas C. Piddy's an all-time great at romance, too.) We were going to see Stone Cold's new movie The Condemned, but we got there five minutes late, so I couldn't follow the nuances of the plot at all. Still, it was worth it. There were so many huge explosions. So. Fucking. Core. The usher kept having to come tell me to stop barking I got so amped. WOOF WOOF!!!
Alright, time to get ready to watch this slump we're in get busted by Tim Wakefield. We ain't losing to a pitcher old enough to be my great-grandfather, playas. Mark it down.
PEACEPEACEPEACE.
P.S. I stayed up all night playing Mutant League Hockey on Genesis last night. Goddamn, I wish we could blow shit up during games. That would be so boss.
Friday, April 27, 2007
Diary of a Hustla
Playas, playas, playas. I'm coming at y'all with a family-sized jug of the sweet nectar that is my brain juices. Drink up. We're about to throw one down on Dice Gay as the first game of our sweep against the Red Sux, so I figured I'd give y'all playas a little bit of analysis you won't be getting on Baseball Tonight (R.I.P Harold Reynolds - you still my dawg.).
Let me get this off my chest first: I'm so fucking amped for this series that I haven't slept in three nights. Every time I try to get in bed, I just think about beating the Sux, and I start beating my chest and howling like a fucking gorilla. Silverback, son. It's on like Donkey Kong.
We got that half-man, half-beast lefty Andy Pettitte going against the Sux tonight, and you know he's going to make sweet left-handed love all over their bats. I don't care if he is from Texas, when C. Piddy's on the DL, A-Bomb is our ace. Don't get too much shutout sauce on your faces, Sux fans.
How am I so jacked-up with confidence? The Sux are starting Dice-Gay. At this point he's made four starts in the Major Leagues, so we know what he is: a .500 pitcher with a 4.00 ERA. Sorry, Dice Gay, if I wanted to win half of the time, I'll bet on coin flips. F'real, I do that with my nephew Reid when we get bored. Dumb little bastard always takes tails.
And really, 6 walks in 27 innings? How do you even take your paycheck in good conscience, Dice Gay? I don't know how to say "strike zone" in Korean or whatever, but you need to find out how to say it. Then you need to find it. It's called command: all the good pitchers here have it.
Then there's the homers. Dice Gay, you've given up two. Already! You're on pace to give up like 18 or 19 this season. Pa-fucking-thetic. You gave up a jack to David DeJesus? He couldn't hit one out on me if he stood on the warning track to swing it. I bet the Sux are wishing they'd saved that $103 million and just bought a giant cookie. Or a teeball stand. At least they'd get some groundball outs that way. (And f'real, y'all, I once saw Troy Glaus strike out looking against a tee.)
So sorry, Dice Gay, you'll be the fourth-best Asian pitcher in the ball park tonight behind Chien-Ming Wang, Kei Igawa, and C. Piddy after he eats a fat plate of spring rolls. No shitting y'all playas, one time I got juiced and ate like 93 of those bad boys in a row. Y'all can ask my boy Chad; he was there. He dared me to hit the century club, but I almost got arrested, so I stopped at the 93 spot.
Damn, now C. Piddy's hungry like the fucking wolf. I gotta get my meal on in Chinatown before I go to the park. I wish they still let us eat dogs. AA-OOOOO!!!!
Before I bounce, let me give y'all playas some gospel so you can lay some sweet cabbage on C. Piddy's scripture: Yanks 15 - Sux 0.
PEACE.
P.S. Five minutes left on this sweet-ass U2 edition iPod auction on eBay. Used in like-new condition, just like my di-yock. Buy it now, ladies.
P.P.S. NFL Draft's this weekend. My agent said something about the Lions taking me in the fifth round. I ain't played much since Pop Warner, but if that happens, I'm only making one guarantee: 2008 Pro Bowl. What position? Doesn't matter.
Let me get this off my chest first: I'm so fucking amped for this series that I haven't slept in three nights. Every time I try to get in bed, I just think about beating the Sux, and I start beating my chest and howling like a fucking gorilla. Silverback, son. It's on like Donkey Kong.
We got that half-man, half-beast lefty Andy Pettitte going against the Sux tonight, and you know he's going to make sweet left-handed love all over their bats. I don't care if he is from Texas, when C. Piddy's on the DL, A-Bomb is our ace. Don't get too much shutout sauce on your faces, Sux fans.
How am I so jacked-up with confidence? The Sux are starting Dice-Gay. At this point he's made four starts in the Major Leagues, so we know what he is: a .500 pitcher with a 4.00 ERA. Sorry, Dice Gay, if I wanted to win half of the time, I'll bet on coin flips. F'real, I do that with my nephew Reid when we get bored. Dumb little bastard always takes tails.
And really, 6 walks in 27 innings? How do you even take your paycheck in good conscience, Dice Gay? I don't know how to say "strike zone" in Korean or whatever, but you need to find out how to say it. Then you need to find it. It's called command: all the good pitchers here have it.
Then there's the homers. Dice Gay, you've given up two. Already! You're on pace to give up like 18 or 19 this season. Pa-fucking-thetic. You gave up a jack to David DeJesus? He couldn't hit one out on me if he stood on the warning track to swing it. I bet the Sux are wishing they'd saved that $103 million and just bought a giant cookie. Or a teeball stand. At least they'd get some groundball outs that way. (And f'real, y'all, I once saw Troy Glaus strike out looking against a tee.)
So sorry, Dice Gay, you'll be the fourth-best Asian pitcher in the ball park tonight behind Chien-Ming Wang, Kei Igawa, and C. Piddy after he eats a fat plate of spring rolls. No shitting y'all playas, one time I got juiced and ate like 93 of those bad boys in a row. Y'all can ask my boy Chad; he was there. He dared me to hit the century club, but I almost got arrested, so I stopped at the 93 spot.
Damn, now C. Piddy's hungry like the fucking wolf. I gotta get my meal on in Chinatown before I go to the park. I wish they still let us eat dogs. AA-OOOOO!!!!
Before I bounce, let me give y'all playas some gospel so you can lay some sweet cabbage on C. Piddy's scripture: Yanks 15 - Sux 0.
PEACE.
P.S. Five minutes left on this sweet-ass U2 edition iPod auction on eBay. Used in like-new condition, just like my di-yock. Buy it now, ladies.
P.P.S. NFL Draft's this weekend. My agent said something about the Lions taking me in the fifth round. I ain't played much since Pop Warner, but if that happens, I'm only making one guarantee: 2008 Pro Bowl. What position? Doesn't matter.
Thursday, April 26, 2007
Hot Out Here for a Pimp
Yesterday was our first day off in a while. I know I'm on the DL but playas like me need a vacation even when we don't play.
As most of you know, I am engaged to be married to a Maxim hometown hottie. You know how we do. And since we had yesterday off, I decided to treat my baby right and took her out to a phat dinner last night. I wanted to show her that under this sick yolked exterior was a romantic, but super buff, dude. So I took her ass to the 'Lob.
That's right: Red Lobster.
You know, when playas like me are straight 'Lobbin it, we don't even need a reservation. C. Piddy walks right in and gets a table instantly. In the middle of Lobsterfest no less. Holla atcha boy when you see him in the STREET.
It was a beautiful evening -- though my baby did look a little stressed. I knew things were gettin' real when she started crying, so I took out one of my earbuds to listen to her and moved my iPods volume level from MAX to medium. Problem was, I still couldn't hear her over a sick ass guitar solo.
But it was just that simple act of removing one of my earbuds that made her know she will always be my #3 priority (behind ball and food. And I guess working out.) Yeah that's right. Even C. Piddy has a sensitive side. But at least I'm gettin' play!
But of course, a playa's life is never easy and today it was BACK TO THE GRIND of watching my team play.
Tonight's game was truly heinous-sauce. Guys, don't get me wrong, I love A.J. Burnett like a brother, and I have ever since we won a World Series together. He's like a best friend to me, and he is probably going to be the godfather to my children. But he's an overrated, overpaid, underperforming piece of shit, and there's no excuse for us not beating his weak ass. None. He's horrible. And he'll be the first to admit it.
I'm getting so tired of watching my team lose. For real, it's really tiring. I had to take a nap for the middle innings of tonight's game. I even had a dream we scored a run.
I feel a little bad about this kid Hughes. But come on, four and a third innings? You call that busting your ass? At least have the decency to get that last .17 of an inning to make it to the halfway point of the game.
I told him to bring his "A-Game" but it looks like he brought his Triple-A game instead. I tried busting his ass back down to the minors after the game but in the middle of my speech skip told me to hit the whirlpool, so I stopped what I was doing and sprinted towards that tin tub and dove in head first.
But all is well, tomorrow we're playing the Boston SlumpBusters. There's no better cure for a losing streak than playing those homo's from BASTAN and their batting cage pitcher Dice Gay Matsufaga.
PEACEINTHEMIDDLEEAST
p.s. - I've been watching some NBA Playoff action in the clubhouse. I think I'm gonna rock the Rip Hamilton face mask when I come back. But put real bobcat wiskers on it. Sick as fuck.
As most of you know, I am engaged to be married to a Maxim hometown hottie. You know how we do. And since we had yesterday off, I decided to treat my baby right and took her out to a phat dinner last night. I wanted to show her that under this sick yolked exterior was a romantic, but super buff, dude. So I took her ass to the 'Lob.
That's right: Red Lobster.
You know, when playas like me are straight 'Lobbin it, we don't even need a reservation. C. Piddy walks right in and gets a table instantly. In the middle of Lobsterfest no less. Holla atcha boy when you see him in the STREET.
It was a beautiful evening -- though my baby did look a little stressed. I knew things were gettin' real when she started crying, so I took out one of my earbuds to listen to her and moved my iPods volume level from MAX to medium. Problem was, I still couldn't hear her over a sick ass guitar solo.
But it was just that simple act of removing one of my earbuds that made her know she will always be my #3 priority (behind ball and food. And I guess working out.) Yeah that's right. Even C. Piddy has a sensitive side. But at least I'm gettin' play!
But of course, a playa's life is never easy and today it was BACK TO THE GRIND of watching my team play.
Tonight's game was truly heinous-sauce. Guys, don't get me wrong, I love A.J. Burnett like a brother, and I have ever since we won a World Series together. He's like a best friend to me, and he is probably going to be the godfather to my children. But he's an overrated, overpaid, underperforming piece of shit, and there's no excuse for us not beating his weak ass. None. He's horrible. And he'll be the first to admit it.
I'm getting so tired of watching my team lose. For real, it's really tiring. I had to take a nap for the middle innings of tonight's game. I even had a dream we scored a run.
I feel a little bad about this kid Hughes. But come on, four and a third innings? You call that busting your ass? At least have the decency to get that last .17 of an inning to make it to the halfway point of the game.
I told him to bring his "A-Game" but it looks like he brought his Triple-A game instead. I tried busting his ass back down to the minors after the game but in the middle of my speech skip told me to hit the whirlpool, so I stopped what I was doing and sprinted towards that tin tub and dove in head first.
But all is well, tomorrow we're playing the Boston SlumpBusters. There's no better cure for a losing streak than playing those homo's from BASTAN and their batting cage pitcher Dice Gay Matsufaga.
PEACEINTHEMIDDLEEAST
p.s. - I've been watching some NBA Playoff action in the clubhouse. I think I'm gonna rock the Rip Hamilton face mask when I come back. But put real bobcat wiskers on it. Sick as fuck.
Saturday, April 21, 2007
99 Problems but a Pitch ain't One
Playas. Playas. Playas. Whattup?
I'm sure y'all watched that wack-ass game last night and now you're wondering about whether C. Piddy really spits scripture at you when he makes his guarantees. Well, Dice-Gay and the Red Sux got lucky, as I'm about to discuss. First, though, let me give all y'all what you want: a pitch-by-pitch recap of Dice-Gay's first start against the mighty Yankees.
Pitch 1: Shitty as balls.
Pitch 2-108: See pitch one.
How do you give up six earned runs and still have the decency to call yourself a professional athlete in any language? I dunno what the conversion rate is from Japan or whatever, but 6 ER over on our side of the universe is a lot.
Basically he got lucky that we had to start some scrub-ass rookie (I don't even know his name), who gave up back-to-back-to-back-to-back homers to the Sux. For real, they gotta let me pitch even with this injury. No more joking. Underhand, side arm, left-handed, it doesn't matter.
See, Dice-Gay, what you don't get is, it doesn't matter if you can throw eight pitches when they all suck.
For example: Your gyroball? It's just a slider. I'm not trying to be a dick or nothing, but you can't just make up a new pitch by renaming your slider.
Hell, I'll start calling mine a dick-steak, then. Can't you just imagine Joe Buck talking about my nasty dick-steak in super slow motion, how it dick-steaks away from the K-zone leaving the batter confused, alone and embarassed? But I can't. It doesn't work like that.
Although, since we're talking about new pitches, I gotta keep it real with you playas, so I'm going to give y'all a big plateful of scoop to chew on: I've invented a new pitch.
When I come off the DL, as soon as my whatever feels better, you're balls are gonna get hard just thinking about it. It's called the megapitch, and it's absolutely unhittable. I can't tell y'all too much yet, but picture this: it starts out like a 112 mph knuckleball, right? Then breaks like a curveball. No big deal, but this is the mega-twist: it then breaks like a dick-steak. Oh, and I can throw it with both hands. Plus, I get so amped when I throw it that I roar like a lion as it leaves my hand. King of the jungle, motherfuckers. Woof Woof.
Anyway, shitty road trip overall so far, but now we're headed to Tampa Bay. That ain't so bad, the hotel we stay in has the X-Men arcade game in the game room. I'm going to try to beat it as Dazzler this year; I've been saving my quarters for like a week.
So yeah, we got swept. Congratu-fucking-lations, Red Sox fans. You beat us three times in April while our best player was on the DL. That's like the time I wrestled a grizzly bear to death over Spring Break after a buddy of mine beheaded it. RIP Fuzzbreath (That's the name of my bro. The bear survived somehow.)
Peace.
PS - Boris Yeltsin died today. I got mad feelings on the subject I just cant quite verbalize them yet.
I'm sure y'all watched that wack-ass game last night and now you're wondering about whether C. Piddy really spits scripture at you when he makes his guarantees. Well, Dice-Gay and the Red Sux got lucky, as I'm about to discuss. First, though, let me give all y'all what you want: a pitch-by-pitch recap of Dice-Gay's first start against the mighty Yankees.
Pitch 1: Shitty as balls.
Pitch 2-108: See pitch one.
How do you give up six earned runs and still have the decency to call yourself a professional athlete in any language? I dunno what the conversion rate is from Japan or whatever, but 6 ER over on our side of the universe is a lot.
Basically he got lucky that we had to start some scrub-ass rookie (I don't even know his name), who gave up back-to-back-to-back-to-back homers to the Sux. For real, they gotta let me pitch even with this injury. No more joking. Underhand, side arm, left-handed, it doesn't matter.
See, Dice-Gay, what you don't get is, it doesn't matter if you can throw eight pitches when they all suck.
For example: Your gyroball? It's just a slider. I'm not trying to be a dick or nothing, but you can't just make up a new pitch by renaming your slider.
Hell, I'll start calling mine a dick-steak, then. Can't you just imagine Joe Buck talking about my nasty dick-steak in super slow motion, how it dick-steaks away from the K-zone leaving the batter confused, alone and embarassed? But I can't. It doesn't work like that.
Although, since we're talking about new pitches, I gotta keep it real with you playas, so I'm going to give y'all a big plateful of scoop to chew on: I've invented a new pitch.
When I come off the DL, as soon as my whatever feels better, you're balls are gonna get hard just thinking about it. It's called the megapitch, and it's absolutely unhittable. I can't tell y'all too much yet, but picture this: it starts out like a 112 mph knuckleball, right? Then breaks like a curveball. No big deal, but this is the mega-twist: it then breaks like a dick-steak. Oh, and I can throw it with both hands. Plus, I get so amped when I throw it that I roar like a lion as it leaves my hand. King of the jungle, motherfuckers. Woof Woof.
Anyway, shitty road trip overall so far, but now we're headed to Tampa Bay. That ain't so bad, the hotel we stay in has the X-Men arcade game in the game room. I'm going to try to beat it as Dazzler this year; I've been saving my quarters for like a week.
So yeah, we got swept. Congratu-fucking-lations, Red Sox fans. You beat us three times in April while our best player was on the DL. That's like the time I wrestled a grizzly bear to death over Spring Break after a buddy of mine beheaded it. RIP Fuzzbreath (That's the name of my bro. The bear survived somehow.)
Peace.
PS - Boris Yeltsin died today. I got mad feelings on the subject I just cant quite verbalize them yet.
This Is Why I'm Hot
Whattup Playas? After last nights wack loss I'm personally guaranteeing no more losses to the Sux this year. 17-1 I'm so fucking juiced just typing it out. 17-1. You call that a rivalry? Shit, the D-Rays could probably have more success against us. They won't, though.
Batter up: let's talk about the game. Did you see my man A-Rod? Straight boss! He was like a sick holdem starting hand: Two jacks. Bling. Bling. I know it's a little early in his career, but I think when all is said and done, people could think of him as the C. Piddy of position players. He's so real it's surreal -- like beating Altered Beast without losing a man.
Allow me to get very real with everybody, though. It hurt me so much to watch us blow that lead that I called up George and begged him to let me pitch left handed. I'm not gonna go 100% with it, but C. Piddy at 70% still has a decent 96mph curve. The animal in me just went mad watching MaRi blow another save. I didn't know what to do, I just started howling at the moon like a jacked ass wolf.
I mean, how do you let Coco Crisp hit a game-tying triple off of you? Shit, if I want to blow a lead to a cereal, I'll have Big George send me down to Triple-A Columbus where I can pitch to Joe Frankenberry of the Nashville Sounds.
I've told you playas right off the bat I'm going to keep it real with you, so here's a bucket sized dose of truth-sauce: Mariano Rivera is done.
Your eyeballs heard it here first. Don't get me wrong: he was probably one of the best closers of all time, but those days are behind him. It's bad enough to let all of your teammates and fans down by blowing the save, but to do it while wearing Jackie Robinson's number 42? That's downright racist.
When I come back off the DL, I'm pitching nothing but complete games. Nine innings, ten innings, twenty-two innings...it don't matter. You know I'm going to shut out the suckers on the other side, and I'll pitch however long it takes my teammates to score that one run we'll need to win. Absolutely core.
Anyway, what else. Oh yeah, had to buy another iPod on the way back to the hotel from Fenway last night. These pieces of shit drain in like... 4 hours. I barely get to use them before they die. Whateves, money aint a thing, this is like my 70th one. it just makes me wonder what normal people do.
All right, I'd write more, but I'm hungover as a donkey from clubbing last night. My 11 year old nephew Reid got his bone on with this slut from Boston College. She asked him if he was a little kid, and I said, "Naw, he's just got that Gary Coleman shit." C. Piddy's always thinking.
One more day till we rock Dice- Gay. I can't wait to see us hit those big fat gyro-sushi-balls back to Hong Kong. Jeter/Giambi/ARod are gonna go Tom Emanski-sauce on that bitch. Back to back to back playas!
See ya, wouldn't wanna be ya.
Kiss peace.
ps - This is why I'm hot. This is why I'm hot. This is why This is why This is why I'm hot -- Best. Song. Ever.
Batter up: let's talk about the game. Did you see my man A-Rod? Straight boss! He was like a sick holdem starting hand: Two jacks. Bling. Bling. I know it's a little early in his career, but I think when all is said and done, people could think of him as the C. Piddy of position players. He's so real it's surreal -- like beating Altered Beast without losing a man.
Allow me to get very real with everybody, though. It hurt me so much to watch us blow that lead that I called up George and begged him to let me pitch left handed. I'm not gonna go 100% with it, but C. Piddy at 70% still has a decent 96mph curve. The animal in me just went mad watching MaRi blow another save. I didn't know what to do, I just started howling at the moon like a jacked ass wolf.
I mean, how do you let Coco Crisp hit a game-tying triple off of you? Shit, if I want to blow a lead to a cereal, I'll have Big George send me down to Triple-A Columbus where I can pitch to Joe Frankenberry of the Nashville Sounds.
I've told you playas right off the bat I'm going to keep it real with you, so here's a bucket sized dose of truth-sauce: Mariano Rivera is done.
Your eyeballs heard it here first. Don't get me wrong: he was probably one of the best closers of all time, but those days are behind him. It's bad enough to let all of your teammates and fans down by blowing the save, but to do it while wearing Jackie Robinson's number 42? That's downright racist.
When I come back off the DL, I'm pitching nothing but complete games. Nine innings, ten innings, twenty-two innings...it don't matter. You know I'm going to shut out the suckers on the other side, and I'll pitch however long it takes my teammates to score that one run we'll need to win. Absolutely core.
Anyway, what else. Oh yeah, had to buy another iPod on the way back to the hotel from Fenway last night. These pieces of shit drain in like... 4 hours. I barely get to use them before they die. Whateves, money aint a thing, this is like my 70th one. it just makes me wonder what normal people do.
All right, I'd write more, but I'm hungover as a donkey from clubbing last night. My 11 year old nephew Reid got his bone on with this slut from Boston College. She asked him if he was a little kid, and I said, "Naw, he's just got that Gary Coleman shit." C. Piddy's always thinking.
One more day till we rock Dice- Gay. I can't wait to see us hit those big fat gyro-sushi-balls back to Hong Kong. Jeter/Giambi/ARod are gonna go Tom Emanski-sauce on that bitch. Back to back to back playas!
See ya, wouldn't wanna be ya.
Kiss peace.
ps - This is why I'm hot. This is why I'm hot. This is why This is why This is why I'm hot -- Best. Song. Ever.
Friday, April 20, 2007
Dropping at Y'all Like My Sinker, Bitch.
I know what you're thinking: C. Piddy got a blog?
That's right. Get ready to open wide and drink down my sweet blog juice. Gulp, gulp playas. Actually you got some of that blog juice on your chin, open wider playa. Even wider. Yeah, that's right. Hmm... Honestly, in the future I would suggest even wider than that. You literally can't open wide enough. Perfect.
Right off the bat: I'm all business, so let's get to it.
What you know about me: I'm the best pitcher in the AL East.
What you don't: I love movies, I love food, I love busting my ass day in day out, I love sports, I love drinks, I love iPods, I love Sega Genesis, I love hustling, I love dishes with food on them (I guess that's kinda like food, but whatever), I love gravy, and now, I love blogging.
Right off the bat, I'm gonna be true with all you playas: This Blog? No rules. Just a couple of quick rules -
1) I'm gonna be straight. No bullshit. No gimmicks.
2) No rules.
3) I have some vocab words you're going to have to learn. Put in the effort, and you will be rewarded. Trust me.
Core - Hardcore. For example, "Dude, C. Piddy is so core." -- Robinson Cano
Boss - Something that totally rules. For example, "Dude, C. Piddy's slider is boss." -- Karl Ravech.
Amped - Juiced/excited. "Dude, I am so fuckin' amped right now." -- C. Piddy
Playa - Street for "player." Also, all y'all who are going to read this blog beast. "Dude, C. Piddy's readers are a bunch of playas." -- NY Times.
I'm going to hit pretty much everything the fans would want to know: Our rivalry with the Red Sux, why I'm better than Dice-Gay Matsuzaka, what it's like being a sex symbol in the hottest city in the world, what Sega Genesis games I beat last week (Barkley Shut Up and Jam 2 - no big deal), my latest iPod purchase (60 gig video at 11 AM today)...it's all going to be in here. This shit is going to be so core you won't even believe it. But then, when I'm done, you'll finally believe it. (Like the Bible, I guess.)
Dude, I am so fucking amped right now. This blog gets me going, for real. You guys should see me; I'm like an angry ox right now. I'm seriously drooling.
Right off the bat: Tonight we start our weekend series with the Red Sux. Since I'm on the DL we won't have that automatic win that I provide every time I start, but I still got a good feeling about it. Yeah, our rotation's banged up, but we get that easy win against Dice-Gay on Sunday night. Have y'all playas watched this guy pitch? He's easier to beat than "Ecco The Dolphin."
I can't wait to heckle his ass. Call your bookies and make this bet, playas: we sweep the Sux this weekend and hang seventy runs on their sorry asses. Remember to think of C. Piddy when you're spending all that sweet cabbage you're about to win on a phat Franklin Digital Dictionary.
Oh, yeah, one more word:
Sweet Cabbage - Money. "Remember to think of C. Piddy when you're spending all that sweet cabbage you're about to win on a phat Franklin Digital Dictionary." -- C. Piddy.
Right off the bat: Back with more tomorrow. I'd write after the game, but I'm taking my nephew clubbing with me. He's only eleven, but when you roll with C. Piddy you get pretty much any pussy you want.
Peace.
ps - Funny story. Before I started my blog, I wanted the theme to be that...like... I write every entry by throwing baseballs onto a mounted laptop on the wall. I got this far into my first entry before I broke my Powerbook's screen: "4i898c;" Whateves, my new one came with an iPod so I'm cool with it. I wonder how many pitches Dice Gay would need to break a laptop monitor, which is probably half the size of a strike zone.
pps - Just ordered a new green iPod mini off Amazon. No big deal.
That's right. Get ready to open wide and drink down my sweet blog juice. Gulp, gulp playas. Actually you got some of that blog juice on your chin, open wider playa. Even wider. Yeah, that's right. Hmm... Honestly, in the future I would suggest even wider than that. You literally can't open wide enough. Perfect.
Right off the bat: I'm all business, so let's get to it.
What you know about me: I'm the best pitcher in the AL East.
What you don't: I love movies, I love food, I love busting my ass day in day out, I love sports, I love drinks, I love iPods, I love Sega Genesis, I love hustling, I love dishes with food on them (I guess that's kinda like food, but whatever), I love gravy, and now, I love blogging.
Right off the bat, I'm gonna be true with all you playas: This Blog? No rules. Just a couple of quick rules -
1) I'm gonna be straight. No bullshit. No gimmicks.
2) No rules.
3) I have some vocab words you're going to have to learn. Put in the effort, and you will be rewarded. Trust me.
Core - Hardcore. For example, "Dude, C. Piddy is so core." -- Robinson Cano
Boss - Something that totally rules. For example, "Dude, C. Piddy's slider is boss." -- Karl Ravech.
Amped - Juiced/excited. "Dude, I am so fuckin' amped right now." -- C. Piddy
Playa - Street for "player." Also, all y'all who are going to read this blog beast. "Dude, C. Piddy's readers are a bunch of playas." -- NY Times.
I'm going to hit pretty much everything the fans would want to know: Our rivalry with the Red Sux, why I'm better than Dice-Gay Matsuzaka, what it's like being a sex symbol in the hottest city in the world, what Sega Genesis games I beat last week (Barkley Shut Up and Jam 2 - no big deal), my latest iPod purchase (60 gig video at 11 AM today)...it's all going to be in here. This shit is going to be so core you won't even believe it. But then, when I'm done, you'll finally believe it. (Like the Bible, I guess.)
Dude, I am so fucking amped right now. This blog gets me going, for real. You guys should see me; I'm like an angry ox right now. I'm seriously drooling.
Right off the bat: Tonight we start our weekend series with the Red Sux. Since I'm on the DL we won't have that automatic win that I provide every time I start, but I still got a good feeling about it. Yeah, our rotation's banged up, but we get that easy win against Dice-Gay on Sunday night. Have y'all playas watched this guy pitch? He's easier to beat than "Ecco The Dolphin."
I can't wait to heckle his ass. Call your bookies and make this bet, playas: we sweep the Sux this weekend and hang seventy runs on their sorry asses. Remember to think of C. Piddy when you're spending all that sweet cabbage you're about to win on a phat Franklin Digital Dictionary.
Oh, yeah, one more word:
Sweet Cabbage - Money. "Remember to think of C. Piddy when you're spending all that sweet cabbage you're about to win on a phat Franklin Digital Dictionary." -- C. Piddy.
Right off the bat: Back with more tomorrow. I'd write after the game, but I'm taking my nephew clubbing with me. He's only eleven, but when you roll with C. Piddy you get pretty much any pussy you want.
Peace.
ps - Funny story. Before I started my blog, I wanted the theme to be that...like... I write every entry by throwing baseballs onto a mounted laptop on the wall. I got this far into my first entry before I broke my Powerbook's screen: "4i898c;" Whateves, my new one came with an iPod so I'm cool with it. I wonder how many pitches Dice Gay would need to break a laptop monitor, which is probably half the size of a strike zone.
pps - Just ordered a new green iPod mini off Amazon. No big deal.
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
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