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!