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.