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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Wednesday, April 18, 2007

Welcome to DiceGay.com

Whaddup, playas? I'm C. Piddy, and I'm about to bust a blog on your face.