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.