Oh, I can hear you bleeding heart liberal Hilary lickin’ Osama humpin’ cry babies right now.
“Oh, Hairy, this is another case of keeping the black man down.”
OK. That Marlins thing does burn my ass. But the rest of it is just plain horseshit. Want proof. Here goes.
I was at the first annual Anna Nicole Smith Memorial Trailer Park’s Flea Market Extravaganza, and let me tell you, it was a fine sale. I plunked down twelve dollars for a lot of seven shoe boxes full of baseball cards, Garbage Pail Kids cards, and pop tabs (the pop tabs I will send to little Billy Spchinctal, who needs 10,000 more tabs to qualify for a kidney transplant). Over the last few weeks I have been sorting through my cards, and along with a Buddy Biancalana World Series action card, I found damning proof that Mr. Barry Lamar Bonds is a juicer. Feast your eyes on this, sports fans, and tell Hairy that Mr. Bonds hasn’t done more juicin’ than a hooker with a cleft palate.
Wake up, you head in the sand namby-pamby nipple suckers! I implore you, when Barry Bonds steps to the plate in his quest to surpass the rightful king of the round-trippers, all Americans should stand at the ready, hands on their commodes, so when this cheatin’ piece of shit hits #756, they can flush their toilets, sending a resounding message that we don’t give a shit about Mr. Barry Bonds. Nuff said.