DOWN WITH PANTS!

Day 4 of the GBBMC to promote Pauly's new book, The Lost Blogs. Can you guess who my guest blogger is? Email me with your guesses or just leave them in the comments, I don't care. Only two people have guessed correctly so far but there are a ton of good clues in this one.

I have to ask you, how can anybody consider that fat son-of-a-bitch Ruth a better ballplayer than Our Hero after what I did this week? Nobody, absolutely nobody. My old, aching bones showed that I am twice the player than Ruth can ever dream of being. I stuck it straight up his ass and gave it a turn. Now I can go back to the right way of playing this game instead of Babe's bastard version of baseball.

Ever since Ruth switched from being a pitcher that I ate for lunch to this abomination of a baseball player back in '18, I have sat back and watched this waste dominate the game. Until a couple of days ago, I never stooped to his level. I knew who was better and that was all that mattered.

But I just couldn't take it anymore. I told some flake reporter that all I was going to do was swing for the fences during this series. All I did was go 6-for-6 with three homeruns in the first game and the next day I hit another two homers. Not too shabby for an old-catfish like myself.

I can hit a homerun anytime I want to, but who wants to just jog around the bases like that. Maybe some beer guzzling, womanizing, gonorrhea laden, half-negro who doesn't even belong in the game. But I say to hell with that. I prefer to come in shin high, spikes out like I have always done. From Royston to Augusta to Detroit. A Georgia boy like me doesn't waddle, we sprint. Sprint and destroy.

You won't see me in a trot ever again, even if I hit that ball over the fence, someone's going to be on his ass. I may be an old man but I am still the best player in this game, bar none. I can do whatever I want, when I want. I hope that son-of-a-bitch Ruth got the message during his bed rest.