11-1-99 p7

How I Gave Bernie Williams Olympia Dukakis' Breasts

By Paul St. Fakename, Esq.

Not An Ombudsman, Plays One On TV

I hate the fucking Yankees. The Red Sox could lose 162 games straight to nine guys from Cardinal "Retard Lover" O’Sullivan’s Preschool For the Blind and Habitually Drunk and, you know what? I really wouldn’t mind. But I HATE the fucking Yankees. I don’t joke about getting an enema lightly but, if it would help a team - any team - beat those greasy pinstriped bastards, I would happily go so far as to stand somewhere in the vicinity of a guy who was getting one.

Yankee fans like to say that we’re just jealous, but that’s not true. We’re just angry. Okay, just angry and FUCKING bitter. Bite-the-head-off-an-old-Debbie Gibson-doll-and-feed-it-to-the-cold-rotting-corpse-of-Bucky Dent’s-mother bitter.

Hey, I can admit that they were the better team. Just like I can admit that George Steinbrenner is a wife-beating pederast who once ate a nun’s crotch while buying slaves in Liberia. No, really - I have pictures. Okay, so I made that up. But I do have pictures of a nun with her crotch all eaten out. God bless the Internet.

New York is the biggest TV market in basically the entire western spiral arm of the Milky Way and the Yankee’s gross payroll is equal to the GNP of every funny-speaking country combined so, quite frankly, they’d better be the best damned team in baseball. For the money they have, their farm team should be able to make the World Series look like Mike Tyson vs. You-Name-A-Honkey every single fucking year. But that’s not why Red Sox fans are so bitter. No, but it is why Bernie Williams and Derek Jeter will turn up drunk, legless and sporting new D-cup breast implants sometime next week. And, no, we don’t know where Ken MacDonald is. But my money is on someplace where they take Swiss checks.

Hey, I can admit that the Yankees were the better team. Just like I can admit that George Steinbrenner is a wife-beating pederast who once ate a nun’s crotch while buying slaves in Liberia.

What pisses us off so much is that anytime Boston makes the playoffs, every newspaper and every announcer has to either a) show the ball going through Buckner’s legs in ultra slow motion, or b) discuss at length, every inning, the Curse of the Bambino. Since Mr. MacDonald will be taking care of… since Mr. Buckner is in failing health anyway, I figured I would leave him alone. But this year I took that other matter into my own hands. And, for once, I didn’t need to come up with an alibi, a fake passport, and a donkey with a striking resemblance to Olympia Dukakis.

This month I single-handedly removed the Curse of the Bambino. First, I personally visited every single one of his descendants and broke all of their fucking legs. Then I paid a Haitian chick $300 to fuck a chicken covered in bourbon and French fries. (That actually had nothing to do with the Curse…I’ve just always had a jones to see that ever since our cable went screwy and Sesame Street and "The

Serpent and the Rainbow" were on the same channel at the same time.) After that I found Whoopi Goldberg and told her to channel a message to that bastard Patrick Swayze to tell that big Yankee whore-fucker that if he doesn’t lift the goddamned curse I’m going to castrate his fat-assed corpse and leave his balls on the steps of Cooperstown with a note that says, "To Mr. Rose—We would appreciate your paying the vig by Friday or the only balls you will own will be the ones that are autographed. God Bless."

By this time I was feeling pretty good so I figured I would knock out the Curse of the Pink Panther too. I commandeered a Concorde by calling myself the Turkish King of Pantsville and flew to London. First, I knocked the sod out of Roger Moore with my lorry and left him in a tutu on the Queen Mum’s lawn. Then I paid a wino to piss on the grave of Peter Sellers. Actually, the wino was already pissing on his grave when I got there, so I just gave him $5 to eat a couple burritos and come back a half and hour later and shit on it, too.

Oh yeah, never bring sticks of dynamite on a tour of Scotland Yard.

And that’s the story of how I removed the Curse of the Bambino. Of course, I was unable to remove the Curse of Shitty Defense and the lesser-known Hex of Inconsistent Relief Pitching, so the Sox still lost to the hated Yankees. But, hey, there’s always next year. And if anybody mentions the Bambino next year, Bob Costas will be missing an ass-cheek, capice NBC?

Main Archive Table of Contents

November, 1999 Issue Table of Contents

Not Tonight, I'm Too Drunk Olympia Dukakis' Breasts

Month In Pictures Kiddie Korner

Poetry Slammed Ethical Treatment of Carnivores Useful Indiscretion eJerk