And by that I mean one, curmudgeony old, stinky asshole Billy Wagner. B-Wags has lost the ire of Phillies fans recently due to the departure of Pat “your girlfriend’s pussy tastes like Pat the Bat’s dick” Burrell from the current club. But he is still a pain n the ass and destroyer of teams:

Astros after Wagner: World Series appearance

Phillies after Wagner: World Fucking Champions

Mets after Wagner: Still douchebags, but likely with more wins

That’s why after listening to baby-headed announcers and Muffin reading headlines concerning Wagner’s possible shipment to the Red Sox, I creamed my fucking metaphorical pants (I am not, personally, fond of clothes). Whyso, you might ask?

It’s because something special has been lost this season. There’s a certain mystical wonder and glee that comes from the back and forth of Mets and Phillies fans. The kind of whimsy where they light your car on fire, and you take a dump in their Cracker Jack box after they leave their seat. The joy of throwing a bottle at the backs of their heads is no longer as fun as it once was. Sure, raping them in the NL East standings is fun, but so is calling Jose Reyes synonyms for a vagina from the stands. I don’t want the Mets to be a great team, just good enough for us to shit on their hopes and dreams come September.

Plus, I wouldn’t mind seeing B-Wags destroy Boston. That team and their fans can get fucked. I would like nothing better than to see the Boston Red Sox go 0-162 for the rest of this planet’s existence. Fuck Boston.

Blouse bunnies after the jump:

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I’d like to thank Meech, once again (or for the first time) for his invitation for me to blog with him and Chamo. And the general public should thank him as well, as a sober ‘Tard can release anger via blog rather than swing at customers at Boscov’s Moorestown. I must tell you first hand, nothing is scarier than having a retail-related dream. Fuck, I can’t wait to be back at school and getting back those semi-conscious-dream-hallucinations.

So let’s all forget our shit jobs for a moment, and our shit wages, dodge the biledriver and crank up the GWAR, and bitch about millionaires.

This Saturday (1/17/20 ATB*) at the BC Sports in the Moorestown Mall from 3:00 to 4:30 PM, your right fielder Jayson Werth will be signing autographs at the mall (talk about a good pussy gig!). Well, notsomuch signing autographs as he’ll be requesting you give him and BC Sports Collectibles $49 to sign a baeball or photo, and $69 for bats, jerseys, or other equipment. I’m not sure if other equipment means a big poster that says ‘Fuck you for charging me for your fucking autograph’, but it should. Oh, and no photos.

Now, we’d all like to meet Jayson Werth. You’d shake more than Jett Travolta in his presence (first dead kid joke!). But $49 minimum? For Jayson Werth?!? I love the vag beard as much a the next guy, but come on… The only way I’m paying forty-nine bills for someone to sign my balls is if it was Kate from Kate’s Playground. And by balls, I mean ‘testes’. And by sign I mean ‘put them in her mouth’. And by paying I mean ‘an exchange of greenbacks for goods of services’.

Please, even prostitutes don’t charge that much for a greeting. Just ask David Wright’s father.

So fuck autograph sessions. Fuck someone charging you so they can scribble a Sharpie on your faggy Lithograph (”but I paid $900 dollars and there’s only 15 ever made!” Yeah, and you’re dumbass douche #15). Fuck Jayson Werth and BC Sports Collectibles. Fuck Lithographs. Fuck ‘no photos’. Fuck the Mets. And fuck the hundreds of dollars autograph seekers spend that could be spent on more important things like cheap booze or a noose once thy realize they bought some faggy Lithograph.

Ass after the jump, from the true future Mrs. HDYSR?:

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