The Fightins'


Posted by at 1:18 am ET 27 Comments

Wow. Thank you… thank you. Thank you so much, ladies and gentlemen. Have I got some dick jokes for you! But first, let’s have a glance at this cavalcade of losers we’ve assembled. Gosh, I can’t believe every single one of you wasn’t too busy for this!

Lenny Dykstra’s here tonight! Actually, folks, he’s here every night. He lives under the dais. The janitor let him set up a sleeping bag and hot plate in exchange for stock picks and blowjobs. Makes sense. At least the blowjobs won’t disappoint you.

Chris Wheeler, everybody. Chris, do you ever get tired of people saying Harry Kalas STILL has more charisma than you? Chris wrote a book recently, but it wasn’t very well received. In fact, Dyslexia Weekly called it a “pile of sith.”

Larry Bowa’s with us. I don’t want to say Larry rubs players the wrong way, but Cory Lidle was flying his plane around Manhattan when he heard Larry was coming back to the Yankees. [Audience groans] What do you mean, “too soon?” Hey, if Alec Baldwin can joke about it now, I sure as fuck can!

Alright; enough about these fat old bastards. Tonight, we are here to honor Pat “The Bat” Burrell — our “man of the hour,” as he is referred to by prostitutes worldwide.

Here’s a little-known fact about Pat: Whenever a woman between the ages of 18 and 40 goes missing, the police have bloodhounds sniff his finger to help them pick up the scent. Don’t laugh; it fucking WORKS.

I don’t want to say that Pat is sexually overactive, but his cock makes its own condoms. This guy has busted more nuts than a squirrel with an eating disorder.

In college, Pat’s coaches thought he’d become a more focused outfielder if they drew vaginas on the baseballs. The plan backfired because he kept trying to catch them with his tongue.

Pat, are you still married? Really? That’s great! Do you remember what she looks like? Can you pick her out of the crowd? I’ll give you a hint: She’s the one pressing “Lawyer” on her cell phone speed-dial. Ha-ha, oh man, you are taking care of yourself to-NIGHT.

In all seriousness, Pat, you’re a good guy and we’re glad you helped this team win its second world championship. And if the only thing people could find to make fun of me was that I fucked a lot of women, I’d take it in stride, too. You bastard. Now I’d like to wrap up my remarks with one last joke…

 [Picks a female member of the audience] Ma’am, I’ll need your help with this one. Here we go…


 [Woman in the audience]: “Who’s there?”

 ”Pat Burrell’s cock.”

 [Woman]: “Pat Burrell’s cock who?”

 ”Don’t play dumb, lady, I know you’ve seen it.” Thank you, and good night!

Posted by at 5:37 pm ET 10 Comments

jeffreyross_roast.jpgLadies and gentlemen, tonight we are here to honor a man who probably doesn’t know where he is right now.

This has been quite a year for you, Jamie! I can remember you telling me how happy you were to receive an honorary doctorate from Holy Family, because you’d actually met them in person once.

By the way, we tried to bring back some of your childhood friends, but our shovels kept breaking.

Some of you may not have noticed, but Jamie has widened his pitching stance considerably over the last few years. Not to increase his speed from the mound, mind you, but to keep from accidentally stepping on his balls.

Jamie loves to entertain his teammates with stories about when he was a boy. His favorite one is the time he finished his homework early so he could stay up and watch the Big Bang. Jamie’s so old he used to babysit Charlemagne. He’s still wondering when they let “Negroes” into the league.

Before coming to Philly, Jamie spent most of his career in Seattle. That was the joke.

Jamie was the last player on the Phillies to get his World Series bonus because he asked for it in coupons.

Something you may be surprised to learn is that Jamie’s favorite television program is “90210,” because it reminds him of how many people were on the planet when he starting playing baseball.

Now Jamie, I know you would like nothing better than to come up here and teach me a lesson for mocking your age, but it’s after 7:00 and I know you’re getting sleepy. That would also explain some of your recent starts.

I know I shouldn’t make fun of a guy who just celebrated winning his 250th game, but it’s not like he’s going to remember any of this tomorrow, so… Congratulations, you old fuck! Thank you and good night.

Posted by at 12:41 pm ET 15 Comments

I’d like to thank my agent for booking me as the guest speaker at a fucking Furry convention. Oh, I’m sorry, you’re all mascots? So I’m not on drugs, then? Good.

Bernie Brewer couldn’t be here tonight. He’s either at an AA meeting or crashing another Irish wake. Either way, he’s surrounded by drunks in mourning, so we wish him the best.

Mr. Met’s here! Boy, it’s been a rough couple of seasons for you, hasn’t it, buddy? Nothing could be worse than having to try and cheer up a bunch of surly, miserable New Yorkers who have to sit around and watch a loser in a Mets uniform. And if that wasn’t shitty enough, then you have to leave your house and go to work!

Raymond from the Rays is here tonight! Good to see you, Raymond. I know you have a busy schedule sneaking up behind people on LSD and scaring the shit out of them.

It’s Screech from the Washington Nationals, everybody! The nice thing about being Screech is that when he screeches during a home game, you can hear a long, beautiful echo inside Nationals Park.

The Padres mascot couldn’t be here tonight. Apparently he’s been reassigned to a new city following what I’ve been told are “unsubstantiated accusations.”

I see Wally the Green Monster is with us. Wally is, for me, a sad reminder that not every Muppet passes the audition. “‘C’ is for… night table? Fuck, I almost had it!” Wally is well-loved by most Boston fans because he’s jolly, entertaining, and not a minority.

But enough about these freaks. I want to share a story with you about my good friend — and our guest of honor tonight — the Phillie Phanatic.

A couple of years ago, the Phanatic and I were up in Alaska hiding from his bookie. One day, we got completely shitfaced because when you’re in Alaska, it seems like the only sensible thing to do.

We staggered up to a convent nearby, and I started whaling on the front door. Sister Mary Whats-her-face answered, and the first thing I said was, “Do you have any midget nuns around here?”

She said, “No, we don’t.”

I turned to the Phanatic and said, “See? You fucked a penguin.”

I guess what I’m trying to say is: Who wouldn’t be jealous of this guy? Imagine how popular you’d be with the ladies if you had a tongue that doubles as a party favor. Jesus! If I had that, I’d be getting more trim than a fat chick’s wedding dress.

People are always asking the Phanatic, “What do you do with your spare time?” Usually this happens at the free clinic, so he just holds up a tube of Valtrex and says, “Anything that moves, motherfucker. Anything that moves.”

It’s good to be the mascot for a team that wins the World Series. You get fame, money, and the satisfaction of watching your latest sexual conquest trying to spit out a mouthful of green fur. Seriously — it’s called “manscaping,” buddy; check it out.

One thing you do not want to do is stand next to this rank motherfucker on a warm day. I’ve driven past rendering plants with more pleasing aromas. John Kruk laughs at your body odor. I know you can’t help it; you’re Italian, what can you do?

That’s all I’ve got, folks. Thank you and enjoy the rest of the show!

Posted by at 1:45 am ET 4 Comments

Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. Wow, just look at this collection of winners we have up here!

The Mayor of Loonytown himself is here tonight — Darren Daulton, everybody! Thanks for taking time out of your schedule to be here, Darren; I know being completely batshit crazy must take up a lot of your day. How’s that apocalypse coming, still on schedule? It’s 2012, right? I know because that’s the same year Hannah Montana turns 18, which is why I’ll be celebrating the “Whip-Out-My-Cock-alypse.”

Lenny Dykstra! “Dude.” The last time I let someone named “Dude” handle my money I ended up with a half-ounce of shitty weed. Asking you for financial advice is like asking Stevie Wonder for driving directions. If you steer your clients the way you steer your car home after a party, those guys are fucked, man.

Mitch Williams is here! Yeah, the “Wild Thing.” I’m still having nightmares about the ’93 World Series, so I can’t imagine what you must be dealing with. Christ, no wonder you’re bitching out refs at your daughter’s basketball game; I’d be in the bleachers with a high-powered rifle. Folks, I hadn’t seen anybody get fucked by a black guy that hard on TV since Lisa Lampanelli’s sex tape came out.

But enough about these has-beens; we’re here tonight to roast the great John Kruk. The Krukker. Mount Krukatoa. Or as we called him in Philly, “Triple-F,” which stood for “That Fat Fuck at First Base.”

You know, a lot of people say they’d give their left nut to play professional baseball, but John was the only one who followed through on it. Hey John, you may have been asked this before, but when the surgeon finished did he say, “That ball is OUTTA HEEEEERE?”

Some people might say because of that operation you’re only half a man now, John, but not me. Not with that gut. John was so fat in the major leagues that the bases use to run around him. At one point the National League seriously considered a “John Kruk” rule, which stated that if John got a hit, he wouldn’t actually have to circle the bases… he could just reach out and tap them with a broomstick. The only thing that ever pinched for John was his belt buckle.

At one point in his career he actually led the league in hits, RBI’s and meat sweats. If only they had a statistical category for “Grunts While Taking A Shit,” you’d have been a lock for MVP!

Look at you now, with your NutriSystem body. With all that weight you’re losing we’d have nothing to make fun of about you, aside from that horrible mullet and B.O. I’m not kidding, man — I hope your next sponsor is Speed Stick, you ripe motherfucker.

And now you’re an analyst for Baseball Tonight. I don’t know about the rest of you, but John’s always my exclusive source for shit that I already know. Seriously, I haven’t seen analysis that unsurprising since Anna Nicole Smith’s toxicology reports…

[audience groans]

Too soon? Hey, fuck you, it’s a roast! What, like her son’s gonna beat me up or something?

Seriously though, John, I love you and thanks for being such a good sport about all this. Good luck getting into the Hall of Fame; I hear they’ve widened the doors. Good night, everybody!

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R.I.P Harry Kalas