Hair of the Dog
Attention ladies. It’s Sunday morning and I’ve got a hangover no pansy home remedy could cure, one eye crusted shut after takin’ a sucker punch from Harold at Flashdancers (see you in the studio tonight, a-hole), half-smoked Parliaments floating in every f-cking glass in the house, and I’m miles from the nearest church pew. No time like the present to share some deep f-cking thoughts on my Top Five Clubhouse Guys. Here goes, asswipes:
1. Jack Daniels -- Jack got me through a lean couple years in Whale’s Vagina, and I’ve brought him along as my top consultant and personal aide for this TV gig. Seems this mighta f-cked over the Red Sox, where he spent last season as a “motivational therapist.” Like I give a sh-t.
2. Austin Nichols -- A fine Southern gentleman of the type that was once a staple in the dugout. Few years back Austin spent an evening counseling Kevin Millwood after Kevin got knocked up and down Miller Park like a two-dollar manwhore. Later that night, Millwood blew out his rotator cuff trying to yank a garter belt off some freshman during a panty raid up at Marquette. This kinda friendly horseplay used to get Austin branded as some kind of “clubhouse cancer” but f-ck that sh-t. That 100 hours of public service hackin up byproduct at the Hormel chili plant helped Kevin rediscover his overhand curve. Austin has joined me on the BBTN set for when I need help “analyzing statistics.”
3. John Jameson -- Not a bad guy for a potato-chomping Irish mamma’s boy. I’ve not run into John too much recently -- he’s been runnin’ in some fancier circles and his high-falutin new pals don’t seem to think I’m properly f-cking housebroken. F-ck.
4. Johnny Walker -- You know him, you love him, but he’s gotta stop changing his outfit every f-cking three hours like he’s on “Queer Eye for the Straight Guy.” Black, red, blue. Make up your f-cking mind, Nancy. Anyhow ol’ Johnny was always a powerfully calming presence everytime I had to waddle out to the f-ckinhg hill and bring in Telemaco again.
5. Pat Burrell -- Like hell, Patricia.
Alright, I’m gonna bring this whole sorry exercise to a close and get cleaned up so I can get driven out to Bristol and be stuffed into one of those Men’s Wearhouse clownsuits. And lest you think my throbbing eye socket has forgotten, your ass is mine, Reynolds.