If you will, please regard the following post that was emblazoned upon to the Facebook page of CBSSports.com’s Eye On Baseball — the home for all baseball fans …
Pete Rise! The accidental genius of auto-correct or inspired creation? It matters not. For Pete Rise now walks among us.
Not so long ago, Adam Jones sounded his conch and let all know that something was about to happen …
Bout to smash some meatloaf
— Adam Jones (@SimplyAJ10) July 28, 2013
As philosopher-kings and tribal warlords alike have told us via oral tradition, there is eating and then there is blood-flesh intake as sating ritual of conquest. So it is with Adam Jones.
If warrior-poet Adam Jones returns to base camp at one o’clock in the morning and announces that he shall smash the loaf of a hoofed beast, then the village elders and virgins shall prepare him what he wants.
Then he shall use his implement of war to eat the brick of entrails before him …
Do not eat. Rather, you should enter into a blood-pact with one’s food. Challenge one’s food to pick up crude tools and swing and thrust and stab at one another astride the glimmering embers of the campfire. The others look on, but they hold back owing to the primordial laws of combat. They dare not intercede.
The food is defeated, but only after the warrior-poet’s skin is peeled back and the nerves that snake through his organs are struck by hurled thunderbolts of a lesser god and then singed to the point of reckoning. Only then are ruins of the man reassembled to form a turret mightier than the one that nearly fell in the food-battle just completed.
When a remade man like Adam Jones looks up from his defeated and pacified platter, he gives off an odor that is at once a the smell of a pumice stone, the smell of ribbons of moonlight through forest canopy and the smell of a dead viking’s last sex act being devoured by gray wolves.
It should not surprise the reader to learn that the present author — who is covered both in gold chains and Drakkar Noir — has written, recorded, and is currently mixing/editing a sexy R&B single addressed predominantly to Yankees prospect Corban Joseph‘s plate discipline. While Joseph himself was demoted to Triple-A earlier this week, he recorded seven major-league plate appearances — and swung, during those same plate appearances, at either just zero or one pitches outside the strike zone (depending on the source).
What follows is not the aforementioned song in its entirety — because that will be released in such a way as to make the author Goddamn Wealthy — but rather, in the tradition of Barry White and that one guy from Boyz II Men, a transcript of the song’s brief, but powerful, spoken-word interlude.
I just can’t get my mind off of you,
Corban Joseph’s PITCHf/x swing chart
from the Texas Leaguers website.
I bookmarked you on my web browser of choice.
I even emailed a link of you to my own self,
so I could access you more easily
via my brand-name smart phone later on.
As we all know from experience, that journey can lead to all sorts of interesting places.
Within these very dog-eared pages, David G. Temple, freelance sexecutioner, noted that baseball as a social phenomenon lends itself to culminating hubba hubba.
Among the instances of such was this:
The sexual enthusiast will be pleased to know that the obliging Mr. Met, whose dirty protuberance is at all times veiny, boing-boing and purpled, consented to the madame’s wishes.
On the shores of Far Rockaway, amid the medical-waste flotsam, love was made …
You must change your life.
Sorry, Bobo Polaroids or whatever your name is, but Brian Harper is going to have to take this call …
It might be regarding the waterfront development project, or it might be regarding one of the countless opportunities for high-level arbitrage of which Brian Harper chronically avails himself. Just know that Brian Harper needs to talk business right the crap now. You can snap your little Donruss picture or whatever the hell this is all about later, but right now Brian Harper is seeing to the business of taking a business telephone call regarding the dollars.
“What do you think I should do?” Brian Harper is asking of his broker or minority partners. It’s a rhetorical query, of course. For Brian Harper knows exactly what the shit he’s going to do, and that’s because when the subject is U.S. American business, Banknotes Harper is the final word on the last word. “That’s what you think I should do?” says Banknotes. “Fuck you. Do the opposite.”
Banknotes Harper knows his way around a racket much like he knows his way around the sex closet at the American Airlines Admirals Club at … well, pick your hub airport of choice and Banknotes Harper knows his way around the sex closet at the American Airlines Admirals Club at that particular hub airport.
Baseball, you see, is but a revenue stream for Brian Harper. Buck Banknotes takes the money he makes from baseball and plows the shit right back into kick-ass interest-bearing vehicles that nobody even knows about yet. Maybe this call is about that. “Pay down the principal?” Brian Harper Buck Banknotes is wont to say. “I’m the principal, and I’m calling you to my office so as to beat your cheeks with a wooden paddle. Dollars.”
When not parking his Duesenberg in his heated garage, Lord God Cabbage Brian Harper is parking ducats in interest-bearing offshore accounts that no one even knows about yet — this is ground-level shit — and realizing boundless capital gains before the next call comes in. And the calls are always coming in. “Margin call?” Coin Skins Mazumah Brian Harper often says. “Call me back on my cutting-edge portable horn when your margins are sufficient to waste my time trying to talk treasure to the hairy treasure chest.”
Brian Harper would tell you it’s just going to be a moment, but it’s not going to be a moment. “Time is money?” Bread Property Doubloons Brian Harper says to you, even though you didn’t say “Time is money” to him.
Then he says something else about a pending stop-limit order, at which point you decide to go take Tim Laudner’s picture instead.
It is an unassailable fact of the historical record that Jim Palmer was tasked with writing very specific passages of the Constitution. “But James,” Gouverneur Morris cautioned him, “pen only the sexy parts.”
Jim Palmer, framer-to-be, was en route to the Constitutional Convention to fulfill his obligations as a member of the Patriotic gentry when the urges of Jim Palmer, passionsmith, took firm yet tender hold. “Milkmaids,” he said to them, “when the loins speak, the heart can’t help but listen.”
No one ravished another, yet there was ravishment …
In Philadelphia there was heard the unmistakable click of many fingernails against a single headboard. Hamilton sighed resignedly. “Lord Palmer will not be joining us, it seems,” he said. “Jefferson, you may write the soiled parts.”
On this, that and every day and night, Jim Palmer set these prairies ablaze with dirty rapture.
One day, Joe Pettini will show them all …
Joe Pettini’s far-off gaze — it smoulders at the today about him just as it aches for the tomorrow before him. He is, for miserable now, a Le Tigre wearer lost in a remorseless hierarchy of Those Who Don Privileged Izods. Whatever mastery the lunchroom table — that steering committee of knaves, where he is not welcome — holds over Joe Pettini, it is as fugitive as the pupa.
The ribs of Joe Pettini encase not only a mighty heart, but also a concrete intake facility — painted in mute, industrial gray, the color of Prussia’s lost battles. Inside that cell subsists Joe Pettini’s numbed will. It is disembodied save for two crispy fingers, and those fingers, each night, summon the hardihood to scrawl a prisoner’s tally of the crudest hours until July 10, 1980.
On that day, all will be shown because Joe Pettini will show them all.
So assail him for now, invertebrates of the homerooms and hallways, but know this: the hunches you mock are the very wounds from which Joe Petini’s thunderclap wings will grow. You shall know him by his talons.
Whoa, whoa, whoa …
What the fuck did you just say to Rich Gale? What in the living fuck did you just say to this 6-foot-7, 225-pound sum-buck?
Rich Gale will set those gold-rimmed Foster Grants aside — maybe hand them for safekeeping to Pete LaCock, who will mutter, “Shit, you shouldn’t have said that,” — give a considered stroke of his mustache with thumb and pointer finger and get the shit down to business. Don’t let the feathered body wave fool you: If Rich Gale’s smoky baritone doesn’t get through to you, then these got-damn soup bones will do the rest of the talking.
Yes indeed, I’d pump the brakes over there, tadpole, lest you want Rich Gale to use these meaty shilelaghs to beat some wits into you. Within the last fifteen minutes, Rich Gale has factually pinched off a crap bigger than you. Say something like that again, and Rich Gale’s going to get around to tenderizing some meat.
You started in on him, and he told you that tiny boats should stay near the shore. But you kept at it. And now he’s giving you that smoldering, 12-gauge glare that says it looks like it might be time to take out the trash. Maybe what’s coming — and what’s coming for you is a mouth full of bloody Chiclets — will give you pause the next time you take a notion to nip at the heels of Rich God Almighty Damn Gale. Shoulda left your mouth at home, you dumb dumbass dummy.
Yeah, this is gonna hurt you a whole helluva lot more than it hurts Streets of Fire Rich Gale.