While perusing society’s flotsam at my local thrift store, I stumbled on this rare archaeological find:
The figure you see before you (photographed at a distance, for I was loathe to touch it) is a lifeless homunculus crafted in the image of former Kansas City Royals pitcher Mark Gubicza. Note the characteristic markings and the telltale mullet that place the artifact in the Bob Boone Era (1994-1996 AD). But this was no mere toy, no pagan idol: nefarious deeds were done to this Gubicza. The talented, troublesome left arm is sheared just below the shoulder, the right ankle fractured where he once took a Paul Molitor line drive. The air around the resin was rank with ill omen.
What I had unwittingly stumbled upon, nestled inconspicuously among the little league trophies, was a horrific monkey’s paw: this token, in the hands of some vengeful man or woman, had brought about the downfall of a once proud franchise. Through some voodoo trick or some unholy pact, this villain obviously destroyed both Mark Gubicza and the Kansas City Royals in one cruel motion. It can safely be assumed that only when the arm is returned, and the ankle repaired by some master craftsman, will the curse be lifted.
Did I embark on this quest? I did not. You may judge me a coward, dear readers, from your comfortable swivel chairs and your well-lit cubicles. You may judge me thus, but you cannot think me a fool. After taking this photograph, I fled from the thrift store in haste, drove home, and showered relentlessly. I dare not bring down the Curse of Gubicza on my own house, dear readers. I have a family to think of.