You have some nerve, Dan Marino. Some nerve, I say. This place is not for you. Do you see any goalposts here? Do you see any cheerleaders or hash marks or Dons Shula? That’s right, you don’t. Do you know why? Because they’re not there! Nothing is wrong with your vision!
But something must be wrong with your balls. Maybe they’re suffering from gigantism, because you need some pretty big huevos to show your face here. Your days are done, old man. Nobody gives a crap about you anymore. Especially not here. What, you think you’re the king of Miami or something, and you can just stroll in wherever you want and people will bow and kiss your ring? Your ring. Your Super Bowl ring. OH THAT’S RIGHT!
This is a baseball place, Dan Marino. For years, this team has had to share a venue with a dumb football team — YOUR DUMB FOOTBALL TEAM — and play second fiddle to bunch of meathead benchpressers. That is too a word. No, you shut up. The owner of this team worked long and hard to swindle taxpayers into paying for this stadium so that we could get away from the likes of you.
And take off that jersey, you Fakey McFakerson. Are you trying to be ironic, or just trying to piss us off?
The Gods will not stand for this, Dan Marino. Hear my words, you lughead. You are not welcome here, and if you stay a moment longer, well, I cannot guarantee your safety. You do not mess with the ghosts that haunt this one-year-old building. You should not anger them. Remove yourself, Dan Marino, if you know what is good for you.
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