June 5, 2009

Who didn't see this coming?

The Royals, and yes, the almighty Greinke, lost.

This one had been coming for the last couple weeks.

Cue the sad trombone.

DEPRESSION IN WAV FORMAT.

Cue it, dammit!

Ahem.

Cued.

Go Royals. You're the Whatever.

Seriously.

I'm staying in bed tomorrow.

June 4, 2009

Meme (sounds like 'Ream')

What the hell happened to this season?

It has become painfully clear that every Royals game should now end with this:



Go Royals! You're the...

uh...

Shit.

Play 'em off, Keyboard Cat.

May 28, 2009

Land of the Losses


My last post was too optimistic.

I'll never make that mistake again.

The team has been terrible since that six-game winning streak. I don't care if you have the best stopper in the game. That doesn't matter if you lose three or four games between every Greinke start.

Oil and water have returned to their proper positions. The Royals are biffing plays left and right, sputtering on offense, losing the games that count, accidentally spitting in umpires' eyes... really, only one analogy works for the past few weeks.

The Royals are a freaking dog. For the first five weeks, they seemed healthy, fun, excitable. You were in love with your new pet. Sure it had some fleas and some bad habits, but it was a good dog.

Now?

Now the new dog smell has worn off and the dog fart smell has permeated the metropolitan area. The dog's anal glands are leaking. Bad pitching. Bad hitting. Bad defense. They are dragging their collective asses on the ground and spreading the ass juice all over the field. Don't believe me? Watch Jose Guillen try to field right.

And after the glands are done leaking, this dog is furiously licking at the stain, licking it until it's gone and then licking the empty spot until you smack it with a rolled-up magazine.

I know this is a pretty technical analogy. I'm sorry this blog has gotten so highbrow.

Here's a diagram to help explain what I'm saying:



That's the Royals right now. A wall-eyed dog slurping up its own anal leakage until something snaps it out of its trance. Unfortunately, that something doesn't appear to be Greinke.

He's on track for the Cy Young, and yet the team's record isn't much different from last year.

They have to turn this around. Otherwise, we're in for a horribly disappointing year. What could fix this? What could resolve this problem?

I think we all know the answer, though we are afraid to admit it.

The Royals

Need

Guns.

That's it.

That's the solution.

They need to pretend it's the opening sequence from The Last Boy Scout or the closing sequence of The Naked Gun, and they need to cap some bitches.

I don't normally advocate violence, but what other choice does this team have?




Instead of shooting themselves in the foot, the Royals could shoot their opponents.

Instead of throwing gopher balls, Horacio Ramirez could throw bullets.

Instead of meekly grounding into double plays, Miguel Olivo could commit some double homicides.

Instead of sucking ass, Coco Crisp could smoke some ass.

Instead of George Brett dropping F-Bombs, he could drop carpet bombs on the visitor's clubhouse.

Instead of eating their own dookie, the Royals could eat the other teams' babies.



And now it's official.

The satire has reached Jonathan Swift levels (without the humor or logic and with many more references to poop for some reason), so I'll just close with the following:

I hate May. The month. The Darrell. The crapitude.

I hate it.

But it's almost over.

So yeah. Keep your heads up, true believers.

I was joking about the murdering, the killing, the eating of the small children, the conspiracy to commit criminal acts via an anonymous blog.

Ha ha.

Ha ha ha.

Funny, right?

Ha.

Oy.

Ahem. At least something good has come from this; for any of the Royals promotional staff reading, consider this: Willie Bloomquist Free Derringer Giveaway Night = Sure Sellout.

Yep.

How many days until the next Greinke start?

Go Royals! You're the Best!


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