I've been consciously trying to avoid writing about the Twins for the past couple of weeks. I've been hoping that the team would grow desperate for further Sota blog posts, and amid their despair, would start playing better. It has worked somewhat, in that the Twins have finally broken the curse of mediocrity, and are finally a couple of games above .500. They have had good series against the Tigers and Royals recently, but with the Yankees coming into town this week, there is a growing sense of dread that we are headed back into suckville.
The Yankees, with their pinstripes and Jeters and use of $100 dollar bills as towels seem to intimidate the pants off of the Twins year after year. Those evil bastards are undefeated against us so far this season and have won 16 of the last 22 meetings. Can't they let us have some hope of success? It's not enough for them to steal 12 year old's favorite Twins (Chucky Knoblach) or for them to crush our playoff dreams (2003). They must repeatedly beat us into the ground with every chance they get, causing us to question whether we can really compete in the first division of baseball with our small market tendencies.
With these thoughts in mind, I was dreading the Yankees arrival into Hubert H Humphrey. The feeling of despair only grew when I noticed that their starting pitcher with none other than Fat Mcgee himself. Our old nemesis, Carsten Charles Sabathia.
For years, the Pregnant Man had been tormenting our beloved collection of left-handed batters as an Indian. Even with our repeated attempts to make him bend down to pick up bunted balls, we never seemed to do well against CC. He tried to eat Lil Nicky on several occasions, and generally shut us down.
With his trade to Milwaukee last season, we finally felt some reprieve from CC's evil ways. However, everyone knew that it was only a matter of time before he ended up in New York. Talents of his caliber are always sucked into the dark side of the Bronx, eventually. Brian Cashman and the Steinbrenners build an apartment made entirely of cash for these type of players. Pure gold is injected directly into their blood stream (along with other items. What's up ARod), causing them to forever crave more and more money.
Carsten Charles was no exception. He is currently the highest paid pitcher in the game, and refuses to pitch unless his mound is made of cash and Twins fan's broken dreams. Last night he completed dominated our lineup, intimidated Scottie Baker enough to pitch his worst game of the year, and tried to consume LNP during the seventh inning stretch. We lost 10-2 and fell back to third place in the Central.
CC feeling faint. Must bring up blood sugar...
The only relief I can get from the CC related pain is to repeatedly make fun of him. Although I've attempted to throw out some barbs in this entry, no one could rip apart Fats McGee quite like Bat-Girl. Below is an entry from a couple of seasons ago, discussing the top ten reasons that CC had hit Justin Morneau with a pitch:
10) Sick of own mother shouting, "BOOTY CALL" every time she sees Morneau.
9) Avenging history of Canadian aggression against home nation of Fatassia.
8) Aim off due to finger blister from spending two hours voting for Jordin Sparks after American Idol previous night.
7) Morneau didn't invite him to tenth bday party; had to stay home and "play with his Han Solo."
6) Temporarily taken over by spirit of crazed, obese lefty.
5) Brad Radke's mom called him a pussy.
4) Up all night: Sex in the City Marathon on TBS!
3) Ass rash.
2) Tried to hit fan behind Morneau that was eating a hamburger that he felt was his to consume.
1) He's a dick.-Sota
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