Now, I want you to remember that no bastard ever won a game by dying for his team. He won it by making the other poor dumb bastard die for his team.

Men, all this stuff you’ve heard about the White Sox not wanting to fight, wanting to stay out of the war, is a lot of horse dung. White Sox, like all good Americans, traditionally, love to fight. All real Americans love the sting of battle. Except Javier Vazquez. But he’s Puerto Rican and I’m not even sure he’s an American. Maybe half-American. I’ll let the politicians sort that out.

When you were kids, you all admired the champion marble shooter, the fastest runner, the big league ball players, larry, the toughest boxers. Americans love a winner and will not tolerate a loser. Americans play to win all the time. Now, I wouldn’t give a hoot in hell for a man who lost and laughed. That’s why Americans have never lost and will never lose a war. Because the very thought of losing is hateful to Americans. Especially losing to savage, godless Injuns.

Now, the White Sox are a team. It lives, eats, sleeps, fights as a team. This individuality stuff is a bunch of crap. The bilious bastards who wrote that stuff about individuality for the Saturday Evening Post don’t know anything more about real battle than they do about fornicating. And I’d like to take this moment to send my condolences to SSH2005 since he can no longer fornicate.

Now, we have the finest food and equipment, the best spirit, and the best men in the world. You know, by God, I actually pity those poor bastards we’re going up against. By God, I do. We’re not just going to shoot the bastards. We’re going to cut out their living guts and use them to grease our cocks in preparation for some Punto. We’re going to murder those lousy redskin bastards by the bushel.
 
Now, some of you boys, I know, are wondering whether or not you’ll chicken-out under fire. Don’t worry about it. I can assure you that you will all do your duty. The Indians are the enemy. Wade into them. Spill their blood. Shoot them in the belly. When you put your hand into a bunch of goo that a moment before was ballyb’s face, you’ll know what to do. And that’s not bet against the Rays.

Now there’s another thing I want you to remember. I don’t want to get any messages saying that we are holding our leading. We’re not holding anything. Let the Twin do that. We are adding to our score constantly and we’re not interested in holding onto anything — except the enemy. We’re going to hold onto him by the nose, and we’re gonna kick him in the ass. We’re gonna kick the hell out of him all the time, and we’re gonna go through him like crap through homesickalien after colintj fists her anus!

Now, there’s one thing that you men will be able to say when you get back home, and you may thank God for it. Thirty years from now when you’re sitting around your fireside with your grandson on your knee, and he asks you, “What did you do in the great Nick Punto-Carlos Gomez Pogrom?” — you won’t have to say, “Well, I shoveled shit in Wrigleyville.”
 
Alright now you sons-of-bitches, you know how I feel.
 
Oh, I will be proud
to lead you wonderful guys
into battle anytime,
anywhere.
 
That’s all. Oh, after extended coitus with Natalie Punto.

.. And if you’re a bicycle rider with a belly, don’t wear tight bike shirts with a sponsor logo. No one really thinks you are on the tour. 38 minutes ago
Observations on 2 hours of sleep: Women who smoke also shouldn’t be fat. Pick one or the other. 40 minutes ago

i’d just like to add that i think it’s hilarious that the suntimes made him and deluca drive to and from the twins series.

Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more,
Or close the wall up with our White Sox dead!
In peace there’s nothing so becomes a man
As modest stillness and humility,
But when the organ music and crack of the bat blows in our ears,
Then imitate the action of the cat: Paws up!

The choice is yours!

link

thanks.

is it just me, but I can never read the comments unless I fire up Micro shit Internet explorer, on firefox and chrome they just meld with the background.