How did we find a fictional baseball character and talk him into writing for our site you ask? Well, we tracked him down in one of the area's many retirement communities. After spending a couple weeks trying to explain the concept of the internet, we just told him we were his illegitimate great-grandchildren and we wanted granpappy's memoirs and thoughts on current events. He types them up for us on a typewriter, presumably one of these, and we transcribe them for the Wide Wide World of Web adding links and emphasis with necessary (ever try HTML on a typewriter? It's tough). So, without further concept explanation, here's his first crotchety old person rant.
Dave Brubeck is a huge gaping vagina.
Back in my day, men were cut from a different cloth. If you made a commitment you damn sure followed through with it. In my playing days they only allowed substitutions for injuries. Real injuries, not some bullshit anxiety disorder that you can't even explain. If somebody pulled that shit back in my day, we damn sure made them regret it. And not that shaving cream pie shit either. I once played on an exhibition team with Johnny Evers, one night he drank a fifth of Jack Daniels in a fashion emulated by a young John Belushi in the motion picture Animal House. Well, the next day he wasn't looking so good he ended up vomiting on a player who attempted to steal 2nd during the 3rd inning. He still was able to tag him out so everything was ok, but then the little pussy asked to be taken out of the game! Obviously we couldn't let that shit stand. Later that night we coerced him into repeating the previous night's feat but this time with some homemade moonshine, the only kind of moonshine in my opinion. Long story short he woke up in bed the following morning next to a Chinese hermaphrodite and nursing the World's biggest hangover. But I'll be damned if that bastard didn't play the full 9 that night and every night after that. And that was just for a series of exhibition games. Like I said, honor your commitments.
So when my nice great-grandchildren brought to my attention that jazz "legend" Dave Brubeck had pulled out of his scheduled performance Friday because of a "viral infection", it really got my goat. I once played for a week with a ruptured hemorrhoid after a Russian whore with unkempt fingernails snuck a finger up my ass without asking. Sure, I had to change my white uniform pants every other inning but I'll be damned if I didn't play every out of every inning. I honor my God damned commitments. Unlike this young Brubeck punk.
Kids these days have no respect for the way things used to be. What does that "legend" do anyway? He plays the piano. How does one get too sick to play the piano? My mustache could play the piano while battling Polio and this young whippersnapper bows out over a little virus? Gut that shit out pussy! You don't know pain until you slide into home with bleeding asshole! And you call yourself a legend. You think I just became the Mighty Casey overnight? No, I had to earn the title of "folk legend". How did I earn that distinction? Partially by honoring my fucking commitments!
I wish I could have just sent my son as a backup so I could stay in bed rolling around with some quality flapper poontang! But no, I'm a man of my word. And that's why I'm the Mighty fucking Casey, and you're just some bitch who messed around with time signatures.
Umm, thanks Casey!