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SPEAKING of Jeter…
Jeter will not be making an appearance tonight. Sorry, five-year-old Yankees fan whose father let you press the mouse button for the first time… just so you could vote on your pinstriped hero. You can’t even pronounce his name correctly yet, can you? I see it now… tearful lip quiver… dad-assisted mouse click… “Thissun’s fuh you, Deyawick Jeeetah!”
Alas, little Bobby, your vote doesn’t count. It’s like a real vote, except much, much more ridiculous. See, your hero? He’s not playing in the All-Star Game… no matter how many times Daddy lets you click the mouse.
Derek Jeter doesn’t feel like it.
No.
He’s not injured.
No.
He wasn’t yanked from the line up for improper footwear. No, Jeter and Roidriguez aren’t shooting up by the urinal.
Jeter chose not to come. Making this article from the Onion (yeah, so I didn’t boycott them. But I will. Starting… NOW) all the more funny.
See, Derek, I don’t know if they teach you this in the pinstripe club, but the All-Star game? It’s not about you. It’s about the thousands of fans who, God knows why, voted for you. Clicked on your picture, Derek. Is it so hard to pop your head out of the dugout tonight and say “hi?” Have a little R-E-S-P-E-C-T.
He’s just too “exhausted” after the physical and mental (you kidding me?) stress of hitting number 3,000.
See, Derek. The reason you GOT to number 3,000? It wasn’t the Stankee organization. And it sure as hell wasn’t your audience-planted speed gun. It was the fans. The fans like that five-year-old wearing a Jeter onesie and clicking your picture on the All-Star ballot. Way to diss them. Aren’t you supposed to be Mr. Congeniality?
It’s okay, little 5-year-old Stank fan. Red Sox Nation has room for you. You can sit next to me.
~L
See… I don’t really care about the All-Star game. Because it’s not MY job. But you best believe when advertiser banquets happen at my publishing company, I’m there with a Vaseline smile.
Bud Selig’s got your back, Jeter. Don’t know if I’d brag about that…
I STILL WANT TO KNOW what you would have done with that 3K ball. Keep the comments coming.
PS- Don’t blame 5-year-old Bobby. Blame 5-year-old Bobby’s parents.
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Oh, Papi… who DOESN’T love you? Oh. Right. Oops. Forgot.
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Damnit, Youkie-poo! Stay out of this.

