SERIOUSLY, Kyle Weilland? SERIOUSLY?
In the Astros’ 4-3 win over the Yankees, Weiland threw four no-hit innings, using his sinker to get early swings and needing just 49 pitches to get through them.
Well that’s just FRICKtastic. Let’s sound the 76 FRICKING trombones in Houston.
Never mind that it’s a SPRING TRAINING game.
You know. AND NOT THE MOST IMPORTANT FRICKING GAME OF THE WHOLE FRICKING YEAR.
Oh, yes. Let’s take THIS opportunity to not melt into a blubbery mess on the pitching mound. Are you doing this on PURPOSE? Are you a double agent, Kyle? Because that’s such a cliche. You were working for Houston ALLLLLLLLLL along. Weren’t you? WEREN’T YOU? Where the FRICK was this miracle in September?
September was like “Misery.” The movie version. With Kathy Bates. You’re Kathy Bates, Kyle.
(And not the book version. With imaginary Hattie McDaniel. Hattie sure is scary in my imagination. But I think the Kathy Bates reference is more visual. Don’t you?)
We’re just lying there. Trying to collect enough painkillers in our teeth to put the fricking season to sleep, see. It’s not like we can go anywhere. Our fricking car hit a fricking tree, Kyle. And you’re Kathy Fricking Bates with a hammer making right angles out of our ankles.
AFTER WHAT MY ANKLES HAVE BEEN THROUGH, YOU SHOULD BE ASHAMED.
And now. ALLLLLL of a sudden. YOU GIVE US “GREEN effing TOMATOES?”
WHY THE FRICK DOES HOUSTON GET TO BE MARY LOUISE PARKER?????
I can’t even look at you, Kyle Weiland. You disgust me.
I miss Whitney.
I blame you for that, TOO, Kyle.
What are your thoughts? Choose an option below in the comments:
1. Kyle Weiland was body snatched.
2. Kyle Weiland is a jerk.
3. Kyle Weiland is a double agent assassin like that hot Russian guy in “From Russia With Love” who can’t open the briefcase on the train.
4. Baseball is a lie. There is no Kyle Weiland.
I am boycotting one of my (prior) favorite news sites. The Onion.
The conversation (ten minutes ago) went like this:
Coworker-who-barely-knows-baseball-players-wear-mitts-he-is-that-flaky-when-it-comes-to-important-things: Hey, Lauren, what’s that player that you like?
What player? I ask, going into a philosophical (rant) conversation about the merits of the Red Sox as a unit.
Flaky coworker: No, I mean the one that you like.
I like everyone. Go back to typing.
No. I mean the one with the weird name.
Stop typing. He’s subjected to a lecture about how “weird-named players” kick ass. Like Yaz. And Youk. And how the letter “Y” is holy in baseball. Use computer background to illustrate point.
Youkilis. That’s it, he said.
Is silent for a long time.
I’m stewing over this. Flaky coworker doesn’t even know how David Ortiz is, and just name drops like that?
Go to flaky coworker’s computer. Find THIS link.
“Now, I didn’t show you that, Lauren, because you get a little weird about him.”
How DARE they????!!!!!
People forget that Kevin Youkilis is MY pretend husband.
I would never write a story about YOUR pretend husband.
Clearly, the Onion is compiled by Orioles fans.
Oh. Your pretend husband isn’t John Lackey, is he?