“It’s your fucking fault I finished fourth, you .215-hitting Mexican.”Attention, Baseball Writers’ Association of America members (except two of you), Bob Melvin, Charlie Manuel, and Clint Hurdle.

You’re so fucking dead.

I’m on the internet yesterday, looking at tits updating my Netflix queue with some tittie movies, and I just so happened to check out Cubs.com and see that I finished fourth in the National League Manager of the Year voting. FOURTH! Behind Bob Melvin, Charlie Manuel, and Clint Hurdle.

Melvin of all people won the thing. Bob Melvin? Really? He’s the guy whose wife banged his best friend in the coat room during Melvin’s wedding reception. Melvin? I’ve taken shits with more personality than Bob Melvin. Fucking guy. He always looks like he’s smelling a fart.


“Holy shit, and that was open-air, too!”


“Mine smell like roses!”


“Oh, God, Gonzo! You been eating your own shit?”


See?

Then, you have Charlie fucking Manuel finishing second. Charlie Manuel? I guess he should be used to finishing second. He once finished second to John McGraw. Seriously, how fucking old is this guy? I thought Melvin was sniffing another fart when he accepted the award. Turns out, the smell was just Manuel’s rotting corpse.


“Just- Just give me one- one second to- to rest.”


Christ, the guy has aged as well as Brian-Doyle Murray.

And don’t even get me started on this homo.


“I auditioned for The Thing!”


Square-headed mother fucker. I wonder if he grew that thing to cushion his boyfriend’s balls when they’re slamming against his chin. No self-respecting man is that tan in Colorado in fucking OCTOBER.

Did any of these assholes have Michael Barrett and Ryan Dempster on their team? Did any of the them have to lure their G.M. into their office by leaving a trail of deep-fried Snickers bars from the Old Country Buffet just to explain why Rob Bowen and Koyie Hill aren’t feasible options at catcher? Hell, just look at the starting center fielders for the other three jagoffs. I’d have killed for Young, Rowand, or Taveras instead of trotting Jacque Jones out there.

Not to mention this:


Go ahead and type your response with one hand. I don’t mind.


Tell me that you wouldn’t want to feel that guy’s hot breath on the back of your sweaty neck as your forehead is getting repeatedly slammed into the rear window of your mom’s station wagon.

Suck it, voters.