Jim Leyland’s Smokehouse: A True Pain in the Ass

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Hello folks. The name is Leyland, Jim Leyland. And I’m here to tell ya’ll about somethin’ that’s choppin’ mah balls.

With technology gettin’ so advanced, it seems as though they still can’t solve the problems of homosexuals. Now, it’s not certain who’s a who and what’s a what in the major leagues, but I can point you to a source of worry:

Hemorrhoids and weathered man-butts.

All of a sudden, these Raggedy Andy’s claim their keesters are getting chafed. First, it started off with that Chinaman Kaz Matsui getting an anal fissure. Now, the whiners on my team are getting that Michael Crichton ass-syndrome.

I’m talking about you, Carlos Guillen. Why don’t you buck up and start playin’ more positions like my boy Brandon Inge, as opposed to barely being able to sit on the bench because of your untolerable hemorrhoids? Get ‘em lanced, you pansyass.

In my day, they didn’t even let the homosexuals play on most teams—they segregated them to Midwestern teams like the Cleveland Spiders, or the Browntown Liberace’s. We’ve come a long way in baseball; don’t smack me the wrong way, and I’m gosh darn proud that we can let one homosexual man in the locker room (but not in the showers, no way).

Here’s how they did it way back when if your fanny started wearing thin: chaps and a whole helluva lot of castor oil. I reckon I won’t get into the semantics, considerin’ half of you can’t handle your whiskey and stomach some truth. One thing I will say is that the shortstops ran a little slower, and Nap Lajoie couldn’t slide on the weekends.

My major point is that if you want to have consensual anal sex, just make sure it’s not with any of my Tigers. I’m sure that you can get some Marlins involved in some weird Eyes Wide Shut deal, but that’s because they lost their morals after Girardi left. My team has enough to worry about right now, and Jason Grilli is going to deal with a whole lot of worry in the name of his cat being murdered by yours truly. Jason Grilli, expect some cigarette burns and some talk in the paper, you little bitch.

Now it’s time for my weekly segment called “Fiddlesticks,” where I talk about things that don’t make sense to me.