Roger Clemens Writes a Book

I'm not even going to pretend that I can write anything this funny, but Jon Bois from Progressive Boink can, and I can certainly link to it in a vain attempt to associate myself with it:

Roger Clemens wants to write a book, just like Jose Canseco's. Here's Chapter 5 (unedited, of course):

CHAPTER 5: What Hath God Wraught???

Roger Clemens was a housewholed name. Even 1-day-old babies across the Fruited Plain, rattling they're baby toys and crapping themselfs, knew of the great "Rocketman" (Roger Clemens). He was a man who Lifted the Spirits of the Nation uponst his furrow'd shoulders and bench pressed it into Heaven. When he retires, even the most leather-jacketed of men will weep.

He stood there on the pitcher's mount. He stared up at the stands. Announced attendance: a freaking buttload. Time stood still and it did that Ken Burns thing where some one play's a piano and clumsy-footed children run the bases in slow-mow. "Time to Genuflect," remarked Roger.

He look't at the baseball he held in his artisan, meaty hands. Fact: a baseball is exactly 5 inches in diameter. Fact: a baseball is comprosed of exactly 5,000 stitches. But it was not the maths of the Modern Age that juxtaposed Roger at this particular time. Rather: "how am I going to strike out this Bozo?"

The Bozo in question was Mike Piazza. Mike Piazza was an stupid nerd whom was loathed by all. He stood in the batting circle, one abreast, and turn'd to face the fans. He did that thing where you put you're thumb on you're nose and wiggle around you're other fingers! The fans where Enraged. "Nyah!" he taunted. "Nyahhhhh!" Also, one time he threw rocks at Maya Angelou. Our nation's freaking Poet Larroquette. Only God knows why. What a butt head.

Anyway, but, however, I Digress. Piazza walked up to the batter's box, as though a dumb guy walking up to the batter's box. "Oh crap," thought Roger. "This guy is going to call his shot." Sure enough. Piazza cupp'd his hands and bellow'd to the Heavens, "SHOT!" The towns people trembled, but; Roger didn't tremble. Trembling is for Moral Midgets.

I went through the Signs with my catcher. "Do you think it was unrealistic that the aliens could die if you poured water on them," he said. "Yes," I said. (This part of the story is just a joke [not real]).

Mike Piazza haunch'd over and awaited for the pitch. Roger leveraged his buttocks and through the baseball.

[NOTE: If this book gets made into a movie, make this part go into slow motion and play "Jeremy" by Pearl Jam. Thanks, Rog]

"STRIKE ONE," scuttled the Umpire. To more strikes. That's all Roger needed. He was done clowning around. He threw another fast ball, inside and away. It nailed the middle corner with the beautiful craftsmanship of an agile carpentress. Strike two.

Everyone stood up and cheer'd a heavenly chorus. The crowd was extemporaneous. Mike Piazza expected a fastball; but, Roger threw an even faster fastball. Swing and a Mrs. And it was strike three. The catcher said, "Crap, my freaking hand hurts!" Piazza said, "I'll get you next time, Clemens!" Then a bird pooped on his head. Clemens was carted aboudst the field in a Horse Driven Chariot. He had won the game. He had faced down Mike Piazza and sent him to Kingdom Kong. [NOTE: is it Kingdom Come or Kingdom Kong? Looked it up on AltaVista, results inconclusive.]

Then Brian McNamee came on the field and said a bunch of stupid bull pucky. Then Skylab fell on him.


CHAPTER 6: The Sound and the Furious

Love it.