FIFTY THOUSAND MOONS
Tuesday, May 15, 2012
Posted by el duque at 6:17 AM
What the hell happened to Clay Rappata, aside from having to go through life with the name "Clay Rappata?"
Who next on the Yankees will begin to experience the concrete-clogged nostrils and phlegm-filled throats that signify clear acts of war by our enemies?
Must we wait until Nick Swisher is half-consumed by flesh-eating bacteria before we wake up and smell the anthrax?
It's time the chain-smoking Steinbrothers to get off their thrones: Our team of coughers and hackers is under germ attack.
The owners can't see it past the blue smoke of their two-carton-a-day habit. But last night, Clay Rappata was helped into the clubhouse, gasping for air due to a "viral infection." This came as a raspy cough, which has ravaged Mark Teixeira's insides like a snort of rubber cement, continues to torment the star firstbaseman.
These internal welts won't be salved by cherry red Ludens lozinges or rubbing kinky mentholatum jelly on someone's bare chest - (although the jel can offer unique satisfaction, in a pinch.) Some enemy agent has sought to to silence Teixeira's bat by giving voice to his lungs, and he sounds like Satchmo. Where the hell is Gene Monahan when we need him?
Good grief, is there a doctor in New York City? Do we have to start shaking beads? Let's get on this. It's mid-May. Excuse me while I wretch. Hawwwwwwwwwwwk, pttuii.