Thursday, February 21, 2013

Samson Price won't sacrifice his divine hair to join the Yankees

"Then Samson prayed to God, 'Remember me, I pray thee, and strengthen me, I pray thee, only this once, O God, that I may be at once avenged of the Philistines for my two eyes.'  Samson said, 'Let me die with the Philistines!'"

And so it happened that David Price, baseball's most aptly named Philistine, declared that he shalt not shaveth his beautiful chin in order to playeth in the temple of the hated Yankee northern tribe.

"Never, I say, nay never! I shalt not obey Pinstriped Law, for it is not the way of my face-pelted tribe," Price hath told the Tampan scribes. "The badger fur that sheaths my jowls hath come from the Lord Himself. It hath beckoned to many fine ladies, and it still carries the imagined scent of their nuzzled underbellies, and to razoreth it for mere pieces of Steinbrennerian silver would be a blaspheme worthy of a Sheffield or Pavano, and I say, 'Nay!'"

And the Yankiverse, upon hearing the words of the Ray, replied:

'Fucketh you, ye future Met. If thou were not the fool who offered Jeter's grand home run, we would send a team of Murdoch's donkeys to trample your tent and photograph the jawbones and underparts of your harem.

"We do not needeth long range covenants with over-pitched arms, who shalt wilt in the coming years like the bones of chickens left in the Tampoan sun.

"Go, ye bearded Florida clod. Go, and sign with shampoo faced Angels, or with the hair-ticked hosiery of Chicago or Boston! Go and keep thy mangy, goat-like forelocks. We shall remain clean of chin and skin, although somehow, tattoos did slither past our gated rules of dermis."

And so it was said. And it meant nothing. 


John M said...

And Sanchez doesn't wear a helmet. Woe is us.

Fie on you, Price, fie! You furry blasphemer!

There, that'll teach 'im. Little bastard.

Billy Martin said...

Why would we want a guy like David Price in our dugout? Remember the fire in the eyes of Catfish Hunter? The crazed imbecile Goose Gossage? He with buttocks firmly planted upon a birthday cake (Sparky Lyle)? Thems YANKEES, pal. Men who are so macho it is downright painful. We don't need little bearded weasels sitting on our bench. I agree with Duque. Go get a shampoo with the Angels. Maybe Pujols will do your nails.

Tom said...

nuzzled underbellies!
ye future Met!