So it’s been like nine months since I’ve been out on the field doing my thing. You know, tail wagging, racing those little shits around the bases, shooting a bunch of fucking T-shirts at fans, and I gotta tell you: as mildly retarded as I may look out there on the field, I kind of miss it, the old gig.
So build a fucking ballpark already, will you? Jesus Mary Mother in Heaven. Quit dilly-dallying around and let’s drop four fucking bases around a grassy diamond, toss in some bleachers and get this cockamamie shit-show back on the road.
Let’s play some fucking ball again, shall we gentlemen?
Where should this shit be built, you ask? In the Bottom, of course. Sure, it’s going to be costly. And there ain’t much down there as it is. But there’s a little saying out there you might have heard of, from a little film called Field of Fucking Dreams: “Built it, and they will come.”
And they will. Hard.
We’re talking about fans coming, a Class AA team coming, and all kinds of private investment coming. Smell that? It’s the awesome aroma of capitalism wafting through the air, and I fucking love it.
You’ve seen all the studies that say this can work. All like what, 40 of them? How many goddamn experts in this shit do you need to tell you the same motherfucking thing over and over and over – and over – again? With the hours and months we’ve shat down the drain and money we’ve pissed off a cliff we could have had the goddamned grandstands built already. But no, we needed a few more 100-K-plus reports shoved up our asses, just to be sure.
You might be wondering why someone named Diamond Duck is supporting this project a few miles from my home, The Diamond. Have you seen that pile of dinosaur shit lately? Have you been to the so-called “neighborhood” over there? How many times have you heard someone say, “Hey, Joe, great idea. Let’s all go watch a baseball game in the middle of fucking nowhere, then hang out near the I-95 all night, maybe go pop a few beers at the self-storage facility. Perhaps the poor fucks who hangout at the Greyhound station ‘cross the street all night would want to join us. Hey Joe, you want to come with?”
No! Of course Joe doesn’t want to go, you dipshit! The Bottom is where “it’s” at. “It” being “shit to do.”
And see this costume? I don’t have to be a duck. Throw in a pair of buck teeth and I can become a goddamn beaver: the Bottom Beaver. Color me gray and call me the Shockoe Sandpiper. Don’t give me that look, asshole. Ducks and sandpipers are in the same genus or species or bird family or whatever-the-fuck you call it.
And don’t give me that you’re-not-a-baseball-fan bullshit. They want to build restaurants and stores and homes and hopefully a couple places where I can get my duck-mack on. Have you seen what’s there now? A goddamned parking lot, that’s what. This area is as ripe for development as an apple in the dead of Octfuckingtober.
Plus, know what else is great about the Bottom? The bitches, baby. Human and duck alike, the chicks are everywhere. So take me out to the motherfucking ball game.