It’s Mozeliak and it can be cured by calling it
Jocketty.

It’s here’s
to another hundred years, yeah, good luck with that. No cure.

It’s playing by the rules so no, Billary, they
won’t count.

Based on your competition, you’re still getting ripped off; I have no sympathy.

It’s Allen Krause, and no, I don’t know where in
the world he is either.

It’s addiction and yes it can be cured but you have to work the program.

It’s fantasy baseball and no, you can’t beat me.

It’s called self-righteousness; maybe if you
lost the attitude we wouldn’t care so much.

It’s a hanging slider and when AP’s at the
plate, fuhgettaboutit.

 

But is that it? Is
that all? You mean it’s been this way
the whole time? Really? Or is it something else? You know the answer. I wish I did. I’ve been thinking about this one all night—no, longer than that—about 29
years now and all I have is a huge headache. I feel nauseous from looking deep down inside (I can’t see too well) but
I have followed my nose (it’s a big one, thanks to Mom) and yes…ah…yes, here it
is…right here:

It’s meat. Put some
salt on it. Hang it on a hook. Voila.

Don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right…

Peace,

Jeffy