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Look, I can’t outright verify this,
but I have it on good authority that
Fiji bottled water comes
straight from Todd’s basement rig.
He’s been blasting it out of a firehose.
I don’t know what to tell you.
He’s been doing it for years.
The lie got away from him.
That’s not all. He’s been grinding up
cinnamon gum and calling it saffron —
I don’t know what to tell you!
He’s mixing LaCroix with Robitussin,
canning it as “Midnight Mist.”
People love it,
say it tastes like substratum.
He has fingerless glove tattoos.
He outsourced blinking to another Todd.
I asked him once,
“Todd, why?”
He said, “Buddy,
I’m not in the business of forks.
I’m in the business of
spaghetti you can drink.”
I don’t know what to tell you.
It was the top of the ninth. The Hampton Hamsters were down fifteen runs to the great Ashmoor Maulers. With no arms left in the pen, the Hamsters sent in Marty Boggs, their long-forgotten reliever, in what now seems a stroke of fate. He flung his first and only pitch awkwardly. It hung there in midair, midway between the mound and batter extraordinaire Jay Ziegler, where it remains to this day. After three days and nights camping in the dugout, the Maulers packed their shit and went home. Jay took monastic robes and spent the rest of his days in complete silence. When press would visit him at Mt. So-and-So, he’d gently nod and often a single tear would stream down his long, creased face. Marty’s career thereafter descended into a familiar spiral of steroids, tabloid scandals, and multi-day benders. His wife left him and took the kids. When asked about the perfect pitch, he’d fly into a rage, sometimes hurling objects across the room. Marty and Jay had a sit-down once; Marty of course did all the talking. Jay wrote five words that continue to torment fans to this day: you can let go now. Marty cried and cried.
