Blue Jays Lead Majors In Stuff; Socialism Is Win

Our beloved Blue Jays currently lead or are tied for lead in the following offensive categories:

Batting Average
Home Runs
Extra Base Hits
wRAA (Weighted Runs Above Average)
WPA (Win Probability Added)
Curveball Velocity Against

Continue for Canada comrades! Fight for Socialism! Show them that we are superior economic (and offensive) producers!

Why Canadians are Actually Mexicans

Canadian=From Canada
Canada=Large and Cold
Large and Cold=Russia
Russia=Communist
Communist=North Korea
North Korea=Enemy of the United States
Enemy of the United States=Osama Bin Laden
Osama Bin Laden=Terrorist
Terrorist=Bill Ayers
Bill Ayers=Democrat
Democrat=Al Gore
Al Gore=Internet
Internet=Boxxy
Boxxy=Cute, but in that annoying spastic way
Cute, but in that annoying spastic way=Manny Ramirez
Manny Ramirez=Baseball Player
Baseball Player=Matt Wieters
Matt Wieters=Jesus
Jesus=Jesús
Jesús=Mexican

Therefore, Canadians=Mexicans.

Why didn’t anybody figure this out before now? I mean, this was obvious.

If MLB Players Were Mythical Creatures…

I sat at my computer trying to think up a cool name for My Brute and found myself going through names of mythical creatures and gods. That got me thinking, what if MLB players were gods or mythical creatures?

MLB Player: Roy Halladay
















Mythical Creature or God: Thor



Why Thor?
Halladay’s curveball is the sexiest thing Canada has seen since before Tommy Lee’s penis ruined Pam Anderson. Seeing as a badass curveball is also known as a hammer and Thor carries around a literal badass hammer this was a no-brainer.


MLB Player: David Ortiz



















Mythical Creature or God: Ogre


















Why Ogre?
Ogres are fucking scary. David Ortiz is normally a friendly guy, but not when he’s in the batters box. If he’s there and it’s the ninth inning and you’re not rooting for the Red Sox you’re probably shitting your pants because he is probably going to something to screw you over. It doesn’t matter if your pitcher throws 150 MPH, because Papi will find a way to bloop it off the end of the bat and have it land somewhere there isn’t a fielder. Also, he looks like Shrek.


MLB Player: Kyle Farnsworth



















Mythical Creature or God: Ares






















Why Ares?
Ares was the Greek god of war. Farnsworth has a history of, well, fucking people up and bringing warfare to the diamond. Take this little video for example: Video Link.


MLB Player: Kenny Lofton
















Mythical Creature or God: The Verizon Guy

Why the Verizon Guy?
At one point in his career Kenny Lofton played for 9 teams over six years. Essentially, he was the MLB’s version of that whore in high school who had her own version of “Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon.” Same thing with the Verizon guy. He is everywhere. Seriously, just in the time I’ve been writing this article he’s walked past my house three times.


MLB Player: Carlos Gomez













Mythical Creature or God: Pard



Why Pard?
First of all, most of you are probably asking “What in the in name of Roy Halladay’s curveball is a Pard?” A Pard was an animal that was believed to be extremely fast and mate with lions to make leopards, which only proves that people in the middle ages were fucking stupid and were too concerned with the black death to know anything about zoology. Anyway, Carlos Gomez is fast as hell and as he so simply put it, “I've always been fast because my dad was very fast.” Not hard to extrapolate, maybe Gomez is as smart as those that came up with the Pard‘s mating habits.


MLB Player: Matt Wieters


















Mythical Creature or God: Matt Wieters


















Why Matt Wieters?
He’s Matt Wieters, god damnit.


MLB Player: Alex Rodriguez



Mythical Creature or God: Popobawa



















Why Popobawa?
A popobawa is a one eyed flying ogre from Tanzania. That isn’t so weird, comparatively, right? Well, you’d be right if it stopped there. The popobawa is also known for sneaking into houses during the night and then forcefully sodomizing any men he happens to find there. Seriously, that is probably what A-rod is thinking about while looking in that mirror, “Holy shit, my ass looks hot! I wish I had a doppelganger to fuck.”


MLB Player: David Eckstien
















Mythical Creature or God: Elf















Why Elf?
Just fucking look at him.

(Side note: According to Google’s image search Female elves are hot to a ridiculous degree)

Cito Gaston Is Not Amused, Mr. Clemens

It has been brought to my attention recently, as we near another hallowed date in OJBO history- April 3, most notably- that neither myself or my esteemed colleague have written any new Blue Jays news in, oh, say, 24 hours. Yes, the fetish gear stuff was nice, and Stephane Dion got his comeuppance, but this is a JAYS BLOG. And whoever told you otherwise, IS GARBAGE!

So here's what Cito Gaston, tribal menace extraordinaire and our fearless leader, had to say about Roger Clemens whom he formerly managed in an interview we scored with him behind a sketchy titty bar in downtown Tijuana. In pictures:

OJBO: So, Roger Clemens. Poor guy, eh? Dude's rep has been totally shat on.

Cito:



















OJBO: Oh, right, sorry then. But still, man, you have to give credit where credit is due, right?

Cito:














OJBO: Wow, none? You don't value his time in the Jays organization at all? Surely there was something he brought to the table, no? How was he in the clubhouse?

Cito:



















OJBO: Point taken. But, then, in as concise a way as possible, could you tell me what kind of teammate he was?

Cito:



















OJBO: Cito, you're aware that as the 27th leading source for all things Blue Jay communism on the web, Roger Clemens might be aware of our existence, and may actually come across this article, right? Would you actually, y'know, stand by your words if things escalated? In other words, would you actually say this to his face?

Cito:













OJBO: Good. Last thing we need is someone flaking and making us look shitty. You're a good dude, Cito. Anything you'd like to say to Clemens if he's reading?

Cito:


















OJBO: Strong words, sir. You seem like a man of conviction. Hell, I already think Clemens is shit. But what if he walked through that door right now?

Cito:



















OJBO: Good deal, good deal. To close this off properly, though, where would you say, if you had to narrow it down to one specific thing, all this burning hatred for Roger Clemens stems from? Is there anything about him in particular you hate? Like, did he suffer from chronic bad hair? Was he loud? Did he enjoy Limp Bizkit music in public?

Cito:
















OJBO: Yeah, I guess that about wraps us up, then. Thanks for the time, C.

That's when Cito proceeded to walk back inside and slap a ho while taking 17 more shots of flaming tequila in the timespan of Stairway To Heaven's guitar solo. The man is a Canadian icon, folks. A Canadian icon.

...These are satire.

Need 10 Reasons To Hate the World? Here's One!

Sketchy assignments had me at a World War II leather bondage aficionado festival the other day (don't ask) interviewing the locals on their expectations for the Blue Jays this upcoming season.

You wouldn't believe who I ran into along the way...

Face-Melting Leather Nazi: Have you read this stuff? Tony LaRussa going to the bullpen in mid at-bat? Now that's change you can believe in.

Me: Take off your mask for me, please. Yeah...just as I figured. And...and...why in holy fucking hell are you stripping to your, are those Erik Estrada boxers?!

Face-Melting Leather Nazi: Murtleview High's coach pulled a crippled kid in the 3rd period so he could open a 20 point lead? What next, did he ask Def Leppard drummer Rick Allen "SAY BROTHER, WHY DON'T YA LEND ME A HAND HERE?"

Me: What would happen if I were to spill water on you?

Face-Melting Leather Nazi: Washington Nationals making roster cuts in mid-flight? "Get off my plane!"

Me: How did you get into Canada?

Face-Melting Leather Nazi: More professional athletes staining the game with steroids. This just in: And they would've gotten away with it, too...if it weren't for you meddling kids!

Me: No, really, we have systems set in place to protect this country. Who let you in?

Face-Melting Leather Nazi: You seen the buffet here? One look and you'd think all Canadians eat like Matt Stairs at the Funk-Blaster Festival!

Me: Oh Jesus...

Face-Melting Leather Nazi: We're no strangers to love. I present to you Frida Daezung, a world boomerang champ who did all the little things right. If you know what I mean.

Me: ...

Face-Melting Leather Nazi: So you wanted to be a Maverick, McCain? Well you should've known: Maverick wasn't one to crash and burn when it mattered most.

Me: I hate my life.

Face-Melting Leather Nazi: A former marine biologist, himself, Craig Runstead knew well that fish wouldn't ever walk like man. But when a tragic frying pan accident took his legs, he just reminded himself: man can't swim like fish, either. Now with roles reversed, the world might be treated to Runstead, swimming like fish for his country when London rolls around.

It sort've just kept going like that for another twenty minutes until I finally decided to test my theory out and spill water on him. And let's just say this, if Lisa Leslie were around, she'd tell you: sparks did fly.

Fuck. Shit. Erase that. Motherfucker.

Garbage Day!

In my nimble youth, long before I became awash with 7/11 slushees and the plight of the upper deck class, I served as, and this is an official title, Assistant Vice President to the Public Relations Stoolieboy of the Great Canadian Postal Service. In other words, I was a bitch's bitch. Not many people know this.

What the job entailed was basically me going around yelling inappropriate obscenities to old ladies and children, then seeing if they'd stick with the Canadian Postal Service. It was a test of our broad sweeping nationwide range, and an exercise in bureaucratic dipshittery. They just wanted me to get killed before I was established enough to be on payroll, so said Glacier Spooks, the grizzled 47 year veteran of The Force, who had survived both the second and third Unspoken Parcel Wars against a private branch in Seattle, Wa.

But anyways, a few inquiries, if we'll call them that, were mine, and a few were pre-written by, rumor has it, Prime Minister Pierre Trudeau's wife, who uttered absolute obscenities at the height of her orgasms. I can't really confirm this, though. I quit too soon.

Here are some of the greatest hits:

Old Lady Murtha: Hello, dear, I see you come from the post office, don'cha? Well, you got anything interesting today, eh?
Me: Alright, listen, we can only do this my way, or we both perish in flames. Contrary to what you believe, I'm actually an ever-loving creeper shark with an insatiable thirst for well traveled pussy. In most scientific circles, they call me an unhinged lunatic with a rampant, NBA sized libidous maximus. Anyways, the Russians, those swine tasting rat bastards are coming, with all their red buffoonery in tow. It is up to us to preserve the Canadian way of life. To do so, you will get down on your knees and echo St. Vincent's prayer twice. If it doesn't exist, come up with it now; you have 8 seconds. Once done, my pants will be in 1955 with Marty McFly. You will then proceed to treat my cock like it's a 1992 Toyota Tercel and you're way short on gas. When done, notify me so I can rip off these useless threads you cover up with and sing us a tribal lust song while we dance around the bonfires. Naked and dripping in incestually orgasmic moonfluid. Call me son.

Streetpunk Named Desire: Hey fagvirgin mailbitch, I ordered a laptop and six issues of Hustler Magazine. Where are they, you asshat?
Me: I am not your mother. I am not your father. I am not your brother. I am not your neighbor. I am not your G.I. Joe. I am not Spider-Man. I won't fly. I won't breathe fire. And I won't risk my life. Especially not for you, you 13 year old bag of chunky, dripping pastryshit. To be honest, I don't care very much about your laptop or your fap mags. I don't even care about you, and neither does your family. I am not the mailman, I just dress like him for strategic sheep purposes. What I am is an all-powerful 17th century clairvoyant, and I foresee a future of unhinged loneliness in you, you star-raping little cockturtle. By your 19th birthday, you will have become a patient of something South American, untreatable and relatively painful. No one will cry by your side as your health rapidly declines, your kidneys ooze from your pores, and you become a statistic, a casualty of nothing, a forgotten past. Hairless as a devoured mouse and skinny enough to pull a Houdini in a mugshot, you will be buried at the bottom of a canal, with weights tied to your wrists and a shirt that reads I Heart New York being all that decorates your atrocious, pathetically limp corpse. Nuclear glowing fish will then eat you to the bone.

Colin Cowherd: Let's go, coonboy. Empty out those mailbags. I know lots of people want to talk to me, boy, but this ain't no reason to be takin' so long. Daddy wants his fix of haterade.
Me: In all absolute honesty, what's the closest you've ever been to female genitalia? And I know that's a hackneyed response to anyone acting out as if something the size of Chile were lodged securely in the nethers of their cave at Asscheek Valley; but in all honesty, you seem like a tragically lonely pedantic little cock with an unending necessity to overcompensate for, well, something. But it's not my job to speculate, now, is it? Still, though, you're not even in my target demographic and yet I feel like letting you off would be a disservice to not only man, but both the flora and fauna of this planet. Which parent forgot to say no once in a while? In other words, where does this ungodly degree of self-importance emanate from? Or is it just that you couldn't afford a Hummer, so you made this radioprick schtick a suitable replacement? I'll want to be establishment, you'll say one of these days in the future? Not if it comes with third rate hookers and the social skills of leprosy. Oh, and here's the mail. All of it. A naked, signed picture of former Blue Jay Russ Adams fellatiating a donkey in New Mexico.
(By the way, I'm not black. Not that there'd be anything wrong with being black, but, just sayin'...don't get confused by FakeColin's misguided racism)

Opposition Leader Stephane Dion: Flkjsfsk? Flslkdjf lksdjfpaa kasd, afjj ka. Relkdf s; dfk s.
Me: GARBAGE DAY! (figure out the rest)

...This are satire.

Everybody Come and Play

One of the best things about being Canadian? Robin Scherbatsky aka Robin Sparkles' teen pop career before she sold out and went down to the filthy McDonalds and Hummer States.

But here at OJBO, we're all about remembering the simpler times, when America bowed before The Great White Hope's pop sensibilities and rockin'-you-till-Canada-Day prowess. Hell, back then we could even score cameos from Prime Minister Brian Mulroney while Slick Willie down south was too busy fiddling with his subscription to Cigar Aficionado and Kosovo to bother gracing, say, Alice In Chains with his presence.

So come on Jessica, come on Tori.
Let's watch this video.
You won't be sore-ee.




You see that, America? You see that shit? We had talking robots when you fuckwardens were still turning hockey pucks into neon cumshots!