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!

Soviet Letter to the Blue Jays

After my recent invention of the time machine, I went back in time to the cold war and started World War III. No nukes were used, because every time somebody did use one I just went back in time and deactivated it. Just watching people lunch a bunch of missiles is no fun. The war was evenly matched and the Soviets, not learning from Germany, sent a message asking the Toronto Blue Jays to attack the United States. The letter is presented to you unedited, and translated from Russian.

Dear Toronto Blue Jays management,

As I’m sure you are aware, we are currently engaged in an armed conflict with the United States. Due to our recent nuclear malfunctions we have not been able to gain any ground on the capitalist menace. We ask for your involvement in the war on the side of Communism. In return for your military support we promise to help you regain what is rightfully yours; the fan base of western New York, which was stolen from you by the Mets.

Sincerely,
Leonid Brezhnev

In the end, the Blue Jays entered the war on the side of the United States, along with the Expos and Canucks. With the additional baseball bats, hockey sticks, maple syrup, and strange bacon the North American Allies prevailed and the war was won. In order to repay the Canadian teams for their help the Mets were contracted by Executive order.

Now, you may ask why you don’t remember this. It’s because it never happened. I went back in time again and convinced myself not to build the time machine. Because even though the Mets were contracted(which was awesome), a war was just too much of price to do so. You may also ask why I remember building the time machine and what I did with it if I never built it. Matt Wieters told me what happened, because he knows all.

The Toronto Blue Jays In: Every '90s TV Show Ever

Canada is internationally renowned for being a place of wonder, and opportunity, and sweet, sweet cherry pie. It's a vast, icy, frigid expanse, inhabited only by those guilty of the most heinous offenses against man, their descendents, and the clinically insane (American term: hippie). It's also the Mother Superior of all lands across Earth.

As such, its baseball team gets a TV show. A cultured, intelligent, quirky, witty one that douchebag hipsters can ironically enjoy 10 years from now. Fuck you.

Overbay Bay

(Spandau Ballet song plays, because we're cultured, as intro credits show stars doing cheesy things. Rod Barajas is chasing a dog with nothing but a bowler hat on. Vernon Wells plays an accordion. Scott Rolen wears an old San Francisco Giants jacket.)

Rolen: Hey gang, I'm making breakfast.

Adam Lind: Dad, I need $5.

B.J. Ryan: Why, Adam? Men don't need $5. Men need TOOLS! Grr!

Lind: Right, well, the annoying, creepy neighbor girl with halitosis is taking me...somewhere. Somewhere that will get us in mountains of not-very-serious trouble. (pouts) Now I need my $5. Pleeeeease!

Ryan: Rawr! Manly job! Come with me to fix a car today, Adam! Just the two of us...MEN! Grr!

Lind: Oh for fuck's sake, that hasn't been funny since 1994! Can you please shut up?!

Ryan: No! My cock is NOT small!

(B.J. Ryan runs off crying in a fit of insecurity. Laugh track)

Matt Stairs: He's right, Adam, what you need is a job. Discipline. You could use it.

Lind: Shut up, Uncle Phil. Fat joke!

(laugh track)

Stairs: (growls)

Rolen: Now, Matt, you know violence is not the answer here.

Stairs: Don't you make rape jokes for a living?

(Pitching coach Brad Arnsberg comes over)

Rolen: (to camera) Look, kids! It's our friendly neighbor, Mr. Arnsby from WallaGullaBulla Dickstroke Island! Do you know what Mr. Arnsby can do? He can count to 10! Yay!

(Children track cheers)

Rolen: (sings) Mr. Arnsby...what brings you over?

Arnsberg: Rolen, why do you regress 25 years every time I come over? (to Lind) I'm here because of you, Mr. Lind. Your grades have been suffering as of late. But I trust you've prepared for your exam today? If you don't get a C, Mr. Lind, it's summer school (echo: summer school) for you.

Lind: (in mind) Oh, mylanta! Subplot! I don't know Eastern Europe! What am I gonna do?! What am I gonna do?! (out loud) Of course, Mr. Arnsby! You can count on me! Sofia, Ukraine. (pause) I wouldn't miss the Juvenile Penis PukeSprinkles in concert for anything in the world.

Arnsberg: ...I look forward to this, Mr. Lind. (leaves)

(Lind's rebel friend Dustin McGowan enters)

McGowan: Adam, Adam! Arnsby dropped the keys to his cabin outside. Let's drive up there and look for the answers!

Lind: How?

McGowan: In my dad's pickup, man!

Lind: Won't he be mad?

McGowan: Nah, he took the trailer off to track down my runaway, alcoholic mother.

Lind: Oh my God, this is perfect! We're gonna pass!

McGowan: We're gonna be front and center. At the Juvenile Penis PukeSprinkles! While your idiot lookalike keeps chasing Winnie Cooper!

(Lind and McGowan start dancing to a certain Tom Jones song. Laugh track)

(Jesse Litsch walks down the stairs with Blue Jay Groupie Trenni Kusnierek. Queen's Crazy Little Thing Called Love plays on the radio. Women cheer ravenously)

Jesse Litsch: Have mercy! The Juvenile Penis PukeSprinkles? That's not rock 'n roll. Come by room later tonight and I'll show you rock 'n roll.

(Travis Snider- played by Mary Kate Olsen- walks in)

Snider: You got it, dude!

(laugh track)

Blue Jay Groupie Trenni Kusnierek: (to Snider) I think he was talking to Adam, Travis.

Jesse Litsch: Yeah, sorry Travis. It'll just be me and Lind tonight, capisch? I'm callin' up the boys and getting the band together again for the 8th time this season.

Blue Jay Groupie Trenni Kusnierek: Like hell you are, Jesse. (ruffles hair) I've got work to get done. No noise tonight.

Jesse Litsch: Hey, watch the hair! (rolls eyes) Women! AmIright?

(Men cheer)

Blue Jay Groupie Trenni Kusnierek: (sighs) Men...

(women cheer)

Blue Jay Groupie Trenni Kusnierek: I've gotta be on my way, though. Traffic won't clear itself. You comin', Jesse?

Rolen: Wait, Jesse? Why are you going?

Jesse Litsch: Oh, I got a job at the local radio station impersonating the same 4 people with Joe Carter.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------
(Ichiro enters...unexpectedly)

Lind: Dude, the Simpsons are being shot next door...

(And with that, we've hit a new low)
------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Jesse Litsch: By the way, there's a donkey in the living room.

(There's a donkey in the living room. Laugh track)

Rolen: What?! How?!

(Mark Mulder and Vin Scully enter)

Mulder: Cancer man. Not your average donkey.

Rolen: ...What? Who are you?

Mulder: Don't worry. Just get out. Scully, what's your take?

Scully: I want to believe. What I. Just. Saw.

Mulder: Ever the skeptic, Scully. And in such a cute skirt. This has Squeeze written all over it.

Scully: You think it's...the cigarette smok-

Rolen: Anna! Wh-how...you don't even sleep with this team!

Mulder: Right. I think we're gonna just head out then...

(Muler and Scully leave)

(Anna Benson is wearing fishnet stockings and smoking a cigarette on the couch)

Anna: Yeah? So?

Rolen: Don't "yeah," me! You dirtied the couch!

------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Beavis: Hehheh. Hehheh. I dirtied the couch, too.

Butthead: Uh...that's gay, Beavis. No. Wait. Score. Uh...huhuh.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Anna: So? Get the butler to clean it up...

(Cito Gaston walks by)

Gaston: Yes, and if David Eckstein were still on this team, you could've made a Seinfeld joke as well, Master Benson.

(laugh track)

Anna: Oh, stop talking and clean, Cito.

Gaston: (rolls eyes) As you wish...Wait, Master Benson. Is...is that...a belly you've got?

Anna: What? Huh? Of course not!

Rolen: No, I think it is! You wanna explain that, Anna?

Anna: Huh? Of course not!

(Roy Halladay and Alex Rios enter)

Voiceover: In the criminal justice system, the people are represented by two separate yet equal entities: The police who investigate the crime, and the District Attorneys who prosecute the offenders. These are their stories.

Rolen: (looking around in confusion) What the hell?!

(Familiar bassline plays)

Halladay: If you won't tell him, you'll have to tell us.

Rios: No more games.

Halladay: This is a crime scene now, Benson. You can spill here or downtown. Your call.

Rios: And don't think we won't do whatever it takes to find out, Benson.

Rolen: Listen, guys, I appreciate the help, but there were already 2 cops here today...and I just want my-

Rios: Your quiet, sir? Your "quiet" can come once you're safe. Right now, Benson is behind something, and we have a warrant to investigate.

Anna: Look. I'm not behind anything! You two are doing the same shit you always do. Start out harrassing the wrong person, arrest someone totally unrelated, and then watch the real perps get off on some bullshit technicality. Don't you ever learn? It's the Nationals blog you should be going after! The Nationals blog!

Halladay: Hey! That's enough out of you!

Anna: (rolls eyes) I thought you wanted me to talk...

Rios: Oh, a wise ass, eh?

(Vernon Wells enters)

Wells: (nasal tone) Hey Mr. Rolen, Mr. Cops...Anna. You guys promised me we'd go skydiving 8 years ago. And here's today!

(laugh track)

Rios: Who is this?

Rolen: Ignore him. That's our idiot neighbor.

Rios: The one you can't see over the fence?

Rolen: No, no, he moved away months ago.

Halladay: (sigh) You seen one black sitcom character safe enough for white T.V., you seen 'em all.

Wells: (playing a saxophone now) Hey, now...I resent that, ya dig?

Halladay: Never mind, he's guilty of something! Get his ass!

(Rios and Halladay chase Wells outside. Laugh track, bassline)

Anna: ...morons.

Rolen: Look, Anna, right or wrong, you're still pregnant. And you're still smoking cigarettes. Now I understand this must be a difficult time for you but-

------------------------------------------------------------------------------
(this is the part we let David Lynch direct)

Rolen: -but you're still going to help me find that friend of yours.

Anna: No!

Rolen: (laughs) See these cards? They mean you're all dead!

(Rolen laughs maniacally)
------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Rolen: -but you can't go around acting like this. It's unsafe. You could get hurt out there, Anna.

(sentimental music plays)

Anna: You mean...you really care?

Rolen: Of course I do. We all do. (pause) Now...why don't you tell me who got you into this whole pregnant mess?

Anna: (long pause) F-fine...It happened by the dock...

Rolen: With? Anna, I won't be mad, I promise.

Anna: With...with...

(Lind walks back in)

Lind: (singing) We run, we jump, we swim and play. We row and go on trips. But the things that last forever are our dear friendships...

Rolen: Hey, Adam! Back so soon? Pull up a chair! Why don't ya join us so we can circumvent half the plot development and reach a climax before the next commercial break?

Lind: (noticing Anna, becoming visibly nervous) Love to, but whatever it is...I have homework! Gotta go!

Rolen: No, wait, why don't you stick around for this?

Lind: Can't, really...so much math, science, histor-

(Pitching coach Brad Arnsberg enters again)

Rolen: Oh, lookie, children! Mr. Arnsby's back! And what's that? You're going to tell us Adam took the keys to your cabin? Well, how 'bout we pull out our handy-dandy notebooks and find out why?

Arnsberg: Will you stop calling me that retarded name?! (to Lind) Where are the-

Rolen: So far we've found a raging libido. Is that a clue? Yes it is! A broken condom! Also a clue? Oh,you bet'cha!

Anna: Ok, ok...stop with the clues. It was him! (pointing to Lind) Fuck! Adam Lind, my brother on this sitcom, got me pregnant! We did in the shower while Jesse Litsch's rockabilly stuff played! He stuffed Snider's ducky in my pus-dripping pussy and that's how it happened!

Rolen: (dropping the notebook) WHAT?!

Anna: Everything about needing $5 and the keys to the cabin were a setup so we could skip town...but I got second thoughts. (breaking down) I'm sorry!

Arnsberg: (to Lind) You fuckjello!

Lind: Imagine that...4 P.M.? Time for me to, uh...be somewhere else!

Rolen and Arnsberg: No, no, no, no, no!

(Instead of talking this out, Rolen calls Ryan down again, who brings a chainsaw and a machete. Handing them over to Arnsberg and Rolen, he sits back, opens a beer, and congratulates himself on being manly while they proceed to treat Lind as if he were a rainforest standing in the way of a monstrous new hotel.)

(laugh track)

Rolen: You wanna see what getting fucked is, Lind?!

Arnsberg: The capital of Hungary is NOT McDonalds!

(Rios and Halladay re-enter)

Rios and Halladay: You were right abo- (pause)...The fuck?!

(bassline plays)

(A bell sounds just as Rolen and Arnsberg are about to lay the final blows on Lind)

Studio Assistant: That's a wrap, guys! Time constraints. (patting Arnsberg on the ass) But good job out there. All of you.

How Canada Will Save The Economy

Let's face it, America is weak. Right now, it's the child in the grocery store crying because you won't buy him six boxes of Chips Ahoy cookies. It has been spoiled rotten by years of being able to piss away whatever it had and now finds itself at our porch, with a bottle of whiskey in hand, freezing. Its coat is ripped, its hair a mess. It wants to come in.

Fuck that, says Canada. We're not in the business of bailouts here. We'll fix America, while it gets fucked skinny out in the frigid snow. Let it build a snowman, or something, to pass the time. If its a pretty one, we'll send it off with 5 extra dollars, in Angolan money.

Anyways, here are OJBO's plans:

Solution A: Buy The Colorado Rockies For Cheap

• The Problem- American banks are currently swimming in rancid pools of more toxic waste than a Miley Cyrus album. This is mostly because back when the inflammed retards who run the places were rich, they thought it'd be funny to lend money to families so they could buy up nuclear waste site properties and then hide the profit in Aruba (Sidney Ponson's basement, to be exact). If this isn't what happened, it's what I think happened.
• The Solution- From here on out, OJBO will exert dominant reasoning and declare the Colorado Rockies the eptiome of these toxic wastes. We will then buy the Colorado Rockies. What will this do? It'll give America $30, in Angolan money, and OJBO a place to dump used cups of Tim Horton's. Everyone wins.

Solution B: Circulate A Tim Geithner Sex Tape

• The Problem- Tim Geithner is a flaccid little cockbristle who refuses to pay his taxes or come up with any plan that doesn't seem like a Flutie pass without wide receivers in the end-zone. To put it in simpler terms, if Tim Geithner were given the chance to fly an airplane, he'd probably choose the one without wings and forget to fuel it. Tim Geithner sucked at Pilot Wings for the N64.
• The Solution- Sex sells. Barbie made a fortune out of being the only other piece of plastic 13 year old boys would shamelessly rub all over their dicks, after the Nintendo PowerGlove and the cover to Guns 'N Roses' Appetite For Destruction. By applying the same principles, and photoshopping a set of gorgeous tits onto Geithner, we can film him fucking a donkey in the backyard of the White House while eating dollar bills off the shit covered ground. People will watch this, because people like to watch other people- especially ones on TV- fuck a lot. Each view will cost $2.

Solution C: Disguise Men In Masks of U.S. Presidents, Have Them Take Over Banks

• The Problem- You ever walked down Chinatown and had to dodge 8,000 requests to buy Louis Vitton purses made of burnt rubber and Rolex watches that are actually a bunch of glass shards and bottlecaps glued together? No? Then have you ever gone to a record store and seen a Kenny Chesney album at the front? You didn't buy it, did you? Of course not, becuase that'd be idiotic. Those are all products comparable to a stomach virus, or some shit like that. That's exactly how most people not retarded see the putrid feces banks are hocking right now. They all suck more than Li'l Kim trying to get a promotion.
• The Solution- If the people won't take the products, they'll gladly take the producers. Remember in Escape From New York when the rebels overtook Air Force One to make a statement? This is vaguely similar in principle. And it's only fair. If the banks suck this fucking much, we'll exert communism at full force. OJBO is willing to dress up six men in masks of U.S. Presidents, arm them, and send them off to take control of these banks through force. The one dressed as Nixon will bust in, shoot some caps at the ceiling, and claim the bank for the underground Canadian government (us). If he is initally laughed at, the five others will come through with pipe bombs and exposed penises. Since anyone running a bank right now is a ponzi-scheming pussy, we'll be more than successful. Once we own these funhouses of fecal matter, we'll turn them into concentration camps, embassies, and hostels. They'll be sold to the Russians for $17 billion each. We'll be rich.

Solution D: Send A Lesbian FBI Agent to Ask Hannibal Where the Extra Money Is

• The Problem- The FBI has lost touch with its deviant side. It needs lesbians who act like whores who get presidents shot at. And Hannibal is still eating children. Plus, did I mention America is poor and he is smart enough to know where some hidden money might be?
• The Solution- This won't work. I'm just killing space.

Solution E: Go Ellen Ripley On a Motherfucker

• The Problem- Screw a background. Just know that this is drastic as shit. And we're really close. Maybe too close.
• The Solution-

When the light's out, it's less dangerous. And at least we'd have bigger things to worry about. Also, John Connor could finally rise.

"It's the only way to be sure."

This is a joke. Please don't think we mean this.

We're Going To Live On, We're Going To Survive

My Fellow OJBOjians,

I don't mean to alarm anyone, but it has been brought to my attention that an attempted breach of security was caught early this morning by our highly advanced Gates of Shadownight defense system. GoS, using deductive reasoning, Occam's Razor, and what little evidence it had to go on, has reported to all the high ranking lieutenants of this movement that it believes the perpetrators of such a heinous action to be none other than our mortal enemies, the partisan hacks over at Wilton's Wild-N-Wacky Washington Blog, a source of all things biased anti-Canadianism and Ryan Zimmerman's RBI total.

Why they felt compelled to try and spit in my cereal, no one can tell us yet. In other words, the motives are still unknown. They probably wanted our secret Pizza Pizza recipe, which they'll have to get by Kung-Lao's hat for.

Rest assured, mates, OJBO will not stand for this. Our troops have been mobilized. They are ready to go at any moment's notice, should we be spammed with Lastings Milledge's 2B total in '08 again.

But, of course, in keeping with the Canadian tradition of peacetime preservation, and sex by the fireplace during the NHL postseason, OJBO has first mailed out this letter to those parties responsible for the flatulent content farted out daily through Wilton's:




Press-Time Edit: As of lunchtime, we believe the pacakge was delivered and the message well received. In fact, as we speak, spy satelites and Google Earth tell us those prickly bitches are cowering in fear beneath their desks. Fucking good, I say. Now they know what kind of ice cold, ruthless blood we are made of in Canada.

A modern-day warrior
Mean, mean stride,
Today's Tom Sawyer
WILL MICROWAVE YOUR SOUL.
-- Prime Minister Snowball

See what I mean, shitpumpkins?

We did not go quietly into the night! We did not go without a fight! This is our moment of nuking Houston!

TODAY WE CELEBRATE...FOUR DAYS SINCE MATT MCWOP SLEPT WITH AN ALIEN BITCH!

Standing Strong As Always,
Fearless Rusty

Red Eye Dares Bash Canada, Gets Fucked Stupid by OJBO

Comrades, I write to you in a rage this early morning.



Just watch that bowl of Ramen Turd. Stare at it. Let it sink the fuck in.

Then, Canadians, ask yourselves: Does this sort of arrogant imperialist crap from those heartless Cowboy Yankees even need an explanation? Does it need to be tolerated any longer? Hell, does it even warrant our words? Hell Fuck No!

This...this cock bufoonery requires nothing short of our full range of Great Canadian action. If a spectre is haunting the Blue Jays, why can't it haunt those pansy Americans, too?

If Red Eye, a stoolie show for the United States to swing its tiny media cock around, wants to fuck with Great Motherland Canada, then Great Motherland Canada will Nixon-bomb every last staple of Petulant, Inferior America's culture.

The yellow-blooded bastards will rue the day they fucked with Shaun Wax On Marcum or Dustin Grease Lightning McGowan. Our brave ships will crash upon the shores of Lake Erie and proceed to bring them down systematically from the deepest pools of their wretched souls.

With the help of our spies, Section Eh, Plan Flapping Head Is Racist will be officially underway once we inflitrate their filthy McDonalds from the inside. Gone will be Quarter Macs, or whatever the fuckbuckets call it. And in their place will rest a salad.

I can picture it now, patriots. The youth of America's eyes will explode, their hair will melt, and their disgusting, fake orange tan skin will boil. "Ranch dressing? What the fuck is ranch dressing?!" they'll ask in a flurry of deep-fried fat panic, before our Special-Ops forces- headed valiantly by Adam Lind and His Majesty Matt Stairs- bust through bearing freshly planted trees and clear skies.

At this point, this third-rate nation of self indulgent PenisPenguins will be at our absolute mercy. We'll demand $40 and sell Texas to the highest bidder. We'll ban Lynyrd Skynyrd. We'll put lipstick on that hideous, unspayed healthcare bitch.

These fuckers will drink Labatt Blue and watch Raptors, Leafs, Jays, and old Grizzlie, Nordique, Jet or Expo games only. Not to mention, we'll of course take the 'Spos, Nordiques, Jets and Grizz back to where they rightfully belong- Great VanCity, Marvelous Manitoba, and Decent Quebec.

The shitbuckets will smoke copious amounts of weed, free of police persecution. NHL '94 will be a staple of every family. Motherfuckers gon' listen to Rush, and Neil Young, and all them other good shit. Sunglasses will only be worn from the hours of 8 P.M. to 6:30 A.M.

They'll spell harbour with a U, Centre like I just did, and pronounce schedule without that retardo-fuck "K" sound in the middle. They'll know the metric system, and fucking know it well...unless they want to be placed in a really fucking polite concentration camp, where every morning they'll be asked if they'd like to be burnt to a flaming crisp.

Americans, the revolution is on. We have the power. Fear an angry Canuck- this is a Milton Bradley one. We ain't just mounties. OJBO is a pack of raging lunatic nationalist-communist Jays fans with a strict agenda to follow. We're like fuckin' Riot Grrls, without a bunch of average bands and tampons. Stand in our way and pay the consequences.

And don't forget our ultimate secret weapon, if one of you freetards has the blind audacity to try goin' Die Hard on a brotha:

WE WILL GARBLE THE MEANING OF IRONY BEYOND ANY FUCKER'S RECOGNITION.

Other than that, though, we come in relative peace.

Oh, Canada! Oh, Canada! Joe Carter sleeps with thee!

Closer Music Roundtable

J. P. Ricciardi recently sat down with the best music that Canada has to offer in a secret meeting at the local Tim Horton’s. Luckily, Matt McWop was on the scene and able to shoe horn himself into a trash can with a tape recorder to bring you this breaking news. Apparently, closer BJ Ryan will have new entry music this season, and Canadian artists were jumping to be the ones with this prestigious honor. Here’s how it went down:

Ricciardi: So, what do you all have to offer me?

Chad Kroeger: S.E.X.

Ricciardi: I was looking for something a little more family appropriate.

Kroeger: Strippers?

Ricciardi: Anybody else have ideas?

Corey Hart: I wear my sunglasses at night. So I can, So I can, keep track of the visions in my eyes!!!!

Ricciardi: We play in a dome. Come on, we need better than this.

Avril Lavigne: He was a sk8er boi she said see ya later boi.

Ricciardi: If BJ Ryan had a sex change while I wasn’t looking and if it turns out A-rod and Jeter are actually Sean White and Bob Burnquist, then yes.

Kroeger: May I add something?

Ricciardi: *sigh* Go ahead Chad.

Kroeger: Avril, you’d look so much cuter with something in your mouth.

Ricciardi: Do you ever not think with your dick?

Deryck Whibley: Don’t count on meeeeeeee.

Ricciardi: Exactly the opposite message we want to send, do you have anything that would inspire more confidence?

Whibley: In Too Deep?

Kroeger: I could make a sexual reference about that.

Whibley: Walking Disaster?

Ricciardi: BJ Ryan is our closer, not Byung Hyun Kim.

Kroeger: Kim's the first girl I kissed, I was so nervous that I nearly missed.

Ricciardi: Chad, will you shutup about anything sexual for five minutes?

Kroeger: That would require me not to talk for about 4 minutes and 43 seconds.

Ricciardi: I know that.

Kroeger: I can try.

Ricciardi: Alright, how about you Miss Morissette? What do you have to add?

Morissete: It's a death row pardon two minutes too late.

Ricciardi: I hope you’re talking about Chad’s no talking rule.

Morissete: I am.

Ricciardi: Well, then what are your thoughts about Mr. Ryan’s entry music?

Morissete: You lose you learn.

Ricciardi: Something a little more gritty?

Morissete: You bleed you learn.

Ricciardi: Maybe we need to head in more classic direction.

Neil Young: But there's a warnin' sign on the road ahead. There's a lot of people sayin' we'd be better off dead.

Ricciardi: We are not the Nationals.

Young: Oh, right. Keep on rockin’ in the free world.

Ricciardi: Holy shit, a not half bad idea. I’d like to hear something from another genre before I make my decision though.

Snow: LICKEY BOOM BOOM DOWN!

Kroeger: Pretty-little-lady-with-the-pretty-pink-thong-Every-sugar-daddy-hittin-on-her-all-night-long-Doesn't-care-about-the-money-she-could-be-with-anybody-Ain't-it-funny-how-the-honey-wanted-you-all-along?

Ricciardi: PLEASE MAKE THIS END!!!!!!

Neil Peart: *Drum solo using an unsharpened pencil, a plastic spork, a Blue Jays program, Chad Kroger’s libido, a styrofoam cup, and a doughnut*

Ricciardi: Ladies and Gentlemen, we have a winner!

Marcum's Journal: March 19th, 2009

As our transition into fighting by air for the right to party grows and evolves, one thing will always remain constant: Shaun Fucking Marcum. A man, a warrior, a patriot. Shaun is a red blooded Canadian, awash with the pride of a thousand communist nations. With a careful eye, he can be seen prowling the night, watching over these unwelcome Yankee oppressors, making sure they don't overstep their bounds.

But who watches him, you ask? OJBO, of course.

Here are his words.

1 Blue Jay Way: Grit, hustle strewn across field. Smells of infield fly. Overbay stands on first. Hot dog man chokes a child.

Was offered Dominican love and Puerto Rican love...

...But not Canadian love. Canadian love- like Ernie Whitt on glass tables. They don't make it anymore.

Thought about Barajas's call for slider on 0-2 on way back to mound. Could all be wrong. Could all be part of misjudged call, planned during his decade behind American plates. But if right, then what? Victorino won't swing. Is it Victorino? Puzzling reference to an island. Also to Aaron Hill. Might man on first be stealing in some way? Hate interleague Spring Training.

So many questions. Never mind, pick off throw good. Nothing is insoluble. Nothing is hopeless.

Not while there's Canada.

Are You Gonna Take Me Home Tonight?

OBPO, in sticking to its principles of value, honor, and cherry-apple daquiries, recently scored a hot interview with former Phillie great, and clubhouse leader during the magical 1995 season, Jim Eisenreich on his Phils career and militant Black Panther views. Being a gracious guest, Mr. Eisenreich had brought us donuts, until he realized our interviewer- the lovely Alanis Morrissette- was white. At which point the donuts were just thrown all over the place. Small animals were hurt.

In trying to diffuse the situation, Alanis allowed Eisenreich to blaze a blunt thick enough to feed a small town. Always being a good pressure guy, himself, Jim soon started demanding Ms. Morrissette take some monstrous hits herself, lest he slice a ho up. Shit nearly went down, but Alanis took him up on the offer, skeptically. Astonishingly enough, the guy didn't have schwag-dirt shit laced with, like, Lysol. All was good, but the principles of journalism kind of went out the window relatively quickly. And Eisenreich tried to start a riot.

Here's all we managed to salvage.

Morrissette: How about some Denny's, then, Jim? Can we go there?

Eisenreich: Denny's?! Motherfuckin' Denny's, you cracker skank?! Do you have any ounce of a fuckin' clue who's backs the fuckin' Denny's franchise was built on?!

Morrissette: ...A guy called Denny's?

Eisenreich: Word, bitch! But the dude was a motherfuckin' brotha! I ain't gettin' behin' no place that impedes the advacement of my peoples, ya digg?

Morrissette: ...I just want a fucking Grand Slam.

Eisenreich: Course ya do, ya fuckin' two dollar wonderbread ho! But the brothers ain't standin' down for Whitey's requests no more, bitch. We gon' fuckin' get our respect. By ANY means necessary!

Morrissette: Man, you're being a real high killer right now...

Eisenreich: Nah, bitch! White Devils is all this Zulu Nation motherfucker hunts. Ya digg?

Morrissette: Not in the least of bits, can you try that in-

Eisenreich: Course ya don't, slut! Y'all people's was all hidin' in caves, scared of the sun, an' shit when the beautiful black man was buildin' an empire-

Morrissette: And that's got to do with...what?

Eisenreich: -Then one day y'all ups and comes on motherfuckin' gun powder, an' shit. Next thing a brother knows, we on ships headed to some far'way land, an' shit. Motherfuckin' Whiteys think they gots themselves a gun, so they runnin' this shit now-

Morrissette: Will you shut up?!

Eisenreich: -Motherfucker, we didn't land on no Plymouth Rock! Plymouth Rock landed on US! And it just goes on an' on an' on, an' shit like that-

(Rahm Emmanuel comes on set) <- He's our boss

Rahm: For fuck's sake...is he gonna talk Phillies or not? Cause if he's not, I got people waiting in line like it's a fucking Hustler garage sale outside.

Morrissette: I'm trying, seriously. He's just...I don't know

Eisenreich: -An' who the fuck is this Yahweh motherfucker?!

Rahm: (to Morrissette) Retarded?

Eisenreich: You poke any fuckin' eyes out with that thing on your face, Jerusalem?

Rahm: Listen, dickfairy, another fucking word from you, and I'll show you why in fucking hell everyone else COWERS at the sight of a pissed off Jew!

Eisenreich: Yeah...you gon' tell me 'bout how you lost that middle finger, too?

Rahm: Mother of Kosher Blowjobs...I will have you off this set before the fucking Einstein Bagels commercial is over...ya digg?

Eisenreich: Oh, look at this big an' mighty, media-controllin' Jew. You done exploitin' poor nations now so you gone back to sheltering your white viewin' audience from the brotha man's truth?! Ready to drive out the black element...again?! Now what the fuck you call that?!

Morrissette: Inter-galactic civil war?

Eisenreich: GENTRIFICATION!

Rahm: Man...you're FUCKING WHITE! ARE YOU NOT AWARE OF THIS, ASSHOLE?!

Morrissette: That's what I told him! But he went off on a rant about "racist-ass Boston Celtic shit" and "cutting me, buttermilk crackwhore"

Eisenreich: (to Rahm) The fuck you say to me, Shylock?!

Rahm: Oh, diggin' deep for that anti-semitism, aren't we?

Morrissette: ...I quit. Screw this. I'm not waiting any longer. Denny's it is. Send the check to my publicist, Rahm.

(Eisenreich pulls out a gun and starts shooting the lights)

Eisenreich: Dark as a motherfucker now! Jim X FOREVER! ZULU FUCKIN' NATION!

Rahm: ...This is so dumb.

Eisenreich: Shut the fuck up! FREE MUMIA! FREE HUEY-

Rahm: He's dead...

Eisenreich: I said...SHUT. THE FUCK. UP. THE BROTHERS GON' BE FREE!

(Eisenreich starts throwing things around, and Rahm takes a seat on a couch)

Eisenreich: SO YOU THINK YOU CAN STONE ME AND SPIT IN MY EYE?!

Rahm: ...Eh?

Eisenreich: SO YOU THINK YOU CAN LOVE ME AND LEAVE ME TO DIE?!

Rahm: Now there's street-cred. Bo-Rhap makes you wanna up and riot for Rodney, white boy?

(Eisenreich walks up to Rahm, pulls out his cock and smacks him across the face with it, knocking him out cold. On his way off set, a black tech assistant walks up to Eisenreich, punches him out cold, strips him, and drags the body out to the street, leaving him to fend for himself in the frigid cold Philly road- during rush hour traffic)

Fin.

Steve Carlton Saves The Day! Boo!

Whilst recently stuck on the phone with one of our, um, emotionally needy sponsors- Bubba Gump Shrimp's Monroe- OBPO worked out the perfect twist cinematic ending to The Sixth Sense. To show them the act of "having been dead the whole time," Shyamafuck would simply play the entire movie up until the reveal, and once there just play another film's length of time just showing what it(the film) would've looked like from the perspective of having been dead the whole time. So, in essence, you spend an entire Sixth Sense of time staring at the "ceiling" of a coffin. Would've urged someone to fucking massacre Shyamalan. "Director mutilated by movie-going extremists..." Have a good day, make millions...die. Maybe Fred Durst would be having lunch with him at the time. THAT'D be a fucking twist.

I am unbelievably high right now.

Of course, from the position of being stoned beyond dimensions- "Getting Daulton'd"- on the phone with Bubba Gump's retarded spokesperson...(not him...) comes more than just shitty film endings. There's also some moderately entertaining snippets to share (in the way you share a trainwreck). For example: As it appears, our Friendly Neighborhood Algernon likes to web sling across Manhattan- wondering if Cubans are Mexican and ending every noun or verb with "-sies." So that, in essence, what we end up with is "worksies," "schoolsies," "fucksies"...and you get the picture.

You should invest in a Sham-Wow(sies).

But anyways, fuck all that. Here's a conversation from PBS Sports- For Those With Slightly Communistic Tendencies:

Kermit the Frog: So you don't want your room smelling of putrid pussy?

Street-Fighter Guile: Fuckin' serious? This shit really happenin'?!

Kermit: It's merely a psychoanalysis, sir.

Guile: Psychoanalysis, faggot?! Psychoanalysis?! I will fucking communicate myself with a system of cocktubes inserted through your shining pearl rectum like Sherman's fuckin' March if you fucking try to "psychoanalysis" me again. We don't play that shit here, dickbagel! Is that clear, you intellectual Pinko Panther? This is fuckin' America! America, you understand?!

Rachel Nichols: Look, fuckhead, my husband didn't come on here for a fucking survey, alright? If he doesn't want his- our- room smelling vaguely of vaginally dipped fishsticks, you just accept that he doesn't! (pause) Rachel Nichols...ESPN!

Kermit: M'am, sir, I promise...no harm is meant. But let's just move along. The crowd has been intently waiting (nervous chuckle).

Nichols: No, no, no, no, no! We are not fuckin' moving anywhere until you drop this Oprah shit. I've already got enough reasons at home to watch a Ted Bundy biopic and go Camp Crystal Lake on a group of moronic, Gonzaga obsessed teens too entranced by my tits to run anywhere. (lights a cigarette) You'd think 8 shitbag motherfuckers and one wishing-well of a cunt would be enough for retribution, right? Jesus fuckin' Christ... (pause) Rachel Nichols...ESPN!

Guile: Damned fuckin' right, cocksailor! What she said!

(Phillies pitcher Steve Carlton walks on the set and removes the cigarette from Nichols)

Carlton: Hey, now...don't you know that smoking rots your teeth, stinks your breath, and wears you out? Not to mention its proven cancerous effects. If you think this makes you "cool," we'll see how hip you look in your funeral. Remember, stay safe; don't smoke.

Guile: And who the fuck is this guido-lookin', assraid motherfucker?

Carlton: (sings) G.I. JOE!

Guile: G.I. Joe? Motherfucker, you ain't shit till you fly with the Air Force...

(Sarah Palin and Zach de la Rocha walk on)

Palin: Don'cha know it! Real America! Country first!

Kermit: H-hey! Some new guests!

(De la Rocha punches Palin)

Zach de la Rocha: (to Kermit) SHUT THE FUCK UP! (to Palin) SOME OF THOSE THAT WORK FORCES! ARE THE SAME THAT BURN CROSSES!

Nichols: Oh, and look at this menstrual, communist fuck-o! You're so radical...and real. (pause) Rachel Nichols...ESPN!

Guile: Yeah, I'll bet you he chokes on party-bags of cocks! Right, Stalin?

Kermit: People, I urge of you! Settle down!

Zach de la Rocha: FUCK YOU, I WON'T DO WHAT YA TELL ME!

(Zach de la Rocha punches Kermit and starts eating a potted flower)

Zach de la Rocha: I AM THE KING OF FRANCE!

(De la Rocha drops the pot- shattering it all over the floor- and starts doing a worm dance on the jagged ceramic)

Guile: ...The FUCK?!

(Guile cranks back and fires...a redwood log of a turd towards him. Or a Sonic Boom. Whichever works best for you. But it accidentaly nails Palin) <- I just noticed that, and I'm mildly amused, and impressed, by my subconscious for it.

Palin: (sparks fly) Grayayayauwauaayaya!!! I'M BURNING UP! I'M HOT! I'M DEAD! I CAN FLY, DAMMIT! I'VE GOT THE KIND OF EYES THAT WRITE HIT PIANO SONGS! POUND ME, PLUMBER, POUND ME! I'M A MOUND OF TOASTED ASHES! AND I AM A MATERIAL GIRL! (slouches over, shuts off, smoke is coming out)

Zach de la Rocha: A BULLET IN YA HEAD! A BULLET IN YA HEAD! A BULLET IN YA HEAD!

(Hans Gruber storms over angrily from the backstage area)

Hans Gruber: Shit! Tits! Balls! These Skynet models are always bloody- hey! cool it, Rickman! I'm running this show now- screwing up! I'm so going yippie-ki-yay on that worthless Dan Quayle motherfucker's woman tonight!

(Kermit gets up, frustratedly, and marches over to the camera people)

Kermit: What the hell is going on here, everyone?! What's happening to my show?!

(Gruber makes off with Palin over to the backstage)

Guile: (sings) Papa don't preach! I'm in trouble deep! Papa don't preach! I've been losin' sleep!

Carlton: That's two Madonna references in one broadcast. You all should really explore your local libraries. It pays to have a broad vocabulary. Remember, knowledge is always power. (sings) G.I. J-

Guile: Fuck you, Coast Guard!

(Guile sonic booms again, but hits a lamp hanging over, which falls directly on Zach de la Rocha, seemingly "frying" him to his death)

Carlton: Hey now kids, violence is never the answer. Don't hurt yourselves; you should be storing that in for the commies. Remember, I'm not a hero because I shoot people; I'm a hero because I save lives. (sings) G.I. JOE!

(Kermit turns around and shoots Carlton)

Kermit: Fuck that...I'm the goddamn hero...Now can we get the goddamn hell back to the show, please?!

Guile: Fine. Hit me.

(Kermit reaches back to punch Guile)

Guile: Not like that, retard! With your fuckin' psycho-whatever shit.

Kermit: Oh, um, ok...well...

Guile: For today, cocksucker...

Kermit: Alright, alright...Um, let's see...Oh, wait, here's a good one for you: You inherit 5 million dollars the same day aliens land on the earth and say they're going to blow it up in 2 days. What do you do?

Guile: (laughs) Hey Kermit, what would you do if I told you your commie, pinko mother sucked so much dick, her face looked like an egg?

Kermit: Eh?

(Guile sonic booms Kermit, but hits a gas drum next to him, instead, which promptly explodes and engulfs him and all the camera assistants in the flames)

Guile: (to Kermit) Just some'a that psychowork, bonertoaster. (to Nichols) Alright Rach, this shit's our now. Let's get to fuckin' work on that pussy. Right here on commiefag T.V...

Nichols: (sigh) Whatever keeps you from jerking it all over the IKEA catalogs. (pause) Rachel Nichols...ESPN!

(Guile excitedly whips out his cock)

Guile: Oh, you're gonna need a bigger fuckin' boat for this.

Nichols: (pause) ...Rachel Nichols...ESPN!

Sal Paolantonio: (from off-set) Sal Paolantonio, BITCH! (loud crash)

(Nichols reveals her bare ass, bends over, and Guile seamlessly works his way into that backdoor like it's last place in the NL Central and his cock is the Pittsburgh Pirates)

Guile: HUCK IT! CHUCK IT! FOOTBALL!

(Guile lets out a sonic boom by accident that unleashes the bear being kept in the room next door for the following show. Once it finds its way on set, it proceeds to first tear every member of the crowd to Cheerios in a furious rage...and then goes Sigfried and Roy on the pornstars. Once said bear goes off to the streets, Zach de la Rocha gets up and walks away, apparently unscathed)

Commercials.

...Less suitable for work or children than the Old Testament.

My World: Boooo!

During the frigid winter of 2007, before OBPO was delivering the kind of objective reporting that the Greater Halifax area has become accustomed to, I worked as a survey filler for a local Philadelphia Sports questionnaire service. Times were rough back then, with the economy being stable enough to keep me from getting fired from that war crime of a job, but I managed to work with the diligence of a young Ivan DeJesus crossed with Gob Bluth. I was granted many-a-blowjob while answering "Is Andre Iguodala really the next A.I.?" My response was always NO, of course. There can only be one true A.I., and we'll never fucking see it because Stanley Kubrick died while production was underway. Fuck you, Speilberg; you Deus Ex Machina whore! (just kidding, but your car is parked in front of mines)

Anyhow, here's some questions that stood out to me.

Q: An extraterrestrial race invades the Philly area and challenges you to assemble a team of the five most capable local athletes, lest you face the extermination of Philadelphia itself. Who do you go with?
A: I hate Philly. Eric Lindross, Freddie Mitchell, Pat Burrell, Ty Detmer, and Chris Webber circa 2006.

Q: Which Philly sports title has meant the most to you?
A: I don't know...which German World War victory has meant the most to them? See what I did there?

Q: The Vet or Citizens Bank?
A: The Vet. At least there I could pour beer down an innocent 12 year old boy's training bra and not get slapped with some bullshit PC charges. Times were different, ya know? BOOOOO!

Q: Phamous Philly Phans. How do you Pheel about them?
A: Who the fuck wrote this? Dr. Seuss? "One Phish, Two Phish, Red Phish...Hey, We're Eliminated Phrom Playoff Contention Again!" And why should I give a fuck whether or not Cory and Eric Matthews still ravenously masturbate on camera to Curt Schilling?

Q: You're given the chance to watch ONE defining moment in Philadelphia sports history live. Which is it?
A: Between the Sixers blowing the Finals, the Eagles forgetting the NFL works on clocks, or the Phils and Flyers royally fucking shit up...I think I'll just settle for a Billy Mays commercial and cut my losses (pun sort of intended).

Q: PBS Sports. Yay or Nay?
A: Yay. The interview they did with Mike Lieberthal for PBS Sports- For Those Who Can No Longer Control Their Own Bowel Movements was ace.

Q: The Phillies are an out away from winning it all, but face a runner on second, a one run lead, and the opposing team's MVP candidate hitter is coming to the plate. If you're allowed to make one call to the bullpen and bring in any Phamous Philadelphian...ever, who do you call upon?
A: Mitch Williams, so I can commiserate with a whole new generation. Or Rodney Anonymous of the Dead Milkmen. At least there'll be no delusions there. BOOOO!

Q: In the film era, what has been the most accurate portrayal of what it feels like to remain loyal to your Philly teams?
A: Tom Hanks.

Q: Assuming the day will come, is your championship celebration being practiced?
A: Practiced? Practiced?! Nah...fuck it. Too easy.

To Our Loyal Readers

Dearest Objectiveites,

It has been recently brought to my immediate attention- on this, our hallowed anniversary- that the post directly beneath this one has been generating very negative publicity for us across the world of broke-ass sports media- thanks in no small part to the negative reactions of an offshore test-audience. So as Rusty KuntzWhale- the brains behind this operation- I feel it is my civic duty to apologize to the reading public for what has been taken as a general loss of funny all of a sudden (overreactions by the blood-thirsty media, I promise) and reassure you all that this is certainly not the case. Our mojo is everlasting, titslappers.

We began this modest little site 3 days ago with two simple, but lofty goals: a) to be objective in our coverage (boo!) and b) to don't not don't neglect the humor. So far, our ideals, and the pristine value which we place on hard hitting, quality journalism has netted us interviews with John Kruk and the currently MIA Darren Daulton, along with giving us the inside scoop on Michael Bay's next work. A week ago, it was all a dream. I used to read Word Up! Magazine. I'd be lying if I said I didn't appreciate all the luck we've had in the time since.

It is my sincere promise to you that Morose Cockwasher will spend the next 48 hours licking lint off the underbelly of my iguana, Freddie Mitchell's Abortion Route, to further learn the virtues of good posting. He is a quality poster, and an effective interviewer, but his vision is sometimes clouded by success and meth. He just needs a bit of a shakedown- like 12 year old hand watching Return of The Jedi shakedown- and OPBO will deliver it. On this you have my word, good Phaithphul.

So, with all that said...here's a picture from us to you, to show that we still remain on the same wavelength:



We still value your continued support of this little corner of the Phillie world.

Standing Strong,
Your Fearless Leader

The 2008 Philadelphia Phillies

A Michael Bay Film

Apparently this is the next big blockbuster we're being treated to. PBS Sports- For Movie Pirates stole a sneak peak on the upcoming script and sent it along our way.

The Cast

• Cole Hamels played by Shia LaBeouf
• Carlos Ruiz played by Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson
• Jayson Werth played by Martin Lawrence
• Brad Lidge played by Nicholas Cage
• Jimmy Rollins and Ryan Howard played by Cuba Gooding Jr.
• Charlie Manuel played by Sean Connery
• Citizens Bank Park played by Ben Affleck

EXT. Citizens Bank Park- Night.

Having overcome a 2-70 start, Albanian separatists hijacking the team plane, and a strange alien craft landing in RF during a mid-July game and blowing everything in sight up, the Philadelphia Phillies stand in position to clinch the NL East with a record of 92-70 on the season's final game. This against the hated Mets, no less, who were coming off a 132-30 season in which they swept the Phils out of the NLCS by using cybernetic organisms out of the bullpen and distributing performance enhancing drugs around the clubhouse. We are in the 5th inning, where the Phillies hold a comfortable 6-2 lead. But unbeknownst to the movie-going denizens of cold, dreary Philadelphia, those mysterious Mets still have something up their sleeves (EDIT: Shyamalan, get the fuck out of my script...).

Ruiz: Alright, Cole, baby, give it to your catcher.

Hamels: WOAH! HEY! WOAHHEY!

Ruiz: Just settle in there, Cole. This game belongs to Ruiz.

Hamels: NO! NO! NO! NO! NO!

Rollins: Come on you...crazy crazed pitcher, you. Strike this guy out so I can go do something quirky in the batter's box.

Howard: Yeah, hahaha! We'll all go to my momma's house and try real hard to be generally inoffensive after this, Hamels, in a really loveably funny way! But get us through, my man!

Werth: I AIN'T LIKIN' THIS, GUYS! WHY THE HELL THEY GOTTA BE TAKIN SO LONG? CHAAAARLIE?! CHAAAAAARLIE?!?!

Hamels: HEY! HEY! HEYHEY! WE ARE NOT THROWING THE FASTBALL! THEY'LL HIT IT OUT OF THE PARK AND THE UMPS WILL GIVE THEM 5 RUNS INSTEAD OF 4 ON SOME BULLSHIT TECHNICALITY!

Ruiz: (monotonous tone) Alright, now we're not throwing the fastball. But this is a funny situation now, because I'm so big and in control of everything, but I can't decide what pitch to call. It's like if I were a prima donna quarterback and an illegitimate child of mine showed up one day.

Manuel: I tell ya, Richie, m'boy, if he don't throw that fastball here, we're doomed. Doomed, I say. But I'll rise above it all in a rare moment of courageous leadership.

Megan Fox: Oops? Am I streaking on the field? Hey, look, a penny! Maybe I'll bend over to pick it up...like this.

(Megan Fox bends over seductively to pick up the penny, giving Ebert a heart attack in theaters- thus guaranteeing box office success for at least 2 weeks)

Hamels: WHY DON'T WE ALL GO TO THE DRIVE IN MOVIE FOR SOME CHEESEBURGERS AND FRIES AFTER THIS, GUYS?!?!?!

Ruiz: Because the underlying plot of this film is that we really don't like you all that much and you must overcome that. Now put it in my glove like a real man would, so The Ruiz can take over at the plate.

(Hamels delivers a fastball down the plate, which is smashed into the upper deck for a grand slam. Meanwhile, Werth bends over for something which can't be seen clearly by the audience, but the end result is a rather large explosion down the third base line)

Umpire: Hey, Werth, that's a bullshit technicality, as it says so right here in the rulebook! (umpire pulls out a rulebook) Tack on an extra run!

(Tension is felt. Charlie Manuel goes to the mound)

Ruiz: I feel tension.

Manuel: Gentlemen, we are down but never out. Beaten but never destroyed. Tread upon, but never trampled. We stand here at the gates of our demise, wondering when's gonna be our time. Our time to rise above everything we've faced, men, and come together as a...Aww, fuck it. Someone get Lidge.

(Bullpen phone rings. Lidge is summoned)

Lidge: I hate my career...

It looks to be a classic.

A Kind Word To Your Editor

To properly celebrate our hard earned 72 hour anniversary, Objective Phillies Blog of Objective decided to turn the pens over to you, our loyal readership. While all the letters we received were more than magnificent, and leave me without a doubt in my mind that I'm in the right business, we just don't have the time or space to get them all up here. So all this small town, real America, Christian values, guns ahoy, tax cuts for the rich! blog is left to do is publish our absolute, desert island favorite ones. And here they are. Apologies to those who didn't make it; we promise reach-arounds galore at the next signing.

We sincerely thank you all for your continued support of OPBO, the end-result of a tumultous 4 hour marijuana and ether binge.

My Dearest Phanatics,

I write to you with a heavy heart and a limp dick. In recent times, I've fallen deep into the depression of knowing that not only is my wife's Louis Vitton bag a counterfeit, but the new Kings of Leon album I thought I'd bought turned out to be a tribute album by Kings of The Bucket, a shitty kazoo & oboe cover band of McFearless (a less shitty KoL cover band). Not only has this brought distress to my inner soul and led me into relapsing on my Tylenol addiction, but my wife has since fallen for our gardener, Oaxacal, a 12 year old immigrant protected by city statute from me reporting his ass. With nothing left to turn to, I've been praying relentlessly for some salvation for days on end now. I've even taken to wearing a rosary, a pope hat I got at Burger King, and some old bed sheets to work, but all that's gotten me is extreme ridicule and a demotion to Erroneous Errors Payable, where I have to work with Donna (whom I can't quite tell what sex she/he really is) and Wilbur Thompkins, a clinical retard hired on the Good Faith Policy. To add insult to injury, fucking God doesn't even answer my prayers for a goddamn cheeseburger! A fucking 99 cent burger from McDonalds, and his almighty, omnipotent ass can't leave it on my doorstep. It could even be subtle, like "woops, Oaxacal had a heart attack while cutting the grass due to the blowjob he was simultaneously receiving from Janet- that slut- and, hey, is that a cheeseburger he left?"

How many wins do you see the Phillies ending next season with? They're all I've got left.

Thanks,
Sleepless In Seattle

Wow. Thank fuck I'm not you. 85 wins.

Hey Assholes,

I've been readin ur blog since it first came up, and while I used to be a big fan of your insight, ur recent posts hav pisst me off. U guys hav sunk to tabloyd material, u know that?? I bet if i told u guys that Arod was on roids or there was a brotha in the White Hoyse, u'd run with it...without checkin anything. How dare u guys publish privat material of Dug Glavill, Desi Realford, and Larry Bowa like that??? THATS SICK!!! I hope u rasit asshole r happy with ruining a marrige and mayb a family too, since Realford had to split with his wife of 2 years thanks to U!!!! If u guys got sumthin agenst him, say it to him...OR ME AND ILL TELL HIM!! This shit isnt funny...that was a private interview with that Loggins faggot- fuck that pussycake- but now its out in the open! Hav sum fuckin risponsibilty, u kno?!?!

Fuck U,
Now-Single Mother

Um...it's Relaford.

Keepers of the Gate,

For the past few months, since a buddy of mine mentioned this name at a Phils game, it's been nagging at me like mental porn in my 8th grade english class. I figured if anyone would know, it'd be you guys. Who the hell is "Keyser Söze?"

Thanks again,
D. Keaton

Pedro Feliz. As soon as you look away, that OBP skyrockets.

Dear Rusty,

You still aint called or wrote, I hope you have a chance. I aint mad - I just think it' s fucked up you dont answer fans. If you didnt wanna talk to me outside your Q&A session, uou didnt have to, but you coulda signed an autograph for Matthew. That's my little brother man, he's convinced he has a degenerative condition which leads him to believe he's an octopus. We waited in the blistering Philly riots for you; four hours and you just said no. That's pretty shitty man - you're like his fuckin idol (actually, you're just the only human being besides himself he's aware of). He wants to be just like you man, he likes you more than I do (and I write fanfics about you and Stephen Drew). I ain't that mad, though, I just dont like bein lied to. Remember when we met in Denver - you said if Cory Sullivan got a hit off Ryan Madson you'd suck me dry. See I'm just like you in a way, I never "knew" father neither; he used to always cheat on my mom but simultaneously beat it to her- confused guy. I can relate to what you're saying in your blogs, so when I have a shitty day, I drift away and boo household appliances. 'Cause I don't really got shit else- no, really, this economy blows- so that shit helps when baseball season starts. I even got a tattoo of this blog's name across the chest. Sometimes I even cut myself when Tom Gordon comes in to pitch, it's like adrenaline, the distraction from a blown lead is such a sudden rush for me. See everything you say is real, and I respect you 'cause you tell it objectively. My girlfriend's jealous cause I talk about you 24/7, but she dont know you like I know you Rusty, no one does. She's a fuckin' Mets fan. You gotta call me man, I'll be the biggest fan you'll ever lose.

Sincerely yours,
Stan

P.S: We should be together too

Remember how that song ends? Try that.

Thanks again, everyone. We'll see you in 3 days for our next anniversary. Something special's already being planned for then, too. Stick around.