Whoa, whoa, whoa …
What the fuck did you just say to Rich Gale? What in the living fuck did you just say to this 6-foot-7, 225-pound sum-buck?
Rich Gale will set those gold-rimmed Christian Diors aside — maybe hand them for safekeeping to Pete LaCock, who will mutter, “Shit, you shouldn’t have said that,” — give a considered stroke of his mustache with thumb and pointer finger and get the shit down to business. Don’t let the feathered body wave fool you: If Rich Gale’s smoky baritone doesn’t get through to you, then these got-damn soup bones will do the rest of the talking.
Yes indeed, I’d pump the brakes over there, tadpole, lest you want Rich Gale to use these meaty shillelaghs to beat some wits into you. Within the last fifteen minutes, Rich Gale has factually pinched off a crap bigger than you. Say something like that again, and Rich Gale’s going to get around to tenderizing some beef.
You started in on him, and he told you that tiny boats should stay near the shore. But you kept at it. And now he’s giving you that smoldering, 12-gauge glare that says it looks like it might be time to snatch a sucka up by the lapels and hammer-throw him over the upper deck like a sack of dead falcons. Maybe what’s coming — and what’s coming for you is a mouth full of bloody Chiclets — will give you pause the next time you take a notion to nip at the heels of Rich Dr. Butt Ass Gale. Shoulda left your mouth at home, shitty boy.
Yeah, this is gonna hurt you a whole helluva lot more than it hurts Streets of Fire Rich Gale.
(This piece originally appeared at FanGraphs. It has since been revised and made even worse, probably.)