The Sports Bizzo

By Jeets…

Dearest Bizzoteers-

I know I’ve been M-I-A for a while.  But let me explain.  It can be done in two words:  Mark Dickbag Teixeira.

Okay, that’s three words, and they’re not really words, they’re names.  So what do I look like?  A grammarian?  A physicist?

No.  I look like a sex god wrapped up in an irresistibly tight, pin-striped uniform that accentuates my delts.

The truth is, Bizzolitos (that’s Spanish for “Little Jeets Disciples”), Tex is a pain in my well-toned, sought-after ass.  Who would have thought this big, clutch-sucking goon would be making more money than the most sexually active player in the majors, yours truly?

Tough to imagine, I know.  But, it’s true.  I guess S-Bomb (Steinbrenner and I are tight) felt like he needed to compensate Big Tex somehow to get him to come here, since he’s already got an inferiority complex bigger than the state he’s lamely named after and sharing infield space with a guy that tags more skin than a scientist on a whaling vessel was bound to screw him up further if he wasn’t getting paid.

Anyway, it probably comes as no secret to hear that Tex is a punk.  And kind of a sissy.

You guys should have seen him tear up and run screaming to the shower when he got some Bengay on his scrote the other day.  Man.  He does this weird, flamboyant skipping thing when he gets overexcited and it really queers out the clubhouse.  Jorge was even trying to convince Mo Rivera to throw at Tex to toughen him up the other day.  You know, like when no one’s on first and Tex is over there in lala land, Mo would just turn and throw a 95 mph cutter/pickoff attempt at him and pelt Texy in his bulbous ass.  But Mo’s getting old and has lost his spunk, so he bailed.

Tex is hitting .203.  203?  What, are we counting my sexual conquests from this past weekend (I didn’t even go out Friday night, that’s why the number’s low)?

Dude should be named Mark Texpopup.

Now, I know what you’re thinking: Jeets, you’re only hitting .270.  And why do you think that is, smart ass?  It’s a recession.  And I’m a man of the people.  Fans’ 401(k)s are down, so I figured I’d bring my inhumanely high batting average down a little, too, so they don’t feel bad.  It’s kinda like inflation, only in reverse.  Or, what do they call that?  Trickle down economics?  In my case, it’s more like pleasure eruption economics, but whatevs.

Point being: Tex better cut this “slow start” crap out.  I’m tired of hearing everyone talk about how he heats up in June.  You want heating up in June?  Put your hands down my pants on the summer solstice.  They’ll melt.  That’s heating up in June.

Honestly, I don’t even know where I’m going with this.  I haven’t written in a while so my flow’s all interrupted and whatnot.  Maybe I just wanted to point out that if Tex doesn’t get another hit all year (which seems likely), we will have paid that rubber $860,000 per hit.  That’s more than even I charge to hit it, you dig?

So, here’s the solution.  I’m gonna have sex with Tex’s wife.

The way I figure, with his wife reaching levels of carnal satisfaction she never even dreamed possible, she’ll start floating around the house, all whimsically, humming happily to herself, making things pretty, cooking Tex lavish dinners cuz she’s gotta keep herself busy so she doesn’t just spend all day in bed waiting for me to get done going 6 for 6 with 12 RBIs and a pimp OPS every night.

And with his wife acting all girly and feminine, with that lusty female glow about her, Tex won’t feel so weird being the only one in the house that walks around daintily with a flushed face.

That means dude starts producing on the field, I can stop trying to turn all the players and fans against him by yelling “Let’s go skirt!” every time he goes up to bat, and we’ll all be a lot happier.

If it doesn’t work out and Tex continues to suck?

Well, let’s just say we’ll all be right where we are now.  Except for me.  I’ll continue to elevate my awesomeness to painfully high new levels AND I’ll be tagging his wife harder than I tag Brian Roberts out at 2nd.

Win win, if you ask me.

Jeets, out.