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Jeff Johnson's Fun with Old Sportscards 2011 Baseball Season Edition

Nope. Wrong again. This IS a communication device, and yep, I am definitely hearing something. It's your mom. She's down in the laundry room and she says from the looks of it none of your tube socks got pregnant, but she somehow suspects you're gonna...
April 22, 2011, 5:38pm

Nope. Wrong again. This IS a communication device, and yep, I am definitely hearing something. It’s your mom. She’s down in the laundry room and she says from the looks of it none of your tube socks got pregnant, but she somehow suspects you’re gonna keep going for it. Right? Right or wrong? You tell me.

What I’m saying is how do I know if I throw you the ball--this ball--you’re going to give it back? What guarantee do I have? I’ve been burned on this shit too many times before. Some jackass in protective gear just gets out of their crouch and runs off with my property. I don’t care if we’re wearing matching jerseys. That means nothing to me. Now, I’m gonna ask you again. Do you see the face I’m making? Well surprise, I’m not “making” a face. This is my real face and does this not look like a business face? I’m waiting for your answer.

I am not joking. I deserve some fucking answers. This. is. my. baseball. will. you. give. it. back. or. not? I need to know this before I agree to play catch.

He’s fuckin’ serious, bud. I know we all love to gimp out together, but picture it if your feet were in his. And then consider that. And then see. And then answer, like, his question about your intentions. OK?

No. I’m good. I know the stands are empty and there’s no one else here and it’s my turn but I’m just gonna leave this shit on, OK? Take the picture. Take the picture.

You sure we should be playin’ today? I think it’s starting to sprinkle. It was definitely going to rain over by Lancaster. I’m all for it, though. I am ready to kick some ass. Rain or shine. Oh, wait. I forgot my shoulder pads. Now I totally for sure can’t play. Yeah, I don’t think those will fit. I’m pretty sure they won’t. You don’t have to keep looking. No, that’s cool. Don’t ask the coach. He looks real busy. I kind of have a stomach ache, anyway. Really wish I could play. I think I ate something last night. Shrimp. Feelin’ a little weird. Next week will be awesome though. I’m gonna hurt people.

He’s not a pussy! He just doesn’t want to do it, OK? He legitimately forgot his shit for like the third week in a row. Plus the rain. Look at it. Jesus. I mean it hasn’t started yet. But it’s coming. Probably. Lay off.

OK, sandwich time. Outta my way. Chop chop. Have you seen, like, any of my mustard, dipfuck?

Well, then they had to pump my stomach. At least that’s what Gary told me. He was like crying and shit in the ambulance. That’s all I remember. Personally, I think it was fucking funny. If you ask me. And I can’t guarantee that it won’t happen again. Deal with it. I told you that before anyone wanted to be friends. I am a real Jack-a-napes. I quote myself. And then I said look it up.

Did you know the internet is like a tree? And we’re all its human branches. Or roots. I noticed your lanyard. I’m talking at the hotel later today.

Please, don’t apologize for flirting with me. I’m used to it. It kind of happens a lot. I’m actually in medical school in the off season. I’m supposed to finish early. So how are things at… Arby’s, is it?

I pledge of allegiance of the flag of liberry and of republican and of United States in America. There! Bingo. Play ball. Get the runs.

Noooo… ha-ha. I’m not coming to Brian’s “speech” today. C’mon, let’s get serious.

Back up, Gene. Put your hands down. Get back in your Taurus and get out of my face. You see this fence? It’s not to “keep me in.” That’s a wooden and wire fuck you from me to you. Go watch some Cinemax and eat your Egg Beaters.

Yep. Relax. It’s just a sports drink. A very, very delicious sports drink. Take a sip if you don’t believe me. See for yourself. It’s been weeks, Tammy. Months even. I’m doing great. It’s just… one vermouth flavored sports drink for m’lady. Yes, indeed. Coming right up. Say why don’t you put on one of your dresses and we’ll go karaoke the shit out of some Christmas Carols?

Are you cold? I’m freezing my ass off.

What’s say we swap wives? Sure, I know I’m not married, but when I do get married we can make it retroactive and you can get your fair ups then. I’ll sign something. Anything. Because just historically speaking a lot of wive swapping isn’t what you call synchronized—meaning the swap occasions aren’t concurrent. Think outside the box a little bit, Kev. Let’s make this happen.

No using your hands, eh? No problemo. Come to papa.

Not everyone is brave enough to go before Congress and really stand up for corporate America. That’s my particular cross to bear, and you don’t know it yet, but you appreciate what I do. So do your kids. That’s just the truth.

I’ve been learning everything about art. Every era. Every possible fact. Except shit that’s like baked. I don’t want to know anything about that. If you do art and then you gotta put it in an oven, that’s where you lose me, frankly. It’s just fuckin’ sad. That’s my perspective. I hate like ovens, and kilns and woks and all of that shit. Anything where there is fire or heat combined with art. Or I guess I’d include like scratchings in that, too. If you had to do a bunch of scratching, that just seems to me like you did a chore or something. No offense, bro. I’m also getting pretty good on bass guitar.

All I have to do is make contact with the ball and you will give me my Christmas tree back? And my children? And all of our hamsters? And it doesn’t have to be a hit? Doesn’t even have to be a fair ball? I can foul it off and the deal still holds. OK. OK. Let’s give it a try.

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