Wednesday, April 1, 2015

Mr. Redlegs Speaks

Greetings, mortals! The day grows closer and closer. Opening day, that is. I shall feast on the innocence of Reds fans, increasing my lifespan and bringing me closer to Nyarlathotep, the Crawling Chaos. My joy shall be limitless when Marty Brennaman rests upon a spiked tentacle, silenced mercifully forever, while Thom watches, his own tongue removed. There will be a massacre on the river, friends! I have told the Phillie Phanatic this, and he also pines for the day when he will sacrifice his own terrible fanbase to a dark god, though I feel Shub-Niggurath will be most displeased with the taste of Philadelphia.

Recently, I have been speaking with the moneyed Canadian, the one they call Votto. We have been discussing his approach at the plate, and I agree with Joseph that he shouldn't change a thing. Despite what that emissary of banality (Brandon "The Mouth" Phillips) states, on-base percentage is life. There are no bad players with a .400 on-base percentage. In order to silence Votto's critics, I have completed a dark ritual that should give both Marty and Brandon herpes, if they don't have it already. Let us drink to Nyarlathotep in celebration! Though there will be none for any of us. We are but bottom feeders in a dark and chaotic universe.

The All-star game will be in Cincinnati this year, and my very being tingles with the thought of the Crawling Chaos materializing from his black dimension directly over Great American Ballpark, a  terrible mass of writhing tentacles and eyes. Think of the hot dogs sticking in people's throats, the beer running down the aisles like blood! Unfortunately, Rosie has not given me a son to sacrifice, for her womb is as barren as the parking lot during an Astros' game. I shall have to steal a child and hope that he or she is enough. If anyone wants to give me their child, I may be able to secure said person a place in Nyarlathotep's court, though there are no guarantees, since he is an unpredictable god of chaos. I can give you a gift card for fifty dollars worth of JTM burgers. That's a home run, right?

Come to a Reds game this year, friends. I guarantee a slow and horrible demise for the Brennaman.    

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