DeJuan does history, or something

By DeJuan C3PO
Fly Scribe

Yesterday was a crazy day, my bitches. Dude Marv with the wack beard and that voice that sounds like Dennis Hopper from "Speed" gives me a call at damn near 6:30 a.m., a full eight hours before I was planning on rolling out of my Mattress of Magic, where the fine LaToya Hudson or someone who kind of looks like her slept beside me. After he blabbered about some damn airplane invading his airspace, he told me to get to San Francisco, pronto amigo, for live coverage of Barry Bonds chasing Baby Ruth.

Now, I ain’t gonna lie, I don’t know a whole helluva lot about baseball. Ever since all the black dudes started speaking Spanish, I haven’t been able to follow it that closely. I don’t even know why it’s such a big deal for Barry to track down some guy with a stupid-ass nickname, for second place on some chart. But whatever, DeJuan has gots to get paid, so off I went.

I’ve decided to call this segment "Deep Thoughts With DeJuan C3P0." Dude, I hope it moves you to damn tears.

9:00 a.m. Dog, don’t ever bring a ceremonial spear, obtained during the "DeJuan Doesn’t Do Disco"tour of 2001, in your carry-on when you fly United. Skanky-ass LAX security guard stole it from me, and told me if I didn’t just give to him, he wouldn’t let me on the plane. Shit. That’s my spear.

9:45 a.m. Wheels up and pants off! The fat man in the business suit sitting next to me wasn’t so pleased with this development, but man, that’s the luck of the draw when you’re on an airplane. If you’re worried about your neighbor, then drive your damn car. Pretty little stewardess told me to step off and put them back on or she’d call the captain. Dog, I know the captain has to fly the plane, I wasn’t born yesterday ... but I agreed if she gave me a free vodka and tonic. Suit ended up paying for it. Dog, the world is your oyster if you know where to swim. Wasn’t that shit profound?

11:30 p.m. San Francisco is in for a treat with DeJuan C3P0 on their home soil. After perusing the gift shop (I wanted to buy that LaToya chick a T-shirt that said, "I escaped Alcatraz." That shit is clever as hell), I also purchased a Baby Ruth candy bar. Because that is irony, and hot shit, I love irony.

12:30 p.m. I find a hotel and catch up on some lost sleep. I think my room is haunted, folks, cuz every time I turn on the TV, it’s always the same channel no matter where I turned it off. Creeps me out, dog, I don’t do ghosts. Speaking of ghosts, I’ve heard a lot about this Baby Ruth character trying to prevent Bonds from reaching his home run total from beyond the grave. Baby Ruth, let it go, that was like, 20 years ago. Move on.

2:30 p.m. Here I am at beautiful Candlestick Park. Ain’t nobody here. Can’t even get into the building. What is this shit?

3:30 p.m. Here I am at beautiful AT&T Park. Couldn’t reach Marv on his cell phone (I think 2-5 are his hours designated for blackouts), but Curtis hooked me up with some good information and told me to keep an eye out for his favorite joint right down by the Candlestick, and they gave me the prime location for Giants baseball. Place called "Backyard Baseball" -– clever name and shit. And real nice dudes. Dog, people here in San Francisco are just so damn nice. One even offered to give me a ride himself, but I don’t think he had a car. Weird.

4:00 p.m. Here I am in the Giants dugout, talking to players, drinking some beers and having a good time. Curtis told me I had to say hello to Noah Lowry for him, but dude, Lowry ain’t ever heard of Curtis. There’s Pedro Gomez from the TV, so I get his autograph and shit. Damn, everybody keeps looking at me weird ... I’m just another journalist like you people, man. Here comes Barry now!

4:45 p.m. Great conversation with Bonds, man. We talked one-on-one about history and Baby Ruth and why his head is so damn big and women and all kinds of shit. Everybody’s just standing around, waiting to get a crack at Bonds and I know they’re jealous cuz they ain’t even looking in my direction. Here I am, totally shooting the shit like we’re old friends. Great times. Dog, I never knew Barry Bonds had a Latin accent, and why does he have "Benitez" written on the back of his jersey? Is this like the witness protection program or something? Homie, I think we all know who you are.

5:15 p.m. Everybody tries talking to this other guy, but he won’t talk to them, so I don’t know why they keep trying. Stupid journalists. This dude has his own little reclining chair that looks kind of comfortable, so I take a seat after he’s up, and he’s all like "Bleep bleep bleep bleep, get outta my fucking chair, whatever." Security kicked me out dog. I didn’t see that dude’s name on it, so what of that? Chairs are like music man –- shit that doesn’t belong to any one person, but to the world.

7:05 p.m. Seven hot dogs and a whole lot of press box milkshakes later, I’m ready for baseball. They announce Bonds’ name beforehand and everybody gives him a standing ovation, so I stand and clap too since it seems like the thing to do. Everyone sure does love Bonds, which is surprising cuz he whines a lot and talks about how the world hates him. Shit, I been doing that for years, and nobody gives me no round of applause.

7:21 p.m. Bonds dude walks in his at-bat, which is too bad, because I really wanted to see history get made or something. Looks like he had his chance and blew it. I decide to stick around, just on the off chance that he gets another at-bat.

8:09 p.m. He’s back and this time he hits a shallow fly ball to Juan Pierre in center during the fourth inning. Man, nice catch Juan. Later on, I heard people on the radio talking about how Juan robbed Bonds from the big home run and stole one and made this amazing catch. I thought it was nice, but nothing special. Whatever, I’m out of here, Bonds had his chance to win my love.

8:35 p.m. I see these two dudes on the way out, Chad and Lance, and I totally recognize them from Backyard Baseball. They’re so friendly and shit and want to know if I’m headed back to the bar and I say hell yes, so away we go. Place is kind of dark and there are not nearly enough fine women around for my liking, but dude, this place looks like it knows how to party.

9:25 p.m. I could go into greater detail, but dog, I’m back at the hotel and not drunk and probably never coming back to San Francisco. You can find another man to cover the Bonds thing, Marvy, cuz people in this town are not what they seem. I’m going back to L.A. as soon as I can, bitches, back to my Mattress of Magic where everything made a whole lot more sense. None of this would have happened if it weren’t for Barry Bonds, so I hope the ghost of Baby Ruth kicks your ass so bad. Peace out, homies.

The world is my potty

By Dakota Brezinski
Six-year-old

I love ponies! They're pretty and soft. Daddy likes to play the ponies, which must be hard, because in a game against ponies, I think the ponies would win. They're bigger than daddy. Daddy is sort of scrawny. Mommy calls him her little stringbean.

Ponies! I like watching them run fast at the Kentucky Derby each year, because each horsie gets a lot of attention, and flowers, and probably candy if they do well. In fact, I think I want to be a horsie. There are so many cool things about horsies, like how they get to take naps all the time and eat all the time and pee whenever they want.

Last year, daddy took me to see the horsies my uncle has in Virginia, because he said my uncle is a rich son of a bitch. I saw one of his horsies pee, and they took so long! It was three minutes and it came out so fast, like out of the shower. How does he have so much pee? How does he pee so fast?

If I was a horsie, I wouldn't save so much and just pee all the time, slowly and little by little. If you're naked and nobody cares if you go number one on their lawn, then why would you hold it in? The world is your potty.

Also, the horsie got to eat a lot, and everyone petted it and called it a good boy. I bet that feels good. Daddy only calls me good boy when I promise not to tell mommy about his special movies. And then they get to run around! I want to run around, and then get petted. I don't want all those baths, though. I hate baths.

Plus, all the horsies have funny names like "Steppenwolfer" and "Sinister Minister" and "Lawyer Ron." From now on, I will only answer to people if they call me "Storm Treasure." I sound like a superhero! And I'm fast and have 100 to 1 odds of winning the Kentucky Derby. I have more odds than anyone else!

Another good name is the name that the most famous horse has, "Secret Harriet." It makes me think of Harriet the Spy. It also makes me think of Harriet Schneider, who moved away, becuase we had a secret cross our heart and hope to die, stick a needle in my eye. I promised not to tell anyone. It has something to do with the missing goldfish in Mrs. Burton's classroom. And a dust buster.

It is time for Storm Treasure to pee. Anywhere in my house should be good. Ponies!

Yeah, I bet she knows all about the Eiffel Tower

By Curtis Woodsworth
Fabulous

Oh, Matt. Tell me it's not true!

Not Paris Hilton. Not in a brown wig, you holding her dog while you two strut along the boulevard. Don't make me sad. Please return my calls.

I have been nothing but loyal to you during your career as a super southpaw stud muffin sexy boy from USC. I adored your rugged, yet engaging visage and constantly told anyone who would listen that it was you, not Reggie Bush, that was responsible for all of those wins from the Trojans.

Tee hee. Trojans.

Sorry. Focus, Curtis. Focus on the visage of Matt. Mmmm. I know that it was your brainiac response to wishnickel defenses and blitzing defender guys that helped win games. Your accurate arm that always found the open receiver man. Your calm leadership in the huddle. And your hiney.

You were supposed to be my West Coast love. Tom Brady on the East Coast, Matthew Leinart on the West. East-West. Sexy-Cute. Blonde-Brunette. Vaseline-Crisco. It was a dichotomy. I had my yin and my yang.

Oh, but now it's all spoiled. Listen, I'm not stupid. As much as I didn't want to believe it, I knew that you had probably been with a woman or two while in college. It's okay -- I even dabbled in that territory during my time at Tufts University.

And I think I could handle you dating a real woman. A real nice girl you could settle down with in the desert. How about Renee Zellweger? I think she's simply adorable. Just the cutest little thing in Hollywood. Have you seen her in Cold Mountain? She was a peach.


But not a trampy, vapid, stupid, irritating trick like Paris Hilton. She's so reptilian. Or possibly racoonish, if you go off that creepy night-vision sex tape that was released by Paramount Pictures a few years ago. She's waifish, and I'm convinced I have a better figure than she does, judging from the various oopsy-nipple-slip photos that pop up on the Internet. And don't even get me started on those upskirt pictures of her that came out, prompting many to recall the hatchet wounds that Custer suffered at Little Bighorn.

Darnit! I am just so broiled over this. Steamed, even.

Please come back, Matthew. I can't even entertain thoughts of you while knowing you are traipsing around with her. I guess I'll just go back to eagerly waiting for the ninth inning of Oakland Athletics games.

Huston, we have no problem.

Batshit crazy

By Agatha Moonfry
Staff Writer

Baseball bats have always had a special place in my cold, black heart. The video portraying Devil Rays uber-prospect Delmon Young throwing his bat at an umpire is delectable, perhaps one of the year's funniest moments -- though Young will get suspended despite throwing the bat such that it hit the umpire TWICE, once in the chest and then up in the face. I call this circumstance fantastic aim and I call Delmon Young a hero.

It reminds me of so many other times when a bat has brought me some form of glee.

May 20, 1989: As a haunted eight-year-old in Ohio, my parents felt one potential way to make me play better with others was to start me in a softball league. In my first at-bat, I watched three pitches go by, all strikes, and started crying when the umpire told me I had to go back to the bench, where those nasty sluts that called themselves my teammates would make fun of me. In my distress, I swung the bat for the first time. The umpire needed three dental surgeries, but he's fine today.

August 2, 1997: High school boyfriend Zeke decided on this day that it would be advantageous to sleep with Marcy O'Brien, a blonde, disgusting cheerleader who drove a sports car to school. Though my days as a softball player were brief, I never forgot how to swing a bat, and I gave the car some new window treatments before giving Zeke's kneecap something to consider. God I am luscious when I'm maniacal.

September 25, 2000: Ah yes, Brad Stapleton, roach hotel on the outskirts, queen size bed with pale yellow sheets, and two nights that will never be matched. I believe a baseball bat was involved, but I can't be sure. There were many objects involved. Of course, when Brad strayed from me, I didn't use a baseball bat to break it off. I used arsenic. And bleach.

March 11, 2001: I purchased my first bat, Buster, from the local zoo. Since, Buster has grown fond of the upstairs attic in which I keep him, and he has become life partners with my second bat, Marguerite. They have two bat children, Puggsley and Wednesday. I love them like children.

August 14, 2005:A baseball bat was again the weapon of refuge when a stranger broke into my house. He had to go to intensive care after his battle with the Moonfry. Of course, by "stranger," I mean "man who cut me off on the interstate on-ramp" and by "broke into my house" I mean "opened the door to his own house while I eagerly waited inside."