Hey … Barry! Good to see you, man. I gotta say, it’s really nice of you to take the time to shake our hands and sign some autographs for the little guys since you’re in town to sign a new, one-year, $15.8-million contract.
I feel like you really care about everyone who makes the San Francisco Giants organization the company that it is — from the guy who washes your dirty, steroid-saturated socks to the lady who puts together the pre-game meal to the guy who brings your car around to the side entrance so you can skip outta the stadium without passing any fans.
Maybe you do have a heart after all.
I mean, it only took you 15 fucking years, uncounted tonnes of ugly newspaper clippings, thousands of hours of angry fans on call-in sports radio calling you a selfish asshole, the threat of you breaking baseball’s most famous record to a round of ‘Boo’s, a possible federal indictment for lying to a grand jury under oath … and a rapidly self-destructing body making you grippingly aware of your own mortality to finally meet some of the people who made it possible for you to go about your business unhindered by plebes and proles and time-consuming media requests.
But now it’s all good, right? Because I got a picture and an autograph from the Giant’s “new ambassador of goodwill”? Oh, Barry … Fuck you. With a dirty, rusted railroad tie. And they wonder why people say athletes are spoiled, self-centred, steroid-using criminals? Well, you’re the living trifecta. Jerk. Now, sign this … so I can sell it on E-Bay when you got to jail.
