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Saturday, December 15, 2007

Excerpts From The Lost Mitchell Report

REPORT TO THE COMMISSIONER OF BASEBALL
OF AN INDEPENDENT INVESTIGATION INTO
THE ILLEGAL USE OF ANGELS AND OTHER
PERFORMANCE ENHANCING HEAVENLY BODIES
BY PLAYERS IN MAJOR LEAGUE BASEBALL
GEORGE J. MITCHELL
DLA PIPER US LLP

December 13, 2007


(from page 22)

...

The most egregious offender of this highly controversial and well-hidden performance enhancement is, ironically, the 1994 California Angels, playing in Anaheim. Under the management of George Knox, noted Danny Glover-impersonator, the team used several angels (beings serving the Almighty God) to manipulate and bend the rules and plays of several games in their favor. One particularly outlandish example involved the foul post seemingly moving on its own accord so that an intended foul ball turned into a home run.

Sports fans and analysts spent weeks marvelling at the supposed "luck" of that particular moment and several others (such as sliding far past the bounds of what modern physics would allow), but none realized that the team's sudden and abrupt winning streak may have been the result of illegal tampering via the Angels involvement with several unlicensed, secretive "angels." Investigators viewing the tapes now can see that these, and most likely hundreds of other unknown plays, were the products of illegal angel-involvement. Angel-use this season became rampant and unchecked for nearly a decade, giving the Anaheim team an insane and hitherto unthought of unfair advantage during this season of Major League Baseball.

More damning evidence exists. Prior to the sudden influx of angel-usage amongst the club, the Angels' record was a meager 10-52, which was followed by an unprecedented 100 game winning streak. Several large feathers were found throughout the field by janitorial staff members. The subtle glow of a halo would often be seen over a player's head as he was at bat, followed by mighty home runs by players who had barely managed a successful bunt weeks prior. Also, Christopher Lloyd's voice was heard often by crowd members, despite the fact that he had lost corporeal form years prior.

It is the recommendation of this report to strip them of their World Series trophy and send several priests to the site of each known angel-abused area for spiritual cleansing. Priests and other approved religious figures/ghost-hunters should be used for random testing of bats, balls, gloves, and other contaminable areas of play.



(from page 47-48)

...

The first known case of using an illegal heavenly body to sway the game in favor of certain players or teams was in 1939, by a player known as Roy Hobbs who played for the now-defunct New York Knights. Hobbs reportedly struck out renowned hitter Walter "The Whammer" Whambold in three pitches at the age of 16. He was shot soon after by a crazed woman in a hotel, and disappeared from baseball for nearly two decades.

Upon his return, something was clearly awry about the once-promising man. According to eye witness reports and interviews, Hobbs was a walk-on for the team that year, and in his first batting practice hit every single one of the 40 pitches to him out of the park. Then, upon his first at-bat in the major league, he literally hit the ball with such force that it peeled the skin off of the ball. His batting average for the remainder of the season was a highly-suspiscious (yet nonetheless impressive) 8.68. It should be noted that the first half of the season, Hobbs batted a seemingly-impossible 1.00, only later faltering due to unknown personal circumstances.

While it was the belief of this report initially that Roy Hobbs inconceivable talent was the result of illegal steroids, further investigation showed a far more sinister form of tampering: a bat given to him by the Almighty, albeit indirectly. The bat - commonly referred to as "Wonderbat" - was the only bat Hobbs used, up until his final at bat, that is. The usage of "Wonderbat" was often accompanied by lightning or flashes of light, indicating some sort of spiritual interference.

...

(from page 89)

...

While outside the bounds of Major League Baseball's authority, there exists a place in Iowa that could be extremely useful in helping to identify the sources and uses of angels and other illegal heavenly bodies in our modern age. The farm owned by Ray Kinsella has a large baseball field built inexplicably into Mr. Kinsella's cornfield. The tourist attraction - which began drawing increasingly large numbers of spectators in 1989 - was apparently built solely by Kinsella after hearing "a voice."

Fans and spectators have reported seeing the spectres of deceased baseball players - including the infamous "Shoeless" Joe Jackson and relative unknowns such as Archibald "Moonlight" Graham - playing baseball in their former uniforms. Many of these spectators reported to have no idea why they went to the location nor how they knew where exactly to go, but all went and paid what they could. They would arrive at your door as innocent as children, longing for the past. The Kinsellas seemingly did not mind if they looked around. They were reportedly charged $20 per person, which they would pass over without even thinking about it: for it is money they had and peace they lacked. They would walk out to the bleachers; sit in shirtsleeves on a perfect afternoon. They would find they had reserved seats somewhere along one of the baselines, where they sat when they were children and cheered their heroes. And they watched the game and it was as if they dipped themselves in magic waters. The memories were purportedly so thick that they "had to brush them away from their faces."

This strange and odd behavior must be studied if we hope to curb the growing presence of illegal angels and other such heavenly bodies in Major League Baseball. That is all.

Hey, look! This article's on McSweeney's!

The Three Wise Men: One Year Later

The three magi stood still that night, staring into the sky.

"I don't see it."

"Neither do I."

"This is ridiculous, guys. What the hell were we thinking?"

Balthazar and Gaspar stared intently at Melcior, who had yet to say a word.

"Oookay," began Melcior, finally. "Maaaaaybe we were a little hasty last year."

"What?!" Balthazar was incredulous. "Oh you cannot be serious, Mel. I mean, you simply CANNOT be serious. Do you have any idea what last year was like for me? Couldn't afford to get the wife anything for our anniversary because I had to follow a friggin' STAR and give all the gold I had to a baby who was lying in a pile of hay in a barn while still covered in his mother's placenta! And now you tell me we might have been hasty?"

"Hold it, Balthazar," stepped in Gaspar. "Now, let's just assume we were right. I mean, that was a pretty crazy star we saw."

Balthazar calmed himself for a second and closed his eyes. "Yeah, I guess it was."

"Right. And, even though he didn't really look like it at the time, that kid is gonna be huge someday. I mean...son-of-God huge. And who do you think he's gonna be taking care of with the Big Guy Upstairs? Huh?"

"Us, that's who!" jumped in Melcior.

Balthazar sighed, and crossed his arms.

"Here's what I know: there was this crazy-ass star last year. One year ago exactly. We followed it, however the hell you follow a star. We brought the finest gifts our money could bring us. We found a kid in a barn that stank of horse poop. We gave the gifts to a kid who had no idea who or what we were. The kid farted, maybe twice. We ditched out. King Herod found out about us and killed a bunch of newborns. The end. I get what my wife was talking about now."

"Okay, it sounds kinda crazy when you say it like that," began Gaspar. "But my question is, and this is primarily for you, Mel, since it was your idea in the first place, what now? Do we go back and give the kid more gifts?"

"I've been thinkin' the same thing, guys, trust me." Melcior cleared his throat. "I think we go back. But we've given our gifts. I mean, they were essentially hoboes and we gave them gold, frankincense, and myrrh. Not too shabby, eh? I think the least they could do is put us up for the night, give us a little dinner, let us spend some time with the savior."

"But we don't know where the hell to go, Mel!" yelled an exasperated Balthazar. "Look up in the sky! You see a star? No! Nothing! Nada! They were only in Bethlehem last year 'cause of that census. Who knows where they are now."

"I hear Nazareth..."

"Nazareth? Oh man, count me out, buddy," said Gaspar. "I mean, Bethlehem's a pain in the ass enough, but Nazareth? Holy cow, I think not."

"Think for a second guys!" Melcior was a bit giddy. "If we do this every year - and we totally can - we could end up being Jesus's cool uncles. The messiah's cool uncles. We would be a shoe-in with God! We might up becoming saints or something."

"That's assuming this kid actually is the messiah and not just a hobo's kid who was born in a pile of hay next to a mare," retorted Balthazar.

"But..the star!"

"Oh yeah, the star! I almost forgot! I spent my life savings because you saw a big 'ol star and it lead you to a barn! I nearly got killed by Herod for a star! The Massacre of the Innocents happened...because you found a goddamn star!"

"Now, hold on a sec, Baltha-"

"NO! I will NOT hold on a sec! This is bullshit! Mary and Joseph never wrote to us thanking us for the gifts, we've gotten no notice of thanks or goodwill from God, whose kid this supposedly is, and to top it all off, I'm standing around with you two numbskulls waiting to do it AGAIN!"

Balthazar stomped off in a huff to get some sleep. Melcior ran after him, but returned after he realized that there would be no consoling nor convincing Balthazar. He sat on a sand dune with Gaspar, and the two stared up into the night sky.

"You think he's really the messiah?" asked Melcior, nervously.

"Not sure," responded Gaspar, sighing to himself. "Doesn't really matter though, does it? At the very least, we helped out a poor kid and his family. How old was that mother? 13? 12? And the husband couldn't have been much older. They probably ate for three months on what we gave them. And maybe that kid will grow up to be the messiah, and we helped him. And maybe he'll just grow up to be a responsible adult. And maybe someday his parents'll tell him what three noble wise men did for them the day he was born. And maybe he'll do the same for some other poor couple with a newborn. And then it'll start all over again..."

"Yeah," murmurred Melcior. "I'm kinda hoping for the messiah thing though. That'd be awesome."

Monday, December 3, 2007

Bitter Eggnog: Letters to Santa '07

Dear Santa,

I have been a very good boy all year long and I want a new bike for Christmas, please. Thank you!

Sincerely,
Jimmy

Dear Jimmy,

Fuuuuck you, kid. Very good boy all year? You think I'm blind, kid? You think I don't know all and see all? Jesus Christ, lying to Santa in the letter where you purport to be good? And having the gall to ask for PRESENTS? Are you the same Jimmy who gave his sister a wet willy at least twice a week this year? Are you the same Jimmy who broke a window and blamed it on the neighbor's retarded son? Wow, kid, you have some fuckin' balls writing to me. No new bike this year. Maybe if you're lucky I'll give you a brand new SHUT THE FUCK UP AND LEAVE ME ALONE.

Yours,
Santa

Dear Santa,

How are you? How is Mrs. Claus? I hope you and the elves are doing good, and are hard at work preparing for next Christmas, which is rapidly approaching. I know you don't have much free time, so I'll cut to the chase! I've been pretty good this year, not perfect, but pretty good. I would like a 1963 red Jaguar and for my step-dad to die in a horrible accident.

Thanks!
William

Dear shithead,

This is Santa Claus. Fuck you, buddy. Asking how I am? How do you think I am?! Doc says I gotta undergo a triple bypass in a month, assuming I survive through Christmas, which is about 50/50. And you have the fucking nerves to ask me for an antique car? Ohhhhhhh sure, I'll go get the elves to carve one OUT OF FUCKING WOOD. Hope you don't mind that when it rains the frame warps completely and a team of beavers might jack it to finish their fucking dam. And how is Mrs. Claus? None of your goddamn business. And according to her lawyers, none of mine either. And murder your stepdad? Jesus...what the hell is wrong with kids these days? Fuck you. I need a drink.

-Santa


Dear Santa,

I love you! My name is Betty. I have been good all year! I don't want any toys or nothing for Christmas. I just want my cousin Artie to not be sick. He has lookemia. The doctor says he is not doing good = (. Please make him better!

Love,
Betty

Dear Betty,

Oh man...I'm sorry. I'm worthless. WORTHLESS. I'm a joke, a hack. I can't do shit for you, Betty. Oh god...I've lost it all. Mrs. Claus won't talk to me, the elves won't listen to me, the reindeer mutter about me under their breath... I'm pathetic. I can't wait to die.

Oh, and while I admire your selflessness...SINCE WHEN AM I FUCKING GOD?! I know I ride on a real fast sleigh 'n shit, but how does that give me the power to cure cancer?! Way to make me feel even shittier about myself and my shitty life. I so do not need this right now. Holy shit, I'm done. I quit.

Oh yeah, and one more thing.

I AM NOT REAL. NEITHER IS THE EASTER BUNNY.

HO HO HO,
Me


Dear Santa,

I've been good all year and I totally want this new video game called Madden for my PS3. My parents won't buy it for me cuz I got two F's this year. Screw them, Santa'll get it for me. That's what I told 'em. You're awesome, bro.

High five,
Drew

Dear (YOUR NAME HERE)

Sorry for the inconvenience, I'm currently out of the office at the North Pole right now! I'm probably checking my list twice or making sure the elves are hard at work and not drinking too much eggnog on their lunch break...just kidding! I hope you've been a good little boy/girl this year! If you have been, I'll be dropping by with a (REQUESTED TOY) to put under your tree! Ho ho ho! Merry Christmas!

-S.C.