Dear Ye Buccos of Suckitude:
I’ve done a dumb risky thing this year. I’m betting on you. And not only am I betting on you, I’m getting other people to bet on you. And you can be sure if I’m betting and/or asking readers to put their money on the Buccos of Suckitude, then there must be sick children involved.
So, gather ’round, ye scurvy dogs, because if I built this bandwagon, and if I’m driving this bandwagon, and if I’m kidnapping innocent Burghers and wrapping them up in duct tape and forcing them onto the bandwagon and pouring margaritas down their throats until they’re too drunk to care they’re even ON the bandwagon, then you and I are going to have a little chat about this season before it even begins.
Did you see what the executive editor of Golf World, Ron Sirak, just tweeted about you?!
Did you see what some fancy schmancy real live mathematician wrote about you, after plugging some numbers into his fancy schmancy “algorithm,” which I don’t need to tell you sounds very very sciency?
Bukiet says the Pittsburgh Pirates should repeat as the worst NL team with 66 wins.
Not only are the humans jumping up and down on your dead, rotting flesh, not only are the animals walking up to your dead flesh to take a leak on it, but now the COMPUTERS have turned against you, son.
THE COMPUTERS! They are putting numbers into a computer and the computer is laughing its ass off all, “ROTFLMFAO! 66 wins, LOOOOOOOOOOOOSERS!”
I bet the computer wishes it had arms to make the “L” sign on its forehead. I bet the computer wishes it had a forehead, too.
Well, this is me, lining your scurvy lily-livered asses up on deck as we prepare to enter uncharted waters. Winning waters.
This is me, walking up and down the line, looking each of you in the eye and saying, “Who gives a crap what the editor of a golf magazine thinks about you? Golf isn’t even a sport. I mean, John Daly played professional golf as a 400-lb alcoholic. Your mother plays golf. Your grandmother plays golf. Let’s see them connect with a ninety-mile-an-hour four-seam fastball. And who gives a parrot cloaca about some computer?! Eff the computers! Eff the scientist who forgot to plug ‘playing with heart’ into his ‘algorithm.’ Eff the haters. Eff the pessimists. Eff the statistics. Eff the laws of probability. Eff the management and their shitty profit-driven decision-making. Because this is the year. This is the year you win despite playing for the worst management in all of professional sports and possibly amateur sports and possibly circle-time at the daycare. Screw it all. This is the year you play like you mean it. Play like you want to win. Play like you know a thing or two about hitting and throwing a ball. When that ball comes to you, you slow that ball down in your mind, you look that ball in the eye and you say, ‘Eff you, ball,’ and you hit it square in the nose. Win so they can’t laugh at you anymore. Win for the fans. Win for the kids. Win so I can send that Golf Magazine editor a nasty email. Win so you can kick that ‘algorithm’ right in the junk. Just win. Because I swear to God, if I lose this bet, I will not only make each and every one of you pox-riddled scallywags walk the plank, but I will personally push you overboard and let The Kraken have you for supper.”