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Ichiro: Mariner Player Hater of the Year

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Just this week we learned that it's an annual tradition for Ichiro to deliver a profanity-laden, National League-denigrating pre-game pep talk to his AL all-star brethren. The profane, insult-oriented nature of his speech brings to mind The Chappelle Show's vaunted Player Hater's Ball. It seems that Mr. Roboto is not the only elite hater from the Pacific Rim.

Similarly, it's not just the AL All-Stars who get to hear Ichiro hate. Here's what happened when Ichiro delivered his annual 2nd half pep-talk to his teammates:


(Ichiro walks before the assembled team, opens a Gatorade, and pours some the on clubhouse carpet.)

That was for Johnny Mac. Dude couldn’t manage a hot dog stand, but he let me play centerfield.

(Pours some more Gatorade on clubhouse carpet)

That was for Bavasi. If his wife's got a brain to go with that ass, she won't let him use the credit cards.

(Pours some more Gatorade on the clubhouse carpet.)

That was for Richie. He couldn’t hit water in an ocean, but as a well-groomed man myself, I appreciated his frosted tips. See you at the crossroads, Sexy.

(Opens a new bottle of Gatorade and empties the entire thing on the clubhouse carpet. A clubhouse custodian closes his eyes and silently recites the serenity prayer.)

That was for Adam Jones. He’s better than all you suckers, and we traded him for some broke-ass “ace.”

Now on to the rest of you bitches.

Turbo.

(He slowly paces back and forth in front of the assembled team.)

Turbo, Turbo, Turbo. You ain’t even the best Jose on this team. You got more curves than your woman—trust me. Your numbers are worse than Wilkerson’s were when we dumped his mullet ass. Clean-up?!! The only thing you could clean-up is a dessert buffet. You look like Dom DeLuise in a celebrity softball tournament.

Jarrod. If I wanted to see some spoiled, no-talent, trick-ass motherfuckers whine, I’d watch My Super Sweet Sixteen. At least that has some production value.

Yuni, you overeatin’ overstuffed raft-ridin’ mark-ass. If I wanted foie gras, I’d go to some classy establishment with your lady. Except I wouldn’t take your lady to a classy establishment. And I don’t call her a lady. And I don’t eat foie gras because it’s cruel to animals. Get on a diet. Don’t make me staple your stomach, motherfucker.

Same goes for you, Carlos. You got me grabbin’ my Proton Pack every fifth day cuz I think I see a blob on the mound. Then I’m like, nah, that’s David Wells. Then I’m like, nah, it can’t be Wells, cuz Wells can pitch. It’s just that fat-ass, scallywag bitch, Silva. At that point, I just want my $8.5 million back.

Jose. Range is more than just that thing you fry your second dinner on every night. And turning two doesn’t mean eating a package of twinkies, just like turning a trick doesn’t mean pulling quarters from some kid’s ear. Just ask your mom.

Raul, you bald-ass, geriatric motherfucker. You got as much range in the field as Vin Diesel does on the screen. We kept down Adam Jones for your sorry ass.

Miguel. Miguel. Your starts last about as long as some pencil-dicked virgin in a top-shelf ho. And shouldn’t nobody be payin’ $9.5 million for a nut.

Kenji. Motherfucker, I’m tired of going back home and having to hear, ‘What’s up with Kenji’s broke ass?’ You’re like Frank Stallone; how’s Sly supposed to shine when he always gotta be answering about Frank? Get down or lay down, bitch.

Felix. Easy on the brawls, shorty. A top dog lets his muscle handle it for him. You don’t see Ichiro get involved in that shit. I just slap my singles and check my portfolio, dig?

Willie. Willie, Willie, Wille.

(Ichiro grabs a boombox and hits play)

Crank dat Soulja Boy!

(Willie Bloomquist proceeds to perform the aforementioned dance, while Ichiro laughs and nods approvingly.)

This is the last time this year you mark-ass punks get to hear me without a translator. I’m done with you scallywhops. Hate ya later!

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