Monday, May 3, 2010

These Subways are Big!

Yo yo yo. Watttap!

Yesterday morning I was at Union Square waiting for the 4-train to take me up to the Stadium, and I got curious. What would happen to a bat if it was hit by a subway? Most trains don't go as fast as a baseball, especially in the station. Could I stop a train with a mighty swing?

I had my equipment with me, so when the train came, I cocked the bat and crouched in my stance. The subway was like a fastball right down the middle. When it came barreling up, I took a good hard cut, and the bat went flying! It looked just like it had been shot from my hands!

Lesson learned: you can't hit a train the same way as a baseball, and that has to do with mass.

The bad part was that the bat skittered across the platform and hit an older Russian woman in the ankle. I tried to pretend it wasn't me, but there weren't many people on the platform, and I was already wearing my Yankees uniform. Plus, the train conductor had seen everything. We made eye contact before I swung. He looked scared. I probably looked focused, just like at the plate.

The Russian woman pointed at me and started yammering, so I had to make a tough decision. After I considered my options, I chose to grab the bat and run away. I knew she couldn't catch me; not only am I a world class athlete, but also her ankle had started to swell pretty bad. She shouted some more Russian things, but I was already gone. Unfortunately, I slipped on the stairs and banged my knee pretty good, and once I finished walking to the stadium (too risky to go back in the subway), the swelling was bad and Girardi wouldn't let me play.

I did get to take a nice bath in the locker room, which is awesome, but even that wasn't perfect since I took some flack from my teammates for missing three innings of the game. But "you can't please everybody all the time." That's a quote from Abe Lincoln, my favorite president. We visited his statue last year when we played Washington, but you can't sit in his lap. Even if you were allowed, there's basically no way to climb up there.

(Sorry, didn't have time to find a different picture from yesterday's post.)

Friday, April 30, 2010

I'm Back, DUDES!

What's up everyone, it's A-Rod! Welcome to my A-Blog!!!

I stopped blogging for a while after my horrible time in Japan back in '08. Sorry for that. Bet you guys were wondering what the hell I'd been up to! But I'm back now, and it's going to be pretty sweet.

To start with, I put up all the old posts. You can read those by clicking or just scrolling. My buddy Gourou, who advises me on this blog and who saved me from pirates in Japan, also taught me how to post pictures now. Check it!

That was supposed to be a running puppy. Hopefully it worked. All it shows here is a lot of computer code. But Gourou says that's how it works. I trust him, because when I first tried to post it, I got tape and glue all over my screen and had to buy a new monitor. This new one is sweet, though. Totally glare free, so my eyes stay strong for hitting.

I'll be back next week to start posting some sweet stories and ideas. The year has been awesome so far, especially because Melky Cabrera is traded. Having him out of town has made life a lot better. I'm even getting pretty close with a new Yankee, Randy Winn. We're almost best friends. But don't tell him that, because whenever I tell people they're my best friend, it jinxes it.

Talk to you guys later.

Back From Japan and Confused


I don’t have to say anything. I’m furious. You probably know from my last post that Melky tricked me. I flew to Japan because he told me we were opening our season in Tokyo. I stayed there for five days waiting for the rest of the Yankees. They didn’t come. I got back yesterday morning and found out that there were games in Japan, but it was between Boston and the green team from the western conference.

You got me, Melky, but now it’s my turn, and you don’t even want to imagine what’s in store. It might involve fire, or horses, or just hitting some of your things with a bat until they break.

I flew into LaGuardia, and when I finally stepped out to try to find a cab, my phone told me I had 87 voicemails and 94 text messages since leaving for Japan. Most of them were angry messages from Joe Girardi or other Yankee people to the effect of “where are you, the season’s about to start?!”

When I got home, I looked on the internet and was relieved to find out I hadn’t missed any games, but that we had our first that afternoon (at home, thank God) against Canada. I took a nap and woke up at 2, way late for our 1pm start, and rushed to the stadium to find it empty.

I don’t know what the hell is going on anymore. Was that another prank? If yes, how did Melky get to list our game? Am I even on the Yankees anymore?

I felt pretty sad, so instead of going home I just went out on the field and sat in a puddle by third base. I made up some rhymes about girls I used to know in the Dominican Republic to pass the time, and before long the sky was getting dark and I was completely soaked. This morning I feel flu-ish.

I’ll have to make some calls. I wonder if maybe I’m kicked off the team because of the steroids stuff? Jose Canseco told the story about how I asked him where to find steroids, and now people are crazy upset. The truth is, everyone else was using them in Seattle, but I didn’t even know what steroids were. I still don’t, actually. Is it at all like Red Bull? I asked Canseco because I wanted to be part of the gang. He gave me some names, but instead of contacting anyone, I just bought a few needles and injected myself with sugar solution in front of the other guys. It ended up backfiring because a couple times I accidentally made the fat part of my butt bleed pretty bad with some needle mishaps.

Japan is Effin' Nuts!


Hey everyone, Happy New Year! I know it’s pretty late to say that kind of thing, but it’s my first post of 2008, so what the heck?

The new season’s about to start, and as most of you probably know, the Yankees are opening our season here in Japan. Last year ended pretty badly, and a lot of tough things were said about me, but I spent the whole winter getting in shape and making myself mentally tough by playing games like Truth or Dare and Bingo. I’m ready to rock.

But enough about baseball. Let’s talk about this crazy island. Man, growing up and living in New York, I thought I’d experienced the fastest place on Earth. But I was dead wrong! Japan is like some kind of high-speed factory where every part has to keep moving or else it will get bumped by the part behind it. Except the “parts” are scurrying little people, and they shout in the way that birds talk.

But Japan also has an awesome history. Did you know that Japan defeated the Mongols by having a strong wind attack their sailboats? That’s where we get the word “kamikaze.” Later, in different wars when there was no wind, the Japanese had to crash into boats with planes. One way or another, if your country is at war with Japan, you want to stay out of boats. My tour guide Gorou tells me all this when we go around seeing the sites. I found him at the piers on Tokyo Bay when I accidentally wandered too far my first night. Some men offered me a ride on a water taxi, but he spoke a little English and told me they were the wrong kind of people. Now I pay him 800 dollars per day to keep me safe.

Before I go, I have an embarrassing thing to admit. Can you believe that up until last week, I didn’t realize we were playing a game in Japan? I guess I hadn’t been paying attention in meetings. Luckily, Melky let me know a couple days ago, and even chartered a private jet in my name. After all that, I managed to get here first! Phew.

The rest of the team will probably show up later today. Get ready for game 1, Yankee fans! It’s A-Bomb time!

I Am Furious at Paul Newman


I trusted Paul Newman. I trusted him because of his movies, and because of his salad dressings, which are all awesome. Everyone knows that. So I thought it would be fine, as I walked through the Tampa Bay supermarket yesterday (we have baseball games here now), to try the new line of “Paul Newman Pickles.” It came in a sensible jar with his face on the front, just like the salad dressing. I love dill pickles, so I couldn’t wait to have a taste.

The minute I left the store, I opened the jar. The pickles were small. I chomped into one, and the taste just about made me die.

It was a sweet pickle. FOR PETE’S SAKE! I didn’t even know these existed. What kind of irresponsible son of a bitch would sweeten a pickle?! Pardon my language, but this really rattles my cage. Only an asshole would love a sweet pickle. An asshole or a con man.

In a blind rage, I dumped the rest of the pickles on the ground and hurled the glass jar across the street. I should have looked first, because it hit a parked police car and shattered the windshield. No cops were inside, though, so I sprinted away.

Back in the hotel room, I decided to contact Paul Newman. For someone to betray my trust that way, the least he could do was answer in person. I got on the lobby computers and went to I typed in “Paul Newman’s address” and my current town, “Tampa Bay,” because google works better if you type in your location (this is especially good for finding florists).

Believe it or not, google returned Paul Newman’s exact address, and it was in Tampa Bay! I wrote it down and caught a cab. In about fifteen minutes, after another stop at the grocery store, we arrived, and I stormed up the cement walkway, pounded on the door, and began cursing. Nobody answered, so I took out the ten jars of real dill pickles I’d just bought, and hurled them through the window. “That’s a real pickle, you arrogant Hollywood fucker!” I shouted. “Those are real pickles!” Still, nobody came, so I took an autographed picture of myself from my wallet and left it among the shards of glass on the windowsill.

I’m not going to go into the aftermath. There have been a lot of phone calls. Joe Torre is trying to help. All I can say is that apparently Paul Newman has a double, and I was fooled. I went after the wrong one. The real Paul Newman lives in California somewhere. There may be a lawsuit — the tenth filed against me.

I myself have filed seventeen against other parties.

I'm Owning the Cubs Soon


I just googled myself and saw this story about how I might own the Cubs! Wow!

Nobody told me about this, but it’s hella exciting. I guess my agent, Scott Boras, is finishing the deal. I don’t really know the details. Scott takes care of me pretty well, and he gets angry when I ask about specific things. Last time I had a salary negotiation, for example, I planned to sit in on the talks. After about a day, he screamed at me for demanding a few things I didn’t totally need, like a coin fountain. The next morning, though, we made up. He bought me a plane ticket to Phoenix (roller blade paradise!) and a week’s stay at the Royal Palms Hotel and Spa.

I’ve been trying to call him for a whole day, but his secretary Amelia (a rotten-hearted female who I will never ask out again) says he’s busy.

Now I just keep daydreaming about what I’ll do when I own the Cubs. The first thing, probably, is that I’ll move them to Miami. It’s a much better town without all the wind and cold weather. Second, I’d make all the seats in the stadium bean bags. Imagine that! Businessmen in bean bags! What an experience!

Third, I’d hire Melky Cabrera and make him pitch on the regular rotation. It would humiliate him and teach him an important lesson about being a bastard. Yesterday, after the post-game showers, he put a live frog in my locker. It was absolutely terrifying. I tripped over a bench as I was backing way, and everyone laughed. (My towel came off and I think some of them saw my penis)

In order to prove that I was still top dog, I had to do a pretty sad thing. I rose up, steeled my nerve, grabbed the frog, and hurled it hard against the wall. Derek Jeter was like “what the fuck, man?” and everyone else sort of stopped laughing and turned away shaking their heads.

They may not have liked what I did, but you know what? They respect me.

I’d also train the Cubs players to do incredible dances between innings.

Melky, You About to Get GOT!


Last night, in the dug-out during our game against the Orioles, I made a comment about one of my favorite bands, Death Cab For Cutie. Melky overheard me and started laughing. When I asked what was so funny, he said I was “whiter than a Dear Abby column in a Vancouver paper.” A few people laughed, and I was humiliated!

ALRIGHT, MELK-MELK! You didn’t think I could sling some turkey talk? Well prep yo’self for some fo’real jiggety jive, sandpaper! You ‘bouts to get nine kinds ‘a serviced, and a ignorant fool best not worry on no gratuitah!

Ain’t you heard how long I been steppin’ slick? Straight conceived in the ‘Heights, bet yo ass momma don’ raise no friv’luss chile! Work my whole dam life, all de wile dat man be chippin’ at my self-esteems wid rock-hammas and shout-callin’! Corncobs and birch bark stingin’ mah ass if daddy stumble ‘troo da thresh-hole cross an’ liqueured!

Melk-Melk, when y’all was swaddlin’ round some ole playpen, I’se roundin’ up goofballs in da ‘hood, gamblin’ we ain’t gon’ find no preacher speachin’ from ole Vicar Jones, cuz Lord knows dat man be invokin’ apostles and communitah suhvice!

And dinna be turnin’ yer mouth whip-like with me, ya clype wanker! Ya airn’t a wee bairn, for feck’s sake, so dinna act like wan! A’dinnieken wherebouts ye fond yer clishmaclaiver, but I’m onta tinkin’ you’se tha kind o’skanker wid drink a red johnny’s piss onna cloot! Fie on yer slechered glazzies, and may Saint Peter curse yer clan!

Holy wow. I don’t know what just happened. I sort of went blank-minded while I wrote. I’m not going to read it over, though, because speaking jive is about obeying what comes from the heart. Congratulations on being schooled, Melky. I’ll expect your apology tonight.