Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. Wow, just look at this collection of winners we have up here!
The Mayor of Loonytown himself is here tonight — Darren Daulton, everybody! Thanks for taking time out of your schedule to be here, Darren; I know being completely batshit crazy must take up a lot of your day. How’s that apocalypse coming, still on schedule? It’s 2012, right? I know because that’s the same year Hannah Montana turns 18, which is why I’ll be celebrating the “Whip-Out-My-Cock-alypse.”
Lenny Dykstra! “Dude.” The last time I let someone named “Dude” handle my money I ended up with a half-ounce of shitty weed. Asking you for financial advice is like asking Stevie Wonder for driving directions. If you steer your clients the way you steer your car home after a party, those guys are fucked, man.
Mitch Williams is here! Yeah, the “Wild Thing.” I’m still having nightmares about the ’93 World Series, so I can’t imagine what you must be dealing with. Christ, no wonder you’re bitching out refs at your daughter’s basketball game; I’d be in the bleachers with a high-powered rifle. Folks, I hadn’t seen anybody get fucked by a black guy that hard on TV since Lisa Lampanelli’s sex tape came out.
But enough about these has-beens; we’re here tonight to roast the great John Kruk. The Krukker. Mount Krukatoa. Or as we called him in Philly, “Triple-F,” which stood for “That Fat Fuck at First Base.”
You know, a lot of people say they’d give their left nut to play professional baseball, but John was the only one who followed through on it. Hey John, you may have been asked this before, but when the surgeon finished did he say, “That ball is OUTTA HEEEEERE?”
Some people might say because of that operation you’re only half a man now, John, but not me. Not with that gut. John was so fat in the major leagues that the bases use to run around him. At one point the National League seriously considered a “John Kruk” rule, which stated that if John got a hit, he wouldn’t actually have to circle the bases… he could just reach out and tap them with a broomstick. The only thing that ever pinched for John was his belt buckle.
At one point in his career he actually led the league in hits, RBI’s and meat sweats. If only they had a statistical category for “Grunts While Taking A Shit,” you’d have been a lock for MVP!
Look at you now, with your NutriSystem body. With all that weight you’re losing we’d have nothing to make fun of about you, aside from that horrible mullet and B.O. I’m not kidding, man — I hope your next sponsor is Speed Stick, you ripe motherfucker.
And now you’re an analyst for Baseball Tonight. I don’t know about the rest of you, but John’s always my exclusive source for shit that I already know. Seriously, I haven’t seen analysis that unsurprising since Anna Nicole Smith’s toxicology reports…
Too soon? Hey, fuck you, it’s a roast! What, like her son’s gonna beat me up or something?
Seriously though, John, I love you and thanks for being such a good sport about all this. Good luck getting into the Hall of Fame; I hear they’ve widened the doors. Good night, everybody!
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