::Morning, September 11, 2013::

Dude. Wake up. It’s time for breakfast.

Shhkkzz… wha?

Today’s the day. The big day.


You know. Your thirtieth birthday!

Holy crap. Thirty already.

But not just that. Today you’re finally set to play. You got the green light.

Play? Play what?

The f%#k are you talking about? Baseball! You’re finally off the DL and ready to go.

Holy jeebus. How long has it been?

Shit, I can hardly remember. You went full pussy on us sometime around the summer of 2010.

Well, mending takes time. The body needs to heal at its own pace, y’know.

Whatever you say, princess.

I’m serious. You don’t know what it’s like to live in pain. Be thankful.

Just pass me the Frosted Mini-Wheats.

::Hands him the box:: Ow!

Here we go.

::grips his arm:: Damn. Feels like I pulled something.

You don’t say.

::Drops to floor:: My god. I’ve got to call Tito. I can’t go in there. I can’t risk permanent damage.

You have got to be kidding me.

::Rolling around:: The tendons. The muscles. It’s like a circus of pain and torment. In my arm.

You know, I’m starting to get the feeling that you just don’t want to play baseball anymore.

::gasps:: Take that back. I demand that you take that back.

You used to be The Man. The goddam future of the franchise. What happened to the Jacoby who was pushing big-ass tires around like they were donuts? Is that guy still in there?

Don’t you mock me.

I’m just stating the facts. You missed pretty much all of 2010 with bad ribs. On Opening Day 2011 you were a late-minute scratch after hurting yourself falling out of bed during what you called “a scary dream about Denver Pyle’s beard.” Last year you played four games in April, then claimed aliens spot-welded your feet to your driveway, even though you were seen walking to the local Arby’s each afternoon. You came back in August, stepped out onto the field, then stepped back off, explaining that the bowl of “Trix” you had for breakfast “just wasn’t agreeing with you.” And that was it for the season.

So I’ve had a run of bad luck. Be thankful it hasn’t hit you.

Aw, you know what I think of–

::doorbell rings::

Hello? Jacoby?

In here.

Ready for your physical therapy session?


Yeah, the girls have been helping me get back into shape.

We brought some special Mexican healing yogurts. Which, of course, we can only apply while shirtless.


::Later, at Fenway::

The f#$k? Dustin just called and said he and Jacoby have gotta hit the DL. If that little rat bastard’s hungover again, I swear I’ll–

Don’t sweat it, coach.

Easy for you to say, Animatronic Mike Cameron. But where the f#$k am I going to find a second baseman on short notice?


Nice try, Bellhorn. But I think we’re gonna go with the droid.

Smashing, sir! I’ll get my cap. And purse.