Dear Jesus and Satan,
I was watching the Texas Rangers play and saw Bartolo Colón was pitching. I figured it must be Bartolo Colón’s son. I saw Bartolo Colón pitch for the Indians in 97, so there’s no way that he could still be playing. He’d be a fat old man.
But the Bartolo Colón pitching was a fat old man, and he still had some life in his fastball. My first thought was that he must be juicing. Look at that old lard. He looks like a drunk security guard or an old-timey butcher, and he’s still touching 90mph with his heater.
My kids don’t play baseball. The entire I reason played baseball (and apparently still do) is so they wouldn’t have to. It isn’t just the juice they’d need to stay strong and crazy, it’s all the hallucinogens, cocaine, and opioids, too. I didn’t want my kids going down that dark path.
I wonder now if my longevity is a blessing or a curse. Frankly, I’m afraid to step off the mound at this point. I know that if I retire I’ll die immediately. I mean look at me. How am I still alive now, let alone pitching?
Did I make a deal with one of you? And if so, couldn’t you have kept me pretty, too?
In any case, thank you for getting to me to the World Series at age 43, even if it was with the Mets (we lost. Obviously).
If I have any souls left, maybe you could get me on the Yankees?
Dear Bartolo Colón,
The gall you had, thinking I wouldn’t notice you fathering 100 illegitimate children and then eating them. You knew what a huge fan I was—of course I’d be keeping tabs on you both on and off the field. And let me tell you, man, you really let me down. But as pissed as I was, I still kind of wanted to watch you play baseball. The Lazarus treatment was the best way to make that happen while still punishing you. Just as you outlived the Montreal Expos, so will you outlive the rest of the league and humanity in general. I won’t let you leave the mound until you’re pitching a hunk of car tire to a mutant swinging a broken-off chair leg in some post-Apocalyptic wasteland.
—Jesus the Fan
Dear Bartolo Colón,
I can’t believe you have the nerve to complain that I didn’t make you prettier. I did my best, dammit! You should see what you’d look like without my help. And after all that work I did, The Man Upstairs says I won’t be getting your soul for another 3,000 years? That’s all kinds of bullshit. I have a good mind to give you back your pig nose and neck boils.
—Satan the Cranky
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