Look alive, chumps! It’s the return of Rickey! It’s like “Return of the Mack,” because Rickey is the Mack! Rickey is the Mack Daddy, the Miggity Mack, and the Miggity Miggity Miggity Miggity Mack Daddy! Yeah, Rickey likes to get down with some Kris Kross - when Rickey’s doing his daily regiment of push-ups and sit-ups (because that’s all Rickey needs to do to maintain Rickey’s pulse pounding better-than-a-teenager physique - exercise is the greatest PED of all!), Rickey likes to get a little “Jump, Jump” going. If Rickey were still playing today, I’d hire Kris and Kross back together to write Rickey’s personal at-bat music. But instead of “Jump, Jump,” it’d be something like “Run, Run,” or “Steal, Steal,” or “Walk, Walk”. Or maybe just “Rickey, Rickey,” because Rickey makes you jump jump! That’s right!
And even though Rickey retired, don’t think that means Rickey can’t play anymore. I can still play-coach, like that mop-haired gambling chump Pete Rose. Everyone talked about Pete Rose and Charlie Hustle, and everyone loved him messing up some catcher in some All-Star Game. But if you’re Rickey, you don’t need to hustle - you ARE hustle. And if that bow-legged bowl-cut chump can put himself in the lineup to hit a few singles to pad his career stats and win himself some spending cash, then Willie can put Rickey in to work the count, work some pitchers, work the crowd, and work the box score.
Rickey can coach even if he’s in the game! “Hey, you - go do that!” “Hey, other guy - don’t do that anymore!” “Hey, Shawn Green - sit your no-talent loafing ass the hell down!” That’s coaching! Rickey does that all the time, and Rickey can do it standing on 1st base just the same as Rickey would standing next to 1st base. Coaching is like falling out of bed, except you have to wear a jock. And I’m going to stop right there, because there ain’t no need making all you chumps jealous of what Rickey’s got stuffed in his immaculate jock.
But Rickey’s got the Mets jumping, that’s for damn sure. Since Rickey’s joined the Mets coaching staff, we’ve gone 13-7, and everyone’s hitting all of a sudden. Sure, some folks might want to give that credit to that Howard Johnson, because he’s the so-called “hitting coach,” but you know who’s wearing the hitting pants in this thing. Howard Johnson’s probably a nice guy, and I heard he could hit some homers and steal some bases, but he’s no Rickey. Rickey could’ve done 30-30 by July if he wanted to, but Rickey knew that getting on base and messing with those chump pitchers did more for the team than Rickey going deep and trotting around the bases. Rickey wasn’t made to trot. Rickey was made for three letters. Those letters are R-U-N, and that spells Rickey. But Howard Johnson, he’s an OK cat, and his hotels makes Rickey’s favorite pancakes!
If there’s one thing that Rickey’s not happy about (other than having to talk to that red ass LoDuca every damn day - boy will not shut up, and he don’t hit enough to be worth a damn talking) is Progidal Son of Rickey, Lastings Milledge. Rickey looked at Lastings’ numbers, and that boy’s been caught stealing FOUR TIMES already! And has only one steal! Rickey doesn’t like those numbers one damn bit. So Rickey’s going to take extra special care to teach Lastings the Commandments of Rickey. And I’m going to tell them to you folks, too, free of charge (because Rickey’s getting paid). It goes a little something like this:
1) Thou shalt not steal first base, because thou cannot, chump
2) A base cannot be stolen unless thou gettest thou ass on base (and don’t get thine panties in a bunch because this soundseth like #1, just shuteth up and pay attention)
3) Thou cannot stealeth a base unless thou believe that base is thine
4) The base thou shalt steal shall be stolen off of the pitcher, not that no-talent fancy-pants throwing-from-his-kneeseth catcher
5) If thou get picked off by a right-handed pitcher, thou ain’t worth a damn to anyone, and thou should get thine ass home to your momma before it gets kicked
6) Thou shalt be like Rickey, but thou cannot be Rickey, because Rickey is Rickey, and there shall be no other Rickey, because Rickey sayest so
Once I’m done with him, all those crackers talking smack about Lastings and his hip-hop and his bling-bling and his blackness are going to be loving every single inch of his hip-hopping bling-blinging blackness. New York’s just full of 5-foot-tall corny-ass Jewish Italian white folk with no hair and pot bellies that can’t stand to see the Mets do good and the Yankees do bad, so they gotta take their shots, and it’s easier to ride some kid out of town for being a little flashy than to actually do your damn job and REPORT the news. If Rickey was a sports journalist, Rickey would write the truth, because Rickey is about the truth. And even though Rickey’s just the all-time stolen base and runs scored leader of all time, and not some overweight jealous punk that couldn’t hit a ball off a tee, Rickey is still about the truth.
And the truth is - Rickey is the greatest!
Totally weird: Authorities have 
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