I am not mad. I cannot tell you what drives my desires actually, except that I know I am not mad. You may think me so, but your mind will be changed when you fully understand the details of my craft, my passion, my story.
I have nothing against any of the Molinas, least of all the one they call Yadier. To give it to you honestly, Mr. Molina has brought a great joy into my life. I have many a time pleasured myself by watching him perform his duties as the backstop for the local nine. Indeed, I even stood and gave the sky a “Hoo-rah!” on the evening in which he dispatched with those boys from New York a dozen revolutions ago.
So much was my adoration not to be questioned that as the first seximal was being completed under the watchful eye of our fertility Goddess Maia, Yadier Molina was rushed to my care.
“Fix him”
These were the lone words one Mr. John Mozeliak said to me as Yadier lay atop my table. Mr. Mozeliak could not have given a more serious glaze, his blue eyes, covered in a film, shot a pale beam of light into my soul. I hated him all at once, but know I must remain calm and stick to my craft.
Wordlessly I removed the jocular strap with the deepest of concern to not add more agony to the young man who appeared to be dying in front of me. What I found shocked me beyond belief. Where any typical of the male species might have a set of testes, Yadier had none. Instead, much to my horror, what lay before me was skin smooth as a pat of butter lined with the imprint of baseball stitches. In the middle, appeared a stamp that signifying this as an official Major League Baseball, and bore the signature of one Robert Manfred Jr.
Angry I hadn’t been told outright of the severity of the injury, I rotated my hips to face Mozeliak and face his pale blue eyes straight on.
“You didn’t tell me he’s been Hicksed.”
“It doesn’t matter how it happened,” said Mo, his bowtie looking like a weapon that might shoot out and impale me at any moment, “You WILL fix him. You WILL fix him or by God it will be yours we take.”
I considered my options. Many birthdays had passed since I personally had use for my organ beyond personal leisure time, still my electric wiring didn’t always hold, and was bound to go out again in the future, leaving me alone in the dark with absolutely nothing to fill my time for two minutes. Coupling with this fact was that I had just renewed a full subscription to Victoria’s Secret, and I hated to think that my hard earned fortune might be wasted upon a periodical which would no longer serve my interests.
Yadier had to be repaired. But how? Suddenly I had a Eureka moment. I summoned my assistant, Valdemar, and provided him with precise instructions and a shovel. Before the next chime from the church bells he had slipped back in, specimen in hand.
“Did everything go according to plan?” I queried.
“Yes Master. Just like you said I went down to the hospital morgue, beat the attendee with the shovel, and removed the testicles from one of the recently deceased.”
“Excellent – and Valdemar – He looked like a good man? A decent man? A man worthy of hanging onto Yadi all day?”
“Oh yes Master, a fine man and a fine specimen. I’m a little jealous if I do say so myself.”
With Valdemar’s assurances I began my labor, taking needle and thread to make a man. When I was done you could barely see the scars thanks to my handiwork, and also thanks to the numerous tattoos that the public was not privy to.
Next I cleverly looked to history as my guide, and had Valdemar fly a kite high into the stormy sky, much as Benjamin Franklin had done many score before. Only, instead of having of fastening a key tied to one end, I secured the string around the recently implanted ball bag of the ball player.
It wasn’t long before lighting struck. Electricity surged through the air and gave a direct jolt to the groin. Molina began moving. “He’s ALIVE!” I screamed. And then “WHOA! BOY IS HE ALIVE!” Molina was moving all right.
“Mr. Molina, if that persists for more than 4 hours, you’ll want to consult me.”
“G…..G……G……” Stammered Yadi, still gaining consciousness. “G….Go……Go……” “Yes Yadi?” I shouted excitedly, “What can I do for you? Yes? Yes???” “G…..G……Go Cubs Go, Go Cubs Go”
The sound slammed me against the chest and sent me reeling towards the back wall. A grave mistake had happened, and I knew just what it was.
“Valdemar you IDIOT, I told you to go to the hospital morgue. NOT THE MENTAL HOSPITAL MORGUE”
Yadi started to stand up and gave silly murmurs about how Javy Baez was the most exciting player in all the game. Before he could break our hearts anymore, Valdemar threw all of his weight against him and started pounding him in the head with a spittoon, desperately trying to knock him unconscious. Still, the only way to save Yadi was to remove the wretched balls.
“Blow! Blow!” shouted Valdemar, while pointing to Yadi’s member’s new members. Confused, I momentarily wondered what he could mean. Like many, I had experimented while pursuing higher education, and truth be told I wouldn’t mind doing so again, but I was confused how it might help at this exact moment?
Then what he actually meant came to me as a single stroke of good fortune. There was a blow torch in the room. I grabbed it and immediately sent flames into the troubled area. Within minutes, it was over. A quick lobotomy later and we knew Yadi would never remember a thing.
That’s when I felt my pants begin to quiver. I reached into my pocket, and found a virtual message from John Mozeliak. He demanded to know how we were doing. Knowing the verisimilitude was not a sufficient explanation, I had to come up with a strategy to throw him off. Fortuitously, I remembered that my telephone also acted as a photograph machine, and then I kept many photos of my personal genitalia in order to send my likeness to girls on line who hadn’t yet realized they wanted them, or gained the courage to ask. I found my most flattering depiction and delivered it to Mo for his approval.
“No!” Came the reply. “Bigger! It must be bigger!” A sudden wave of depression hit me as I realized why I was given the invented moniker of “The Grape Vine.”
We spent the twilight trying to appease the fury of Mozeliak. First, we castrated a gorilla, but it was not enough. “Bigger!! Bigger!!!” came the demands. Buffalo, Hippopotamus, Elephant, Ron Jeremy, nothing was satisfactory.
We went to bed, exhausted, defeated.
Suddenly I shot up from my slumber. Of course! There was only one individual out there whose testicles would truly be large enough to stand in place of Molina’s seared off stones. There was only one man who truly ever had giant balls of steel. The only true solution had revealed itself. I had to steal the steel balls of Chris Carpenter.
Do you still think I’m mad? Do you still ponder whether I have lost my marbles (so to speak)? Well you surely won’t anymore when you see how meticulously I worked to be certain that my crime was never discovered.
For a full fortnight I spent at the door of Mr. Carpenter’s chamber just as he went to bed. As the lights went out I would slowly creep farther and farther in. So slowly I became one with the room. Even had he awoken I was nothing to be alarmed about. I was a regular part of the atmosphere. I admit the assault would be hard for me to do as an admirer of Mr. Carpenter, but I had to go on. At that moment I had already decided this would make a worthy blog post, and as with most things in life, I would continue to eschew decency, common sense, or life’s responsibilities just to get a few retweets.
In a heartbeat I struck. One swing to the head with a Brenden Ryan model bat (to throw the authorities off the trail), was all it took to remove the big right-hander from the land of the conscious. Then, using a pen knife, a 50 pound oil drum, and some jumbo Scooby-Doo bandages, I went to work and removed the spheres. To escape the house undetected I quickly painted them as I would have Easter eggs, dawned a pair of bunny ears, and went to vanish from the premises.
Just as I went to bring them to Yadier’s machine made for love, I heard a small sound like the coo from a dove.
I turned around fast, and saw someone, but who? It was Cindy-Lou Carpenter who was no more than two.
She stared into my eyes and said Easter Bunny, why? Why are you taking our Easter eggs, why?
But you know old me is just so smart and so slick I thought up a lie, and thought it up quick!
“Why, my sweet little tot” the fake Easter Bunny lied “There’s an egg in this house with a crack on one side!
So I’m taking it home to my chicken coup dear, I’ll fix it up there, then I’ll bring it back here!
And my fib fooled the child, thus I patted her head And with a small whiff of chloroform I sent her to bed.
Back at the hospital, the surgery went on without a hitch. Soon Yadier was awake and loving my masterwork. He expressed to me that steel balls were even greater privilege than a platinum glove. Proudly it was that day that I became good, close friends with Yadier. He was my confident, my pal, we could go to each other for anything. That’s when I told him he must avoid Mr. Chris Carpenter at all costs. He agreed. The secret was safe, even as the occasional “clang” happened as he walked, no one suspected a thing.
We were in the clear. We were out of the blue. Until one day when Yadier came to my office for a checkup.
Everything was going smoothly when suddenly we heard a sound at my office door.
“Were you followed?” I demanded. “Of course not!” he replied.
“OK. Shhhh, let’s just see if they go away.”
But still there came a tapping, one might even call it rapping, slapping, whapping, maybe fapping, crapping, lapping, and smear papping at my office door.
“What do you want?” I cried!
“Number four.”
Number four? I looked at Yadier in panic. It was Chris Carpenter. Surely he couldn’t be on to us. Surely no one suspected the deeds I did that fateful night. Never. They could have never found me. To think anything less would make me mad!
Then there came a knocking, or perhaps it was a rocking, a talking, mocking, slight unlocking, balking, walking, or cock blocking against my office door.
“WHO ARE YOU LOOKING FOR???”
“Number four.”
The door continued to rattle, and I knew there was little time. Someone mad might have gone crazy at this point, but as I am not mad I only became more cunning. Quickly I grabbed a hammer from the desk and began pulling up floorboards. I told Yadi to climb in and remain silent as I sealed him underneath, impossible for any guest to guess where he lay.
I calmly went to the door and unlocked it, and with a limp, in stepped Christ Carpenter. Tears, still in his eyes.
“Where is he?” demanded Carpenter.
“Chris! Chris you’ve gone MAD! No one is here! Why don’t you sit down and we can have a talk.”
Sinisterly I pulled up a chair for Chris and I placed it directly over the floorboards where Yadier lay. I smiled to myself the true smile of a genius knowing how devious and cunning I was being.
The conversation went off without a trace of an incident. Chris was crying, something about not feeling like a man, and I sat, with fake concern on my face, and the glee of getting away with crime hidden just below the surface.
Then – I heard it. It sounded soft at first, like wind chimes in the breeze, but I knew at once what it was. YADIER WAS PLAYING WITH HIS BALLS.
I realized my fatal mistake. I had left Yadier alone, in the dark, with nothing to do. This was inevitable! It’s like having a built in Gameboy – complete with joystick - that no man could resist!
“UH, Could you repeat that a little LOUDER?” I said to Carpenter, hoping his own voice would drown out the noise.
It began getting worse. Soon the sound came as though it was a pit and a pendulum, like Newton’s Cradle Art, where the balls continuously clack back and forth as if a desk toy. Carpenter didn’t appear to hear. Was he toying with me? I began to sweat.
The noise only got louder, now it sounded as though someone was playing pool just below where Carpenter sat! You could literally hear the sound of the ball ricocheting into his side pocket. How long would Yadi take? Everyone could hear this!
But Carpenter just sat in his chair weeping, seemingly oblivious to the deafening noises going on below him. Impossible! He must be acting! He must be toying with me! Cranking my chain! Jerking me around! Two could play at this game. I would never admit to any noise!
Next came the whirring, the whistling, the ringing. It was apparent Yadier was rotating them in his hands like Chinese Baoding balls. Around and around and around! It wouldn’t stop! The sound was roaring. Deafening in my ears!
Worse still was when he began to bounce them like jingle bells!
And still Chris Carpenter sat there, mocking me, pretending he didn’t know. My anger grew, and grew, and grew, how dare he not admit that the jig was up!
But the bells kept tolling How they clang and clash and roar! What a horror they outpour! On the bosom of the palpitating air! Yet the ear it fully knows, By the twanging, And the clanging, How the danger ebbs and flows; Yet the ear distinctly tells, In the jangling, And the wrangling. How the danger sinks and swells, By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells— Of the bells Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, BALLS! BALLS! BALLS! LOUDER! LOUDER! LOUDER!
“YOU LIAR!” I shrieked, “PRETEND NO MORE! I ADMIT THE DEED! – TEAR UP THE PLANKS! Here, here! – It is the tone of those torturous testicles!