July 4, 1930 – July 13, 2010
You were a cranky, rash, unpleasant son of a bitch. But goddamn, you were a hell of a baseball owner. And the Yankees' continued dominance in baseball and American culture is your legacy. Rest well, George.
Perfect. Just when we're feeling down, the pewter harbinger of suck shows up. Worse than a salt in the wound, you're like a splintery shoe tree forced into someone's dry asshole. And what the hell is a shoe tree again?
It was a RHETORICAL QUESTION, you overhelpful turdstain of a suckup. Just shut the fuck up, Pewter Bear, you sniveling, shiny venereal scab. I WAS IN THE MIDDLE OF A EULOGY. And you show up after a long break (which we all fucking LOVED) and impose your intolerable horribleness in the middle of a tender moment? And didn't you show up when Michael Jackson/Farrah Fawcett died last year? Your timing is impeccable, you ass-eating shartsucker. Why are you so unbelievably murderable?
Now I've lost my train of thought. All I can think about are shoe trees. GODDAMN YOUR SOUL TO HELL, PEWTER BEAR! BURN FOR ALL ETERNITY AND NEVER MELT DOWN!
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