Recently, yours truly, Dr. Dave, encountered tremendous pain in his nether region. Having faced a similar situation in the past, I immediately began to suspect an old arch nemesis had crept back into my life.  That nemesis was, and is, Epididymitis. For those of you who are unaware, Epididymitis is a medical condition in which there is inflammation of the epididymis (a curved structure at the back of the testicle in which sperm matures and is stored). This condition comprises gradual onset of testicular pain that can vary from mild to severe, and the scrotum (sac containing the testicles) may become red, warm and swollen. It may be acute or rarely chronic. Epididymitis is the most frequent cause of acute onset of scrotal pain in adults.                                                                        

Even though I stole the definition from Wikipedia, what Wikipedia doesn’t tell you is that the “pain” they describe is the equivalent of your testicle  being taken gently in a woman’s soft, manicured hands as she gazes lustfully into your eyes. This is the moment you’ve been waiting for since the two of you first met. At first, she playfully dismissed your advances – teasing you with cliché rebuttals like: I never date inside the workplace; I have a boyfriend; I used to be a man. You persisted though and one day in April, she finally gave in to your charming advances. You took her (him) out to dinner, a movie. You sat in your convertible near the botanical gardens and made small talk while you counted the stars. You drove her home and she invited you in for a drink. But you knew what she meant. Dirty girl wants to get a little freaky deeky. And why shouldn’t she? She’s been naughty. You start on the couch, by yourself at first – whatever, and pretty soon, you’re both tangled up in the silk sheets on her king sized bed. A pity she has to sleep in that big bed all alone at night. Now you’re at the moment where she’s gently caressing and stroking you. She gazes lustfully into your eyes and SQUEEZES THE FUCK OUT OF YOUR BALLS with a physical suffering so tremendous it shoots a stream of fiery poison into your toes at the same time it delivers a nauseous spasm into the pit of your despondent stomach. WHAT THE FUCK you cry out. WHAT THE FUCK DID I EVER DO TO YOU BALLS – not her (him), she’s just an allusion being used to make a point.

But your balls don’t respond because they don’t have mouths.

Now this is the second time I have had the pleasure of making the acquaintance of this friendly affliction. It is most often caused by a bacterial infection or by a sexually transmitted disease like “Good Times Gonorrhea” (aka The Clap) or “Catchy Chlamydia” (aka you slept with a whore). Because my promiscuity has been limited lately, and because I am so cautious (I use a condom even when I masturbate) I figured a bacterial infection was definitely the culprit behind this shameful disease.

My research taught me that the bacterial infection could have been contributed by a myriad of intriguing situations ranging from engaging in the much maligned and often taboo “Doing ‘IT’ in the Butt” to not emptying my bladder before lifting weights. Well what the happy fuck? That’s a pretty enormous playing field there Captain.  So, essentially, anything that I did recently could possibly be responsible for the swelling taking place in Ole Lefty. When I asked the doctor who examined me whilst I was lying upon the frigid clinic table wearing a paper sheet, socks, and an undershirt – what I could do in the future to prevent such an abomination from occurring to my two oldest and dearest friends he said: “Get a vasectomy.” Well, fuck you very much too.

So as I sit now, with an ice pack on my crotch, swallowing ten days of antibiotics for the infection and popping twelve Advil a day for the pain, I am forced to temporarily withdraw from the strict health regiment I have been following for the last several weeks, as well as any other strenuous activity, until my nut is healthy and once again in tip-top shape.  I pour what’s left of my energy into this posting. I hope that the sacrifice my left testicle has made will be an inspiration to my brothers. I hope that they will find themselves in a place that will allow them the time to once again transpire their creativity into words and fill the pages of this blog with their humor and insight. They are, gentlemen, all. My testicle is their rallying cry, their battle flag, their Gettysburg. Fight on dear brothers and Remember My Testicle.

Two days ago, I was having a nice little Twitter discussion with a fellow Baio admirer, @papasbasement.  @papasbasement mentioned that Scott Baio was so classy that he would only fuck IHOP waitresses.  There was nothing but truth mentioned in that discussion.  Scott Baio was a classy motherfucker.  Apparently, Scott read this conversation and replied to @papasbasement.  Scott’s reply was as follows: “Hey @papasbasement.  That’s not what ur sister said in 1981 working @ a waffle house!  Maybe try growing up & move out of ur dads basement.”  As you can see, Scott Baio is illiterate and was barely able to type out a response in English.  I imagine he was drunk off of hooker sweat.  That being said, we were horrified that we had offended the great Scott Baio.  We also found out that Baio had blocked @papasbasement. 

I tried to be a voice of reason and fight for @papasbasement by trying to get Baio to calm down.  He eventually relented and unblocked @papasbasement, but in the mayhem, he ended up blocking me, @order_ofthe_fez.  My world shattered.  Everything my mother taught me about fairness in the world was thrown out the window like John Wayne Bobbitt’s dick.  I pleaded with Scott to unblock me.  I asked him what I did to deserve such a harsh reprimand from the greatest man who ever lived.  He never replied.  Probably because he blocked me. 

I am telling you this today because the Scott Baio we all loved and cherished is gone.  He’s been replaced by a total dick who cares nothing for fans or IHOP.  He’s as anti-America as they come.  It’s time the world stood up against tyranny and fought back.  Go to his Twitter site and tell him how you really feel.  The address is http://twitter.com/RealScottBaio. 

I will leave you with a link to a music video that depicts the sadness in my life and how a part of me has died.  I am the singer and Scott Baio is the girl.  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8Py8nRJGma0  We had a great thing going Scott.  You let fame get the best of you, and I hope your wife gets severe osteoporosis and cancer of the vagina.

I went to the doctor today and signed up for an “ear irrigation”.  What could be better?  Now for those of you that haven’t read or are to fucking lazy to scroll down, apparently I have a nasty build up of wax in my ear.  The doctor said this is a months long process of build up…which make me feel like a dirty damn foreigner.  Either way I had to put some drops in my ears for a couple days then go back today and get an “irrigation”.  Real quick on what the irrigation is…..a spray bottle with a hose…for this I pay $25.

Much like a porno I won’t bore you with some sort plot involving a delivery van or a restaurant closing…I will go straight to the money/face/cum-up-some-girls-nose-with-confidence-issues shot.

Please see below

Yeah....all me bitch!

This “doctor” told me apparently I have “Impacted Cerumen”…and no I am not using enough “…”   and I will continue to use more.

Impacted Cerumen is apparently a build up of crap in your ear, wax and the like.  Apparently I am dirty like a foreigner.  I get to use a delightful thing of “ear wax softening drops” (notice the quotes again asshole?) then I get to return in four days to have my ears irrigated.  I can only hope that I will be able to grace you with a follow up post with a picture of the delight that comes out of my ear.

Asshole

I have been busy as shit at work here recently and have had to stay late.  It is fucking awful.  Now before I go any further let’s just stop and put down any rumor or weird thoughts you, the delightful reader, might have bouncing in your head.  Everyone of us here at the Order have real fucking jobs…we even make real fucking money.  This is part of the reason we are vague about some things because we want to keep our real fucking jobs with real fucking money so we can spend it on real fucking things like hand jobs from zoo animals or paying hobos to give hand jobs to zoo animals.

Whatever, the point is this, there is some fucked up shit that happens at work…and I would like to write about how much I hate it…so I will…please read on.

I HATE – when a mother fucker at work goes in and takes a shit in the only stall in the bathroom…during and or around the lunch hour especially.  That shit smell just lingers in there, it won’t leave.  The fan doesn’t do anything to help either so just stop thinking that.  I especially hate when there is a Lysol can in there and they spray the fuck out of that as well.  Mother fucker, the shit smell is bad enough, don’t add the trashy-public-restroom-fake-funeral-flower Lysol fucking smell to it.  Just let me walk in there and get  nose raped by your inner anus shit particles!  That will do for today.  I don’t want a Lysol funk to go with it!

I HATE –   When some motherfucker borrows my fucking pen! Buy you own shit ass pen bitch!  You have the same job as me and I make enough money to buy a pen if I need to and blog on this damn website.  You can go get a 99 cent bic and leave me the hell alone!

I HATE – When the idiot down the hall or in the meeting starts talking about some shit ass book they read.  I don’t give a flying meat fuck if you read Freakonomics or Superfreakonomics or some other trendy fucking book.  What’s more I don’t want you to expound to me and all the other sad sacs o’ shit that are sitting there about how enlightened you are now regarding how the world “really” works.  Just stop it!  You are the same mid 20’s white east coast pretentious entitled asshole that everyone else sitting around the table is, no one gives a shit what the “The Economist” said this past week.  What?  You say our fine readers might not know about these books or magazines?  Well neither do I so welcome to my shitty ass job!

I have to stop now, I can feel my heartbeat starting to accelerate.  Since I am about one sirloin away from a coronary anyway I think that will be all for tonight.

Please feel free to post any stupid work related problems you have…and remember every time you smell a fart you are actually smelling a particle that was physically in someone else’s ass…and no don’t think it gets better by breathing through your mouth.  Peach  fucker!

Fat Girls and Sports Cars  

Why do fat girls love Mustangs and the like?  I don’t mean they like guys who drive those cars, I mean that they love to drive the cars.  I saw one of these behemoths getting out of a 2002 Mustang ( just a guess) and it was like watching a rhino climb out of a Chihuahua’s womb.  Her shirt was all disheveled and her pony tail was a mess as she tried to climb out of her metal and glass personal prison.  Did she think it made her look hot?  Does she think she’s fooling anyone into thinking she’s pretty?  “Maybe someone will value me and love me, now that I have a fast car.”  Maybe not fatty.  The only person who values you is…well nobody.  You should die a fiery death in your car.  Pig. 

Bolo Ties 

Why have bolo ties not made a comeback?  Some of you may say, “ooooohhhh are we gonna say bolo ties were EVER cool???” and to you I say, you’re an idiot.  You obviously never saw Dr. Gabriel at his 9th grade dance with an arrow head bolo tie and a silk shirt…AND a silk jacket on top of all that.  Sweat stains be damned, I looked good!  They came with all sorts of options, arrowheads, bull skulls, eagles, rifle bullets.  I bet you could even get one with a family crest, or donuts, or even a button of Justin Timberlake…who wouldn’t want that?  A bolo tie screams that not only are you stylish, you also belong to the upper echelon of society, the section of the population with class, style, sophistication, and 9 bucks to spare.  I’m not sure what bolo ties are made of…leather?  Billy-goat intestines?  Cow placenta?  It matters not, because once they silver tip the ends, you can’t go wrong. 

Brian Bosworth 

Why is Brian Bosworth seen as a flop in the NFL?  He was in the league for several years and lead a very productive life as a linebacker.  A very serviceable player.  So many people mock him and tell him he sucked, but in actuality, he was pretty good.  Sure he came in with a mullet/flat-top combo, accented with a headband, but that only added to his gloriousness.  The large Oakley sunglasses he would wear…genius.  Sure he got run over by Bo Jackson, but who hasn’t been run over by a large black man?  Police officers…innocent bystanders outside of a club when they announce free tickets to Diddy’s “White Party”…NFL wives, girlfriends, fiancees (allegedly), but are any of those people considered failures?  No.  So why is everyone hatin’ on the Bos?  

William Zabka 

Why did his career not last?  Johnny Lawrence was the unquestioned leader of the Cobra Kai students.  He played the role so well, that even though he was a prick, you still wanted to be friends with him.  I mean, a dirt bike, a head band and a sweet feathered hair-do…what’s not to admire?  He won (and I’m not making this up) the Oscars ”best young actor award” for actor in a supporting role in a comedy, drama, or action film.  And really the masterpiece that is Karate Kid falls under all three of those genres.  I would trade Nic Cage in a heartbeat for Billy Zabka.  Think about it…ANY role Cage was in would be a million times better with Billy.  City of Angels, check…Con-Air, oh hells yeah…National Treasure (1 or 2 it doesn’t matter), absofuckinglutely Zabka wins out.  So I wish Zabka had Nic Cage’s career.  I wish Nicolas Cage would fall into a vat of chemotherapy.  Why can’t this be so?  

You're fat...this car can't hide that

I’m going to piggy-back off of Dr. Rob’s beautiful article Look At Me!! that compares singers to strippers.  I’ve noticed recently that there have been a lot of women singers that feel it is necessary to dress up in the weirdest shit imaginable in order to get people to like them.  I don’t understand it and I feel it is my duty to put a stop to this madness. 

 Let’s start with the obvious: Lady Gaga.  Where the hell did she come from?!  A year ago, I had never heard of her.  Then, all of a sudden, my wife wants to play a song from her at our wedding.  I listen to “Just Dance”, and all I want to do is “Just Have An Epileptic Seizure”.  The music is horrible, and the worst part is that everybody loves it.  This means I have to be exposed to it way more than I should be.  Her outfits are utterly ridiculous and should be illegal.  That bubble shit she wears looks like Mr. Bubble covered her in his own ejaculate.  Everyone says it’s sexy.  How does looking like you have blistering 3^rd degree burns all over your body translate into sexy?  In my opinion, she looks like a third world prostitute.

 Another singer I have just learned about is someone called Ke$ha.  Yes, that’s right, she spells her name with a fucking dollar sign.  Who the hell do you think you are, Kesha?!  I refuse to use the dollar sign anymore.  I was first introduced to this bizarre piece of shit on Saturday Night Live a few weeks ago.  She came out in this black suit that was plastered with neon colors that glowed in the dark when they turned the lights out.  She looked like a fucked up totem pole when she was singing.  I was expecting the Apache nation to file a formal complaint with the FCC, or at the very least, scalp her.  To make matters worse, the lyrics to her songs are simply atrocious.  For those of you fortunate enough never to have heard her sing, I have attached an audio file with her song “Tik Tok” at the top of this post.  As far as I know, we live in America, not Thailand.  Tik Tok is spelled tick tock.  Fuck!  One of the lyrics in the song mentions “getting krunk”.  The only thing Lil’ Jon wants to do with Kesha is blow seed on her backside.  20-something white girls are not physically capable of “getting krunk”.  Another lyric mentions not going home with a guy unless he looks like Mick Jagger.  That’s your idea of a stable bedmate?  Mick Jagger?  He’ll be snorting coke off of your cooter with a vacuum hose before you realize what’s happened.  Yet another great lyric from her song says she brushes her teeth with a bottle of Jack.  Jesus Christ!  No wonder they wear this fucked up shit.  They’re tanked before they leave the house in the morning.  I’m all for the consumption of alcohol, but I don’t feel like idolizing the next Amy Winehouse.

 There are others out there besides these two, but I’m afraid if I continue talking about this, I will suffer a stroke, hemorrhaging, and testicular cancer all at the same time.  I will leave you with a few pictures of other disgruntled singers trying to make a name for themselves with ridiculous attire.

Your daddy did love you...really.

I realize it has been a long time since I have posted. I don’t think the World has really suffered any because of it but still I feel a hole…like Extreme, remember those fucks?

“There’s a hole in my heart
That can only be filled by you
And this hole in my heart
Can’t be filled with the things I do”

Yeah those white trash assholes. Please note that I did not go with the easier “More than Words” reference. We here at The Order go that extra mile to satisfy our very loyal albeit small group of readers. Especially those that aren’t A) related to us B) sitting at home naked jacking off in front of the computer screen wishing that for just an hour they could have “Retard Strength” in their right fore arm only.

I digress, in my defense anytime I can get Retard Strength and jacking off into a sentence, I will go down that road. The subject of my elegant musings tonight is the music industry, in particular why do singers close their fucking eyes when they sing? They look like fucking idiots. When I am playing Fifa on the PS3 and get really into beating Manchester United I don’t fucking close my eyes!

I am tired of seeing these drama queens closing their eyes like their song means something. For fuck sakes they are essentially whores anyway, they get paid to do something for us, so open you bloody eyes you cock swallowing buffoons!

I have taken a break, as indicated by the start of a new paragraph. All new paragraphs indicate food or poo breaks for future reference. I have calmed down a bit. I have made some connections. I realize that singers closing their eyes while singing might be because they are musical prostitutes! We have all been there. You are in a wonderful gentlemen’s establishment and you see a delightful young lady of barely legal age walking around. They thing is she isn’t beaten down and coke starved like the others…no she is proud and even a bit arrogant. You notice that when she gives other lap dances she looks to a far away place while a guy looks directly at her breasts. This is unacceptable! So you do what you have to do. You decide to get a lap dance from her and make her look directly into your eyes while you look back all creepy as fuck. Initially she looks away, but you put another $20 down and say something weird like, “I think our souls are the same”. Slowly she stares at you and you stare right back. Eventually she stops moving and jostling on your mid section but you don’t care because you get off just as much on creeping people out as anything else. You arch your eyebrows and stare more deeply. Finally she begins to tear up and you softly say, “Your Daddy never wanted you around”… breaking her spirit. She runs to the backroom, while a big black guy named “Tiller” escorts you from the premises.

So there it is that is why singers close their eyes. They don’t want to face reality. I have reasoned it out for you, the wonderful reader….you are welcome.

Cordially,

Dr. Robert

Dr. Rob would like to know what each of us would do with all the money we are sure to make off of this blog.  Everyone else has listed 5 things, so I will do the same.  Here they are in no particular order.

I am going to get a tattoo of Darryl Strawberry eating out a horse.  I haven’t decided where I will put this masterpiece, but it will probably be an arm sleeve.  Why, you ask?  Easy.  It will be the best conversation starter ever.  Imagine all the possibilities.  State of the Union.  Matchbox 20 concerts.  Breast cancer awareness walks.  Maury Povich interviews.  There isn’t a scenario where I can’t bust it out and get people talking.  Sheer brilliance.

The next thing to purchase would be my own television station that only shows homeless people fighting in the octagon.  It will be a 64-man tourney where they are ranked based on size, strength, and mental health.  The winner receives a one week stay at their Motel 6 of choice.  The beauty of it is that, with our economy, there will never be a shortage of participants.  When the first tournament is over, a new one begins immediately.  Fun for all.  I’m all about giving back to the community.

I would buy Don Cheadle.  Every movie he’s in seems to do well, and I just think he’d be fun to talk to on a cold night with a cup of hot chocolate. 

The majority of my money will go towards creating a device that allows dolphins to breathe out of water forever.  First of all, who doesn’t want a fucking dolphin as a pet?  Secondly, they protect you from sharks.  I know that’s obvious, but some people just don’t think things through.  The problem is that if they’re always in water, it becomes hard to pet them.  How can the dolphin lay in bed with me and watch 30-Minute Meals With Rachel Ray if he can’t breathe?  Plus, it would be annoying to listen to his blowhole wheezing the whole time.  Land dolphins would be awesome.

I would buy New Orleans and turn it into my summer cottage.  There’s plenty of manual labor down there to hire, and its location next to the Gulf of Mexico makes it easy for me to collect sea horses for my water chariot. 

Those are just the beginning.  My empire will see advances as the years go on.  By the time you read this, you will more than likely be working for me.  I can’t wait.

Purchase #1-A box of kittens (to be refilled weekly)

Why something as simple as a box of kittens, you ask?  Easy, they will be my stress reliever.  Tough day at work?…where are my kittens?  Family stressing me out…where are my kittens?  Feeling sad or alone?…get me my kitty-cats.  This box of joy can be used in one of two ways.   Work can be stressful.  Underlings pissing you off, boss man telling you to “get off your ass and be productive, just ONCE”, colleagues bothering you, asking you to turn down your jam box (blaring your George Thorogood “Bad to the bone” mix tape), we’ve all been there.  Well, it’s no longer a problem.  Pet a kitten.  Rather than strangling a co-worker in the next cube, pet a kitten and let the soft purr save your job.  Is that not enough to calm you down?…Randy Johnson that sucker into a brick wall.  Spike it into the ground as if you just scored the superbowl winning touchdown.  Just fire them sumbitches into the air, it doesn’t matter, animals have no souls.   No, I’m not condoning the killing of kittens, maybe you’re a pussy and you can’t throw very hard, then that’s fine…you’ll just have a box load of retarded cats, maybe they can compete in the special cat-lympics. 

Purchase #2-Two words: Man…Hunt

No, I’m not talking about opening a bar with Ricky Martin.  Think about it…If your week is so bad that you can’t get over it by fast-balling a kitten into some sheetrock, then murder is the only answer for you.  Pick the homeless, the vagrants, the sick, the old, whatever, just make sure that you don’t hunt just one race or sex, don’t want Reverend Al (black), Edward James Olmos (Mexican, bad skin) or Ellen Degeneres (white, lesbian) coming after you for unjustly singling out their constituents.  Picture Ice-T, as Jack Mason (an homage to jew comic, Jackie Mason?) in Surviving the Game, I figure, once I have my millions, I should do what rich guys, do…and this is what they do…ruthlessly and pointlessly hunt the less fortunate.  It is my calling.  I would purchase land in Northern New Mexico for the varied terrain, mountains, valleys, desert, etc. and I would unleash those with less to live for and give them a lighter, a knife, an empty ozarka eco bottle, and a couple days head start.  Why the knife? Because I’m not an asshole, that’s why.  They would have the advantage of knowing the land and if they beat me or kill me, then that’s the risk I take, but my dozens of trained grizzly bear body guards would never allow that to happen.  This service would in turn make me even MORE money.

Purchase #3-I would purchase the Milwaukee Brewers

Why the Brewers?  Well, aren’t you just full of questions you meaningless speck of dust on the bottom of my literary shoe?  Shut up and I will answer all your questions, dummy.  The Brewers suck.  I don’t like the Brewers, I have no vested interest in the Brewers, the Brewers’ fans have no expectations, other than failure (much like my family’s expectations for me, leading to my life of mediocrity).  These things give me the leeway to do as I please with them.  I will pay no more than the league minimum for any player.  We will barely follow league rules in regards to player health or safety.   I will get fans to fill the stadium not with skillful play or exciting home runs, but because of good old fashioned entertainment.  I will have fantastic promotions like “nickel beer/bayonet  night”, or “Glory hole Tuesdays”, or “Play second base for 3 innings” and things of that ilk.  The players will wear Riddell mesh shorts (yellow),  Hanes tall tube socks, striped of course,  baseball cleats (velcro), team color bandanas (yellow for road, blue for home), and Oakley sunglasses…no expense will be spared on the above items.  Finally, old school gloves that are barely thicker or larger than the skin that covers your hand.  Players must supply their own baseball bats, what…do I have to do everything?  Players with the following names will no longer be allowed to play for the Brewers…Prince, Marco, Zach, Stephen (Steven with a V is okay), James (but if he goes by Jim, he’s fine), Geoffrey (Jeff is okay), Jay, Edward, Hakim, Randall, Jesse, Calvin, Kenneth, or any variations of Michael, including, but not limited to Mike, Mikey, Michael, Micheal, Mick, Mik, Mic, Miky, M.  Our goal will be to have more fans arrested for public intoxication than all other teams in the league combined.

Purchase #4-Intro/Outro (play the music at the top while reading this paragraph)

Every time I walk into or out of a room, the violin theme from the “Bourne Movies” will play.  You know the one I mean, the theme played at the end of the Bourne Identity, and played at some point in every subsequent Bourne Movie.  No, not the cheesy Euro-rave music, the cool violins/cellos string-quartet music.  Yeah, you know the one!  Every time I entered a room, that would overtake any and all noise in the room.  4 seconds before I leave a room, that music would be cued up to signal to all, that my exit is near.  Shit, this would be awesome, I have goose bumps just thinking about it.  I would of course patent this idea, to ensure that no other posers (like you jerk-wad) take this idea, thereby watering down the awesomeness of my arrival or departure.  Come up with some ideas of your own, shit dick.  Update:  I didn’t know the song was by moby…bleh, I apologize.  That takes all the air out of this, but you get the point, theme music for your stupid day-to-day life would be cool.  Shit, what a let down.

Purchase #5-I will buy a Giant

I know that this is a complete and utter rip off of Dr. Rob’s idea to have a midget, but he didn’t call “patent” on his idea.  Think of how awesome it would be to have a GIANT at your beck and call.  It (I say “it” because they aren’t human) could get things off high shelves, protect you, allow you to be picked first at  pick up basketball games at your local YMCA…the possibilities are endless.  Too drunk to walk?…let the Giant carry you.  Scared of spiders?…let the giant smoosh it.  Chapped lips?…let the Giant help you out, can you imagine a little chapstick container in its massive hands?  That’s fucking hilarious.  And for the record, I would only call it demeaning names for short people, shrimp, little fella, pipsqueak, mini me, stupid little insignificant piece of shit, etc.  and I would constantly ask, ”how does it feel to know that your parents wish you were never born?”  Not to be funny and ironic, but to assert my position of power over it.  Can you imagine if it turned on me?  That fucker would be a handful to take down, to say the least.  I would always have sunflower seeds and yoohoo on hand, as those tall fucks can’t get enough of that shit.  I would poison every other drink or handful of seeds with some sort of downer so that it is always docile and malleable and will conform to my every command. 

That’s it…the greatest list ever assembled.  If any one thinks they can best me in a game of “listing shit that nobody could ever afford” I dare you to try.  I say it cannot be done.  Go Brewers!

MLB's Model Franchise