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BROOKLYN – “It’s like Gollum’s dick out there,” muttered 8-Ball. “Grey and slippery. Makes a man wanna hole up with a rando and a box of Plan Bs.”  Yes, the elements in this 9th season of Sundays have thus far been a soggy bag of excrement, fitting right in with the human-canine hybrid piles that litter the Cathedral. Yet God herself can’t dampen the spirits of a well-oiled batsman as 14 sluggers shook off the dewdrops to thwack balls, hit walls, and crack talls.

Fresh off his orgiastic F*ckstravaganza, the grunt-prone...

Soy Peligroso  •  May 14th, 2017

BROOKLYN — Bazooms. Bazookas. Kablammos. Ta-tas. Yabbos. Highbeams. Golden Winnebagos. Thelma and Louises… It doesn’t matter what you call them, a tit is a tit is a tit. They’ve been priming the Mothership pump for 9 years and counting. Milky, wet, weird, red, black… the hope of victory always lies with glory pillows. For all the inspiration they (and the women behind them) give us, it’s the least we can do to give a little back. Thus, Hard Nippers for Round Trippers™ AKA Bombs For Moms™ was born.  

Perhaps in a fateful nod to lopsidedness,...

Stinkmitt  •  October 23rd, 2016

BROOKLYN – One man, we know - even proudly - isn’t nearly enough. And the swagger of any stick isn’t billboarded or marquee’d. Rather, any half-attentive gruff with the juice to score at a Catholic funeral will find the quiet riches of the YFS ink-etched discreetly into the skin of the inner-thigh of the devoutest of wives, tipped on every trip of the lips of the pole-dancer next door. “This is why it came as such a shock to us up here in the MLB front office,” said Rob Manfred, the COO...

The Minister  •  September 1st, 2016

UPDATE: Although Bill's Agent was intrigued as was the Spaceman. The answer back was something along the lines of "I'd love to come play next time i'm in NYC" – he currently lives in Vermont. The league intends to reach out again in the spring of 2018.

Stinkmitt  •  June 19th, 2016

BROOKLYN – Far be it from me to scab-up on the rosy-lensed mores of masculinity, but most father-son traditions spun toward sacking up the marbles of the sucklings—whether it’s your tactless fishing trip or the botching and burning up a lasagna for mom—frankly fall full-flat. Maybe it’s the way that the yay-Daddy-day all-too-quickly reveals itself not to be invented by a front-hoser as sperm-ulous misfiring men cry through the grates of their grills during the only itch of alone time they’ve had since the “best day of their...