The following interview never took place, of course. But we like to think it could happen at any given moment…
Jonathan Broxton is a morbidly obese pitcher for the Kansas City Royals. Previously, he was morbidly obese while pitching for the Los Angeles Dodgers, and prior to that, we assume he was at the very least tragically obese while eating his way through high school. He has been christened the closer for the Royals this year because once dependable Joakim Soria’s arm fell off. Assuming that arm was not eaten by Broxton, I look forward to the day that hundreds of child-laborer seamstresses in some third world country no longer have to dedicate a third of their country’s GDP to the construction of Mr. Broxton’s pants.
IM: You look good, Jonathan. Who does your hair?
We forgot to ask Mr. Broxton a few questions about the fantastic facial hair. One can sense the immense satisfaction on Dayton Moore's visage here as he and Broxy heft up a new size 78 shirt celebrating an economic boon for midwestern lard distributors.
JB: Glad you asked. Nothing but Supercuts. They let me eat during my appointments. My favorite KFC is just across the street.
IM: Can you explain to the readers (both of them) what happened earlier this year…before the twelve game losing streak.
JB: (Scratches forehead with a chicken leg from the family bucket of KFC in his lap) We didn’t lose every game?
IM: No, Jonathan. You were on the mound…the Royals had the lead…and you just started walking and hitting consecutive batters in extra innings. You remember that game, don’t you?
JB: Yeah. I didn’t hear the ball hit the bat very much. I’m fond of the smell ball and bat make when they make big collision. It’s like a deliciously marinated livestock trailer wreck, and it reminds me of deep-fried butter coated mayonnaise.
IM: That doesn’t make much sense.
JB: Think of it like this: Without trees, we can’t have bats. Trees make air. I have to have air to eat. Bats remind me of dinner. The ball is covered in cow, and I eat plenty of cow. Selig won’t make a ball with chicken feathers yet, but it’s not that I haven’t asked. He won’t let me eat the balls either, at least while I’m pitching. But yeah…when the ball hits the bat, I get hungry. I let myself down that night because the ball and the uniform don’t remind me of eating as much when they make a collision. It’s only like leftovers covered in mustard and sodapop, or something. But it doesn’t make me as hungry, and I get sad.
Q: What do you get when you insert two major league pitchers into Jonathan Broxton's pants? A: Exactly two more major league pitchers than when you insert Jonathan Broxton into his pants.
IM: So, why didn’t you just throw strikes? The batters appear more than willing to whip up some mayonnaise for you.
JB: Mijares and I were going to eat a few pigs with Yuni after the game. We didn’t know it was going to go to extra innings, and we usually have some sort of competition…you know, to see who can eat the most pigs.
IM: That’s disgusting.
JB: But we didn’t eat all damn game, because we want an empty stomach for something like that. We only really have the opportunity to set things like this up when we’re at home. On the road, it’s just a lot more difficult to line up the livestock. But anyway, we knew there was a lot of swine just not getting eaten by me, and that made me sad.
IM: I’m touched. Go on.
JB: So, I haven’t eaten in almost three hours, and I’m feeling dizzy. And I’m thinking about how many pigs Mijares is going to be able to eat, because he’s out there doing his mouth stretching exercises in the bullpen. I can see him, you know. He puts a couple of Kendall’s old cups in his mouth and jams a mitt or two in there to get loose. That guy can really get going if he’s good and ready. But I had to pitch. It was hard to focus, you know?
Okay, kids: Sing along like Johnny Cash! 'How big's that jersey, mama? Size 72 and rising.' Jose isn't lifelong fatfuck, but he appears to have picked up quite a few tips from the Dayton Moore Obesity Club sometimes known as the Royals.
IM: I don’t know. Is this something you would be doing if Mijares was on the mound?
JB: (giggles) Naw, I’d probably be sneaking a few pizzas or hot dogs, or whatever I could get my mouth around when no one is looking. I just didn’t want to let Jose down, because he takes the pig kills so seriously. It’s an ethnic thing, I think.
IM: But you’re about the luckiest son of a bitch in the history of the game, as far as I can tell. For starters, you’re a professional ballplayer making four million dollars to suck at your job and make no attempt whatsoever at physical fitness. Why didn’t you take your chances that the batters could make mayonnaise, and maybe the ball wouldn’t be hit to
Yuni? The game would have been over quicker, and more pig could have been devoured?
JB: (wipes a tear from his eye with a KFC Handi-wipe) I was hungry. I was about to goddamn faint out there. Do you know what it’s like to go three hours without eating a pig?
IM : Yes, I think I do.
JB: (now bawling uncontrollably. Handi-wipes everywhere.) Okay, then. Quit emasculating me.
IM: I’m damn sorry, you famously fat bastard. Do you have any explanation for the couple of readers we have for the soul-suck that your blown saves seem to inflict on your ballclub? The Royals have only lost three in a row following your latest meltdown. How many games do you think it’s going to take the club to recover from their current round of suck?
JB: (licking a wishbone clean, then popping it in his mouth, crushing to pieces and swallowing) If this is going to be that kind of a party…(JB drops his pants, and eyes the mashed potatoes longingly.)
Editor's note: A special shout-out to google for ruining blogger. Thanks for fixing something that wasn't broken, assholes. Technology "improvements" almost never make things better. Nearly every new implementation by IT specialists is done primarily for their own job security by weaving added and unnecessary complexity to virtually every application. But yeah, google: Great work, champ.
