Kansas City Royals at Twins. Royals 4, Ass Bats 3.

Oh, for &*@$'s sake. You know what? Here Batgirl is, busting her balls, day in and day out—and she, of course, does not have balls because she is a lady, do you hear her? A %#$#@*& lady! She's not going to blog on this %$&! $#@%. She's got things to do, people to see. Okay, she's got nothing else to do. But that doesn't matter.

The point is, Batgirl's eyes are burning and her soul is slowly dying, and, my dear Twins, it's your f@#$&*$ fault. If you close your eyes and listen, that isn’t the wind you hear, but Batgirl's cries rending the sky asunder. She gives and she gives, and what does she get back? Bup-$%&#@?#-kiss.

Oh, Twins, I don't know why you treat me so bad--think of all the things we could have had.

You ass-weasels.

[JEB: Ass-weasels are no laughing matter. Have you seen what they'll do to a person when they get riled up?

BATGIRL: SHUT UP! SHUT UP!!!]

I don't know what the hell's going on around here with you guys, but we were a good baseball team like three days ago. Remember that? You do? Really? Well, then what in the hell happened? News about Pluto finally hit the clubhouse? Lew Ford's wayback machine gone all higgledy piggledy? (And if there's a proper way to spell that, it beats the #@$%!?&# shit out of Batgirl.) Well whatever the flying$@#$ is wrong with you guys, get the $#@& over it, get your head out of your gigantic collective @$$ and start playing some $%&*@#! base ball.

You know, apparently there was some guy running on the field tonight, and DickN'Roy were pretty annoyed with it—what they clearly didn't understand is the poor chap had been driven so barking mad by the soul-crushing ass-battitude that he was suddenly convinced he was being chased by a pack of rabid ass-weasels and ran onto the field to save his life. [Jeb: See, I told you.] What I mean to say is that could have been any of us. What I mean to say is we are all that guy, you, and me, and the Batkitties three, and it's time for us all to come together, so go to your kitchen right now, get down a candle, no not that one, the smell's too sweet—there, that one's better—and light it for that poor guy who's in some jail cell right now shaking and rocking and drenched in sweat and screaming things about small furry rodents and the Royals' pitching staff and double plays. At least he got to completely lose his mind and didn't have to watch the end of this %$#%&*?$! game.

I can't believe I missed @#%&*!% Project Runway for ?$%&*$# this. (And anyone who reveals what happened has to watch this whole %&*$%#@!% game again. Twice.)

I mean it.