Gary Flage and Martin Chumsticks just need to square off against each other and let their grievances come pouring out. Really, the only way anything is going to be resolved is by sticking our fists into the muck which piles up between them, and wringling our fingers to fumble with what might be a key of truth. Because all I know really, is that these boys are liars. They’ve got too much hunky funky philootin tootin bitcoin behind them to truly show you their hearts. Like dragons, the extent of their wingspan only reveals a plate of armor where could a heart may surely exist.
I’ve heard the rumors: beatification, Hosana cakes, tripple dipped tri coins, rootbeer in the soda fountains, lochness monsters peering out from behind the googly doogly water cooler, and I’ve read the reports from Fosters and beyond explaining why this man and that are saints to be prostrated under, like our faces belonged to the floors!
I’m sure you read Goldman Sachs? Then you must know that the buyout between the two leagues is about as squared off as a Jack Levinson tie knot wrapped tightly round a no good know how night. Don’t be treating me like a fool. I’ve seen the kids come up out their daisy patches, fresh if not fried. And I’ve tried to touch them on the skin. But there is a slime prevalent in these latter days, which would drown Jesus and his apostles six ways to Sunday over God’s great seven days.
What I’m trying to say, is that there is a master plan behind every one of their moves. It’s just too forced. Like steel that has been pre molded. There’s a clock coming down on our new frontier, and it is being shipped in iron.
