Yes, Husky Pants, damn you. You slid into every base with your sharpened cleats raised high. You mocked our every move like a French waiter. You spit tobacco chaw wrapped in black licorice in our manager's face. You threatened to hold your breath until your face turned blue if the ump didn't give you the game on a silver platter. You spread rumors about the sexual proclivities of our entire outfield. You even tried to hit foul balls at our baby mascot.
And you beat us 9-6. Now we are 6-7, with only a tenuous hold on a playoff spot. May your awesome electric cooler cause all your beer to go skunky.
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