The owner of the Detroit Tigers, Mike Ilitch, has come out and publicly endorsed manager Jim Leyland for the 2011 season. But with more and more fans growing angry with the team’s performance, DesigNate Robertson has learned that Ilitch and his general manager, Dave Dombrowski, have been having hush-hush meetings with possible replacements for Leyland. The following is the first of these double top secret interviews.
Detroit Tiger Headquarters, Detroit MI
DAVE DOMBROWSKI: Well, Mr. I, are you sure you want to do this? It feels kind of weird going behind Jim’s back this way.
MIKE ILITCH: Hey, Dave, I don’t like it any more than you do. You know how I pride myself on my loyalty. But we can’t have the fan base as upset as they are. And anyway, these are nothing but meetings that I’ve asked you to set up. We’re not doing anything wrong or committing to anyone. And if there’s a better man out there, we owe it to the Detroit fans to give him to them.
DOMBROWSKI: I guess so. In the meantime, did you remember to send your bribe money to Lynn Henning and the rest of the Detroit media to keep praising Leyland in their columns?
ILITCH: Sure did. I still don’t think the fans are buying it, though. So, where is this first potential candidate that you’ve lined up?
DOMBROWSKI: I’m not sure, sir. He should have been here fifteen minutes ago…
/door flies open
REX RYAN: HOW THE F-CK YOU DOIN’, BOYS?
DOMBROWSKI: Ahh, Coach Ryan! Great to see you.
RYAN: F-ckin’ ay, it is, son. Oh, men. MEN! I feel f-ckin’ great today. Sorry I’m late, but holy dancing dingleberries, you should have seen the sh-t I just took downstairs. That Mexican janitor of yours is probably going to need a week off after that sumbitch. Ho, ho…it came out looking like a steaming two liter of Coca Cola. Without the label, of course.
DOMB ROWSKI: Of course. Now…
RYAN: But this city of yours, holy sh-t! I haven’t seen so many depressed looking black folks since Tiger Woods said that he was half Asian. What a f-cking sh-thole! Did you twats lose a bet with God or something?
/eats stick of butter
ILITCH: Now, Mr. Ryan, I find your statements to be very insulting! The city of Detroit is a blue collar city that I am PROUD to be a part of!
RYAN: Oh…you’re proud, are you? (belches alphabet) With all due respect, pizza fag, is it the ZERO championships you’ve pulled in the past couple decades? That goofy jew-fro you’re sportin’ over there? Maybe your f-ck up crackhead kids?
ILITCH: Now, Mr. Ryan!
RYAN: Shut up! And you! You’re an interesting one. Yeah, you, the goofy Polack with the hole in his chin. You seem quiet, but I bet you pull in the Detroit poon tang like nobody else, don’t ya, big boy?
DOMBROWSKI: Mr. Ryan, I’m a happily married…
RYAN: Oh! Oh! My dimpled ass you don’t! Only two kinds of men wear a sweater like the only you’re rockin’, Mr. Man. A thick-d-cked pimp or Bill F-ckin' Cosby! And I don’t see no puddin’ pops over here, Huggy Bear. That’s showing some great hustle out of a GM.
(slaps Dombrowski on the ass, hard)
RYAN: Great fuckin’ hustle. And that’s the kind of hustle you need out of your team, men! THAT’S the kind of sh-t you can be proud of as an owner, God dammit! Now listen up, boys. This team of yours is too f-cking soft! This guy you’ve got running things now sits on his ass, smokes cheap cigarettes, and mumbles like a Chinaman with a c-ck in his mouth! How the f-ck is a team supposed to go out and KILL with a horsesh-t leader like that?
RYAN: They f-ckin’ can’t! And that’s what your players need to be! F-cking killers! That pretty boy back where I’m from in New York, Jeter…that sumbitch might look like some sorta poo-pusher, but he’s got the killer instinct of a grizzly bear on f-ckin’ angeldust! He would let a pack of gorillas gang bang his mama if it meant another World Championship for his team! These boys you have…Brandon Inge, Don Kelly, Gerald Laird…I bet you those sausage kissers could tell you what flavor a popsicle is just by sitting on it!
/eats footlong meatball sub in 12 seconds
ILITCH: I have always wondered about that Kelly guy, Dave.
RYAN: God damn , right! Now you’re talking! Guys, F-CKING BRING IT IN!
(they bring it in)
Gentlemen, that’s what I would change around here. I would turn this team into a pack of p-ssy poundin’, ass whoopin’, baseball smashing, f-cking killers! By the time I’m done with them, they’d take one look at that pudwacker catcher from Minnesota, rip the faggy sideburns off the sides of his head, and piss on the open wounds! They’d take a baseball, take turns jizzing on it, and shove it so far up Ozzie Guillen’s ass that no quack f-cking doctor back in Panama or wherever the sh-t his mama forgot to abort him in would be able to get it out! Now if you’re happy playing .500 ball every year and fielding a bunch of baby kissing, smiling, good guy losers, I’m wasting my time here. But if you want to win some ballgames and field a group of donkey punching, ass kicking, f-cking winners, I’m your man! Are you ready to KILL?
RYAN: Are you ready to WIN?
RYAN: Say it like you’ve got a set, you pricks!
BOTH: F-CK YES!
RYAN: F-cking kill on three! ONE, TWO, THREE!
RYAN: Damn right. This is Detroit Rock F-cking City. I want to field a bunch of big d-cked lunatics out there that this depressed city can be proud of. These motherf-ckers it this hellhole might not be able to pay their light bill, but they’re gonna be damn proud of their f-cking baseball team when ‘ol Rex gets done with ‘em. Now, for my pay. I’m only here because you own that pizza franchise, Mike. Granted, it tastes like a whale’s afterbirth, but I’m not a picky man. When you say that sh-t’s hot and ready, your new manager wants it hot and ready twenty-four hours a day. I talk big, I sh-t big, and I eat big. I want two dozen of those things, with the crust stuffed with six kinds of cheese and three kinds of bacon, delivered to my office every three hours until I drop dead or break every toilet in that stadium of yours. You understand me?
ILITCH: I’m sure something can be arranged.
RYAN: F-ck yeah, it can. And…
/cell phone rings
DOMBROWSKI: You can get that, Rex. We can wait.
/five minutes pass
RYAN: Well, sh-t, boys. Revis looks like he might be willing to come to camp after all. Plus, the owner of the Jets is willing to buy a steakhouse a block from my house and let me treat it like it’s my own personal whorehouse. I’m gonna have to pass on your manager job. I wish you luck, though, boys! You’re gonna need it!
/lets out three minute fart and leaves
ILITCH: Damn. I was ready to kill my wife if he asked me to.
DOMBROWSKI: He was quite convincing. Sigh…I’ll line up another interview with someone soon, sir.
ILITCH: Good. And give the janitor a raise.