For the first time in 14 months, I feel lost. I feel like Batman has lost Robin. Sonny losing Cher. Jock without itch. When in doubt, you were always there. I could count on you waddling your fat ass up to the mound, looking like a slightly taller Danny Devito as the Penguin. No matter what was going on, I could always count on you to fuck something up and give me a place to direct my frustration. But now what do I do? Sure, there have been others who have tried to live up to your shoes. Navarro tried matching your girth, but he doesn't have your waddle. Wheeler has tried to imitate you, and dammit he has sure tried hard, but it's just not the same.
Who can truly color my vocabulary like you? Who's going to make me refill my high blood pressure medicine? No one will ever be able to replace that rumble in my stomach. No one can ever match that pain in my ass. No one could make me induce vomit like you. No one can ever make me think so fondly of Roberto Hernandez. Alas, the next time I yell at my tv and say "thanks for fucking this one up", it just won't have quite the same ring to it as it used to. But whenever I glance down at a breakfast menu and see grits, I'll always think of you. But every time I hear "closer-by-committee", I'll shed a tear for you. Look out, Isringhausen. You have some mighty big shoes and waistline to fill.