Style Points

Celebrity Editorials: Ty Cobb by ClintonPortishead
The Georgia Peach

The Georgia Peach

Every so often, we here at Style Points are lucky enough to feature a guest editorial from a famous figure on a relevant topic.  This week, Ty Cobb addresses the controversy surrounding gay marriage. Please send any questions, comments, or concerns to his grave.

Ty Cobb here, the Georgia Peach. I understand there’s a controversy a-brewin’ about gays getting married? Poppycock! Why, I remember when I found out we had us a gay on the Aught-Six Tigers club like it was yesterday. I had just gone 5 for 6 with 4 three-baggers off of Gentleman Jim Johnson and the Altoona Travelin’ Salesmen, and I was back in the showers washing all the dirt and tibia pieces out of my cleats. There was this tall drink of water named Emmett Abrams, who we’d just called up from the Saginaw Straightshooters (we were short-manned on account of yours truly having busted our last shortstop’s eye socket with a can of Dapper Dan for glancin’ at me funny).

He sauntered into the shower like a heathen into Gomorrah, and do you know what he said to me? “Gee, Ty, you ought to get that thigh laceration looked at. Could be infected.” I damn near spit my chaw halfway to Albuquerque! I didn’t say anything at the time (my wits weren’t about me, mostly due to the unexplained blistering pain in my right thigh) but I made a mental note of it. Anyways, later on that road trip I slipped some arsenic into his coffee, blamed it on the Colored waitstaff, and we won the pennant by nine games. Coincidence? Not on your life, friend.

Why, what do these pillow-bitin’ Nancy boys want to get married for, anyways? My parents were married and my Ma shot my Pa dead in the chest, she did. His wedding ring didn’t save him there, let me tell you that. I remember the last time I saw him alive, right before I shipped off to the Anniston Steelers at the ripe age of 17, and he said “Son, don’t come home a failure. And for the love of God, don’t confine yourself to one woman’s peach basket, you crazy ass bastard.” They were the first words he’d spoken to me in six years, and the trail of indigent mulatto children I left scattered throughout the American South can attest to how well I remembered them. Now these fudgepackers want to go and desecrate the institution of marriage? I think not.

Who runs these states allowing this abomination, anyways? Iowa? Maine? We had a fella from Maine one time back in the summer of ‘11, a curly haired Jewy lookin’ fella by the name of Arnold Aaronson. Our first game in Pittsburgh, he saw a bear scramble past right field and Aaronson climbed the wall and took off after him like a Chinaman to a railroad job. We never saw him again, but then when we were in Pittsburgh again in ’14, I hit a towering round-tripper off Able Eddy Abromovitz that cleared the bleachers, and I swear on Grover Cleveland’s grave the ball was thrown back into play by a small, bear-like child.

After the game I went to check it out myself, and with nothing but a granola bar and a bowie knife I tracked that bear-child for three days into Ohio where I finally stabbed it in the heart about 30 miles east of Cincinnati. It let out a caterwaul that could be heard in Kentucky, but I’ll be damned if his blood didn’t taste just like ol’ Arnold Aaronson’s. Anyways, the point of the story is that you can’t trust anyone from Maine.

I’m just saying it’s a slippery slope out there. Once we start allowing the gays to marry, the next thing you’ll know the women will want to vote, or the blacks will want respect. What the hell do we do then? I didn’t spend the prime of my life slappin rawhide from Kansas City to Connecticut so people could just do whatever they wanted. We have a name for that and it’s called “communism” you sissy-footed paintywaists.

Why, I once had to explain the concept of “ownership” to Nap Lajoie, right before I gypped him out of that automobile for the 1910 Batting Crown. I’ll be damned if now if I’m gonna let his gay descendants marry their Canadian boyfriends and trade Louisiana back to the French for three black-and-white films and a baguette. Not my America.

When it comes down to it, I just can’t endorse sodomy. There’s a reason they call me the Georgia Peach, and not the Georgia Moldy Plum.  Something to keep in mind, friends.


8 Comments so far
Leave a comment

You got burned in “Field of Dreams”….none of them could stand you when you were alive, you son of a bitch.

Comment by fatherof2futurefirstrounders

This was fnatisacing, learning the backstory of the SBs. Now I want to see the movie–Lucy Liu as Candy, Natalie Portman as Sarah…Fabio as himself…I smell Oscar!Like? 0

Comment by Shiraz

nuS1Ec exzyjlfdtjlp

Comment by grvenxlevzd

Jesus almighty, I have goosebumps.

Comment by david_hume

Any thoughts on New Coke Ty?

Comment by CoolHwhip

This was incredible. A.O. Scott from the New York Times says “It wasn’t a movie, but fuck me right in the face if it never becomes one”

Comment by karlifornia

..the point of the story is that you can’t trust anyone from Maine.

Who dares disparage the good name of Maine!

Comment by ebooker

Ty Cobb says, “The blacker the berry, the sweeter the juice. That’s right, then: I’m going to fuck the shit out of those nigras, then stomp & make motherfuckin’ berry wine”.

Comment by Ass Diamonds from Sunny Leone

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