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Long-haired Tim Lincecum is visiting you in your dreams.  Tonight is the first night.  You’re in front of a white door.  It opens.  Welcome to your dream.  Tim says.  This is Drew.  A man wearing a shirt that says “Seattle” with a Nike swoosh over it appears.  Yeah, obviously, this is my dream now.  Suddenly you’re in a hot tub.  It’s filled with shaving cream and all of Tim’s baseball paraphernalia.  A Cy Young Award bobs to the surface.  I just got it installed.  Tim says.  The shaving cream was Drew’s idea, obviously.  You know, shaving cream pies.  It happens in baseball when you do really well.  Like if you win a Cy Young.  Or a World Series or something.  There’s champagne.  And then shaving cream pies.  You can’t see Tim, but Drew has emerged from the shaving cream and, even though you can only see his face and bare shoulders, you know that he is naked.  Oh, hi Drew.  Tim says.  Yeah, this was all basically Drew’s idea.  Tim starts singing Hall and Oates.  His falsetto is beautiful.  You’re a real ballplayer, now.


“Kiss Me” by Sixpence None The Richer, is playing as images of Tim’s face flash by you – sequenced too quickly to be anything but a blur of sleek hair and a pale, milky white color that must be his face.  The song ends and Tim appears in an orange SF Giants-themed snuggie.  He flashes his hands in strange gestures.  I’m a fucking wizardHe says.  I am a fucking  pitching wizard.  I am a pitching wizard who has been playing FIFA since before I was born–in my mind.  Lights are flashing all around you.  Tim is in your face.  I pitch like my hair.  Fast.  Sleek.  Powerful.  Suddenly, a shaving cream pie straight to your face.  That’s what winning feels like – Drew and I do that to each other all the time, obviously, whenever we play FIFA.  Boom.  Pie to the face.  He gives you a pie Now you do it back.  He says.  Now you do it back.


They can’t handle me.  None of them can handle me.  The Freak.  That’s right.  I was only 85 pounds when I was 15.  You can’t handle me.  You ever thrown your weight?  85 when I was 85.  Boom.  How far do you think I can throw a baseball?  Go ahead, how far?  200 ft?  300ft?  Wrong, man.  400 feet, obviously.  Two no hitters.  Think I give a fuck?  He’s wearing an iron mask.  The world is an iron cage.  The world is between you and I now.  Do you think any of this matters?  No, man.  That’s why I don’t cook any of my own food.  Only shaving cream pies from here on out.  I don’t need to play in the playoffs anymore.  I went from Cy Youngs to the bullpen, but we’re winning, homie, don’t nobody care. Weed smoke comes out from behind the mask.  Tim is wearing a USMNT Kit, his name and his number on the back.  It’s just shaving cream pies from here on out, man, and there’s no way anyone can stop me from winning one of those.

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