Jim Tracy is a scrotumless dweeb

Yes, the propaganda is true, Pierce, Welch and Smith met me at a secret undisclosed location last night where we plotted our schemes for world domination and an endless supply of dodger dogs and watery, stadium-filtered beer. Then Pierce, at a location so secret I can only refer to it as the Rustic Room, plied me with gin and tried to pry loose my confidential strategy for winning in roto. Welch even tried to warp my mind by re-introducing me to some crazy, drum-thumping, tennis-playing rock star.

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