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The Hundred-Loss Shuffle

No, this isn't a prediction the Nats will lose 100 games. But, given that aesthetically inappropriate rapping is all the rage today, it's high time to report what I've known for some time now: I have it on very reliable authority that rapping is Ted Lerner's secret hobby. He's got his pistol point cocked, ring-a-ling shots nonstop. Now all homeboy needs is some rhymes, and the Ninety-Seven-Loss Shuffle just won't cut it.

Hundred-Loss Shuffle, it is. It's not internationally known, but it's known throughout the microphone.

They call me Papa Lerner,
The man with da cash,
Guess the honeymoon's over,
So say the brash.
I gots me no love from the blogs,
Buncha losers prob'ly memorize Captain's logs.
Step off, yo,
I'm no carpet-bagger,
And cut da Malekite swagger,
Cuz I ain't never barbequed no dawgs.

Stan Kasten here,
The man with The Plan,
Ask for specifics,
Dissemble fast, I can.
Somethin' 'bout Smiley 'n
HD screens 'n fancy seats
Like a the'ate'ah,
Don't sweat me, bro,
Don't be a hatah.
Wanna know mo'?
Feed it in the Translatah.

Wiggity wiggity wiggity Bodes
Me love me some tools,
Laugh at Soriano some more,
I expose you for fools.
Didn't trade him cuz we wanted da draft picks,
Free-stylin', just like Mark Spitz,
Don't settle for no can o' Schlitz.
Gots me mad style,
Even if I'm cheesier than France,
So before you hit "Submit" on da rants,
Ask yourself one question,
And don't give me no jive-turkey dance:
Who looks good in da Leather Pants?

Manny from the D.R.,
I'm young and fresh,
They spat out F.R.,
Got dissed by the rest.
But I'm the man for a Nats revival,
Confirmed at the Viera recital,
Where Boz told that I'm bold,
Cuz this rotation?
Straight-up suicidal.

[Chorus]

We are the Nats, shufflin' our way,
To a blowout loss,
Two out of three days.
No pitching, little hitting,
Guzmania is here,
Talent is mere,
Not much to fear,
Wanna find us in the standings,
Look to da rear.
Wave your hands in the air,
Wave 'em all around, like you just don't care,
'Cuz neither do we,
Not this year.

Break it down.

Call me J-Pats or K Doctor or the Big Nasty,
If I tweak my elbow,
That's friggin' disasty,
Better frame it in da alabasty.
Spent last season on the shelf,
Guardin' my health.
This time I'm an ace pitchin' for wealth,
Get me up to win number twelfth,
Make me richer than Alex Belth.
Word.

Name is Joel Hanrahan,
Representin' all da pitchahs for free,
Don't who I am?
Neither do we.
[rapid-fire] SimontacchiandHillandWilliams
andBergmannandSpeignerand
ReddingandTraber
And Beltran Perez and Matt Chico.
Forget the frontin',
The pitchin' is bleak, yo.
Bet by mid-May,
You're shoutin' "Oh, no!"
But before you harp and moan
And wish you were alone with Wil Cordero
And a phone,
Don't convulse on your kness,
Remember one thing,
Pretty please:
Steady sweatin' Ramon Ortiz.

Luis Ayala,
UCL snapped in the world's gala,
I was hurt before that:
Frank's usage was mal-ah.
Don't call it a comeback,
Colome's a Yugo, I'm a Cadillac,
When I'm healthy,
Maybe they'll deal me;
I make more than a dollah.

Yo, I'm Chad Cordero.
As a closer, I'm existential,
How can I save games when
A lead's elemental?
Here for now,
Just like our Sacred Cow,
Better deal me soon,
Before 'Druw again goes pow,
And the ball lands upside the moon.
I'm a flyballer, dude,
I don't means to be rude,
You trade me to Boston,
Trade me to Colorado,
Put me in the wrong park,
I get donged by Martin Prado.

We are the Nats, shufflin' our way,
To a blowout loss,
Two out of three days.
No pitching, little hitting,
Guzmania is here,
Our talent is mere,
Not much to fear,
Wanna find us in the standings,
Look to da rear.
Wave your hands in the air,
Wave 'em all around, like you just don't care,
'Cuz neither do we,
Not this year.

Break it down.

Ryan Zimmerman, I am The Plan,
Gotta wait around for others,
Where they lookin', Turkmenistan?
Call me Zimm or Z-Man or Dutch,
It don't matter much,
I hit in the clutch.
I play third like Brooks,
Against the Yanks, my bat really cooks
And all it tooks,
Was the fourth pick
And opening the check books
(Beat-box for me, Stan)

Guzman's my name,
Vortex of suck's my game,
Collectin' four mill a year,
Ain't gots no shame.
I'm Guzmania, the man, inferior,
Watchin' me play,
Ya just get wearier.
The kids, the guys, the girls,
They're all yelling Booooooo,
But really it's Guuuuuuuuuuz?
Watch logic curl,
In Boz's Foam-Fingered World.

Chris Snelling, or Doyle,
Don't matter how it's spell'd,
Knees shot to hell,
Yoda sleeps inside my knee brace;
Can't ya tell?
Like Escobar, injuries are my rap,
And because I'm Australian,
I can't rap worth crap.
So far I'm healthy,
But there's still time to panic,
With my luck, I'll get hit
By Joseph Hazelwood drivin' the Titanic.
Vidro for me and ¡Fruto!
Straight-up steal,
And yo, don't forget the dough.
Good for the Nats, that's the feel,
But for the Zumstegs,
Arsenic's the meal.

My name's Larry Broadway,
Ya know what I mean,
What's it say
That I can't make this team?
Struck in Triple-A,
Running out of time to play,
Need service time to get pay'd,
So in Columbus I stay,
And fervently pray,
Dmitri Young goes astray.
Don't move Casto to first, okay?
From afar, I can watch this team,
Might be better than it seems,
But if Bodes brings back
Chris Stynes or Hal Morris,
I might just scream.

We are the Nats, shufflin' our way,
To a blowout loss,
Two out of three days.
No pitching, little hitting,
Guzmania is here,
Our talent is mere,
Not much to fear,
Wanna find us in the standings,
Look to da rear.
Wave your hands in the air,
Wave 'em all around, like you just don't care,
'Cuz neither do we,
Not this year.

Break it down.

[Ted Lerner beat-boxes]

[Screech breakdances]

[Alex Escobar jumps up and down, pulls hamstring]

Fin.