The Fall of Slothrop

Ass-Headed Bottom: Oh dear readers of our blog... I have tried, labored and prayed and foregone whole meals of thistle and full bottles of hay and long days of dissertation trying to save Slothrop's erring soul, but "Frank Sobotka," as he likes to call himself, is bent on self-destruction, and we hereby wash our hooves of him, do we not, beloved readers? For Slothrop has hired the services--it breaks our hearts to tell you--of this Quisling:

Who used to be this shining Lucifer:

But who shortly thereafter signed away his soul to those very New York $@#$^$@#$s for ready cash. Let me clarify: Slothrop, once a proud fantasy baseball manager, has hired the virtual services of Johnny Damon, center fielder for Pandaemonium, and this after I, your long-suffering jackass, narrowly averted his wandering attentions away from Andy Pettitte, the steroidal, born-again Yankee pitcher and former best friend of no less a malefactor than Roger Clemens. In other words, Slothrop has degenerated from light to darkness, from divinely inspired wisdom to satanic folly. He has gone from this:

to this:

from this pornstar:

to this idiot:

(that's George Chapman, by the way, an impotent and unreadably awful Neoplatonic poet, a kind of 17th-century blueprinter for John from Cincinnati). Quite simply, Slothrop has descended from Him:

all the way down to him:

That is what first Johnny Damon and now Slothrop/Frank Sobotka have done. From our Elysian Fields we pity them, do we not?

Slothrop: Keep Slothrop out of this. And Frank, too: a complicated man, sometimes having to do wrong things for the right reasons, he doesn't fit in your neat world of good and evil. Sometimes Greek songs start to play all of a sudden, and then what? And, umm, Frank just picked up Andy Pettitte. So go home Ass-Head and read them there bible stories you like so much; Sobotka's got to figure a way to get Ziggy a diamond collar for his duck. Plus, Johnny Damon is fucking hot! An unbearably attractive man that makes Slothrop's cock tingle.