Tim Lincecum of the San Francisco Giants and Bartolo Colon of the New York Mets are both owned in 65 percent of ESPN.com fantasy baseball leagues. Both pitchers are former Cy Young Award winners, and despite being past their respective primes, still have something to offer fantasy owners.
How does one possibly decide which starter to pick up?
In the fairest way possible, of course. Grab yourselves a 40 and a shorty, drop the needle to the record, and see who spits the dopest rhymes!
(Warning: this waiver-wire article is not suitable for all ages.)
Let’s fire up the Piggiedome as Tim “Da Freak” Lincecum goes toe-to-toe, mic-to-mic, FIP-to-FIP, with Bartolo “Notorious B.A.R.T.” Colon!
They call me Seabiscuit, wanna battle? Don’t risk it.
My changeup slow and juicy rare like brisket.
My rhyme style sweet as the whiff rate on my pitches,
Don’t need no fastball to strike out these bitches:
Curveball? Eleven percent!
Slider? Eighteen percent!
Changeup? Twenty-three percent?
Shake ya head, make you wonder where the ball went!
Short-sighted fools droppin’ me to the waiver wire,
Real playas claim me, watch The Freak catch fire.
My double D-Back beatings? Ha! Mad misleadin’!
My .393 BABIP’s almost league-leading!
48 percent LOB?
Well, golly gee!
In MLB, I rank number three!
Already got twelve Ks in 10 innings this season,
Haters used to say bad control was the reason—
But only one walk so far, I Sherlocked that shit—solved!
This is 2014 and The Franchise resolved
To drop dope rhymes and my ERA!
Let’s hear what the fattest man in ball gots ta say:
Yo, what’s a big man gotta do to get some respect?
I won 18 games last year, whaddayou expect?
ERA? That shit was under three.
Look no further, G.
You want a quality start? Then pick up quality Bart!
My next victims, yo, say “hello” to the Halo’s—
A year ago’s, I was pimpin those hos.
Two games, two wins, and I be screamin’ “shutout!”
The only one who scored on me?
Eat a dick, Mike Trout!
The strike zone I pound, inducin’ grounders on the ground.
17 years in the game, and you know I found
The Fountain of Youth, truth! Call me Bart DeLeon!
So you fanned a few Braves? Don’t even congratulate:
Bitch, that lineup’s got more Uggla swings than when you masturbate!
Ya rhymes as shitty as ya velocity—
The Freak style witty and the Freak owns your Citi!
Yeah, last year ya ERA was lower than three
But SIERA was over four, that’s higher than me!
What the fuck is SIERA? Ya gots me thinkin’ of Ruben—
Talkin’ bout sammiches, not the owner, not the country.
I’m grabbin’ lunch with Yasiel because you know we both hungry!
Keep throwin’ up saber stats and I keep shaking you off:
Blow the minds of nerds like my name was Molotov.
You’s a 40-Year-Old Virgin and so’s your cocktail
Hold ya breath while I exhale, beached whale!
Gettin’ contact high? What’s ya contact rate?
87 percent last year! You suck! Get ya facts straight:
This year you left 98 percent of runners on base,
It’s impossible to stay anywhere near that pace!
At a Chinese place you stuff your face
Like you stuff your ass with a bouillabaisse of
For testosterone? How come you still got tits?
Look Freak— ya rap style’s weak.
You a soft-tossin’ has-been hippie pipsqueak.
Ya ownership droppin’ like ya fastball speed:
Players layin’ off your junk better than you layin’ off the weed.
Do your team a Giant favor, go on the DL you douche,
Looking like an epileptic 12-year-old Nuke LaLoosh.
Disabled list? Never!
I’m the Franchise, motherfucker, you think you so clever?
You got bone chips, and greasy lips,
Jacked up shoulder and Aretha Franklin’s hips,
Rotator cuff—have I said enough?
Did the cat get your tongue or is that peanut butter n’ fluff?
Your fat jokes are whack, bet the kids say lawl,
Did you practice them all on Pablo Sandoval?
Inject some stem cells into your rhymes
You been traded or cut now, how many times?
You got the Indians, Expos,
White Sox and the Red Hose,
A’s, Yankees, on further inspection
You change ya clothes faster than Malayasian pilots change direction!
Imma throw another no-no and then I’m gonna get sauced!
(drops mic, grabs a beer from a nearby vendor)
Shove it up ya Bumgarner, you don’t impress me.
Respect ya elders, son, check ya tone when you address me.
I gots the last word since you already quit:
My name’s Colon
But you’re the one who’s full of shit.
(drops mic, grabs three cheesesteaks from a nearby vendor)
Oh snap! Who won? Hit us up on Twitter to let us know who’s the baddest on the mic and who’s just plain bad on the waiver wire!