Carl Pohlad and Johan Santana: The Final Conversation.

Before reading the rest of this post, there are a few things the reader should know. First and foremost, any "conversation" post is intended to be solely for humor. It is unrealistic, not intended to be an accurate representation of the personalities involved, nor to defame any individual involved. The personalities attached to the names are extreme caricatures chosen primarily because, well, they're funny. Views given by said caricatures also do not necessarily have any relation to the views of the author(s). Secondly, these posts are inspired by the hilarious conversation pieces done by Orson Swindle at Every Day Should Be Saturday. Third, this entire conversation was a joint effort with Kev. He gets at least as much credit as I do for this final product. And now.. CURTAIN!

A disheveled, old man sits hunched over his large, oak desk, wearing a wrinkled and gray suit. It’s Minnesota Twins owner Carl Pohlad. He jumps at the sound of the buzzer on his desk:

Dave St. Peter (over the intercom): “Sir, Johan Santana is here to see you.”

Carl Pohlad: “Eh? What? Peters, what are you doing on the intercom? What happened to Cindy?”

St. Peter: “It’s St. Peter, sir, and you fired her. You said that I could handle both workloads and that it would be more cost-effective.”

Pohlad: “Well stop dallying then and do your job, Peters! Send him in!” (Pohlad plasters a toothy, twisted smile on his face. His teeth, ravaged by years of coffee drinking, now have the coloring of a corpse in the early stages of rigermortis)

St. Peter: “St. Peter, sir. Right away.”

Johan, clad in a white, three piece suit, sidles into the room. He removes his sunglasses, brushes his goatee, smugly smiles to himself, and sits down.

Santana: “You asked to see me, Mr. Pohlad?”

Pohlad: “Yes, yes. What is this nonsense I’ve heard about you demanding a trade, Joe-han?”

Santana: (Seeing Pohlad’s smile clearly for the first time, Johan gives a start and quickly looks away in horror) “Well sir, its Johan, and I –”

Pohlad: “That’s what I said, Joe-han. Let me put it bluntly, son. People around here seem to like you; popularity sells tickets, and a ticket being sold means we’re making money. I know I’m not speaking a language you players understand, but I’m willing to do whatever it will take to keep you around here.”

Santana: (Looking away) “I already made my contract –”

Pohlad: “Damnit son, don’t interrupt me! I know how hard it is to have the life of a baseball player, so I’m willing to make you an offer you can’t refuse.”

Santana: (Looking down) “That’s very gracious of you.” (thinking to himself: “I can probably wrangle a few more dollars out of Omar by using this old coot”). “I thought Billy Smith was holding out on me.”

Pohlad: (to himself: “Who the hell is Billy Smith?”) “Damn straight it is, just don’t let any of the rest of the personnel know about it. I don’t want those bastards coming up and clamoring for special treatment. This isn’t some kind of goddamn charity! And for the love of God, don’t say anything about unions!”

The intercom buzzes quickly.

St. Peter (over the intercom): “Sir, I need to know if –”

Pohlad: “QUIET, PETERS! NOT NOW! As I was saying, Joe-han, special treatment. We’re going to call the local ice company and have them proceed to your house first from now on. No more melting ice for you, Joe-han; your milk will stay fresh for days longer. (Meeting Johan’s gaze, eyes bugging out) How’s that sound Joe-han? Hmmmm? Hmmmm?

Santana: (His face now a mixture of discomfort and terror) “Sir? There’s no such thing as an ice company anymore.”

Pohlad: “What?” (Pohlad slams his fist down on the intercom. Johan jumps back in his chair.) “PETERS! What the hell is this about no more ice companies?”

St. Peter: “Sir, those went out of business after –”

Pohlad: “GODDAMNIT PETERS!” (Pohlad removes his fist from the intercom and plasters the twisted smile back on) “Even without the ice companies, Joe-han, we can treat you right here at the Minnesota Twins. Now I know that it gets hot here in Minnesota in the summer, even for you Dominicans –”

Santana: (still unable to meet Pohlad’s gaze) “I’m Venezuelan, sir.”

Pohlad : “Huh? Whatever, I don’t care. As I was saying, Recently there have been some brilliant new inventions in terms of domicile cooling units. What I’m offering you is essentially a magic box that you put in your window. You simply turn it on and it will mysteriously decrease the temperature of your residence to a comfortable level.”

Santana: (with great effort, Santana grits his teeth and meets Pohlad’s gaze) “Do you mean an air conditioner? A wall mounted air-conditioner? I’m sorry sir, but I have central air, sir”

Pohlad: “What?!” (muttering under his breath) “Central air?!? The hell is that? Damn Peters not keeping me informed. Damn kids and their technology! (looking up, re-plastering twisted smile on his face) Alright, look Joe-han. I normally don’t do this, but you’ve put me in quite the situation. Stay in Minnesota, and I’ll finagle you a legitimate residence in our country. I believe you people call them green cards. Lou Dobbs tells me none of you Cubans have them. I can give you one.”

Santana: (teeth still clenched, sweat starting to form on his brow) “Excuse me?”

Pohlad: “Look, I’ve done this type of thing before. It’s a shame that Rincon kid got busted for drug trafficking or whatever and tanked after I went through all that trouble. Just give me all the specifics on your date of birth, birthplace, and so forth so it’s easier for you to remember if you’re ever questioned on it.” (Pohlad leans across the desk, his twisted grin is now mere inches from Johan’s face)

Santana (Johan’s face drops, his eyes closed tight. He jumps from the chair, his eyes still shut tightly. He starts from the room, bumps into the door, locates it and turns around, eyes still clenched shut and voice cracking): “You’ll hear from my lawyers, sir.”

Pohlad: (the twisted grin falls from his face, replaced by a look of blind rage) “Nobody walks out on me!” (slams his hand onto the intercom again) “PETERS! Go find a hobo! Put him in that miniature coliseum we keep down underneath the visitor’s locker room! I’m going to throw coins at him and watch the bastard scramble! And make sure you call the accountant! I’m going to write it off as a charitable contribution!”

St. Peter (sighing): It’s St. Peter, sir. I’ll get on it right away.