An Entry in the Diary of: Carl Pohlad

Before we get started with a proper humor post tonight, I'm giving the same disclaimer as before. This 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). This post was another joint effort with Kev.

Dear Diary,

At 11:46 of the third quarter, the Patriots successfully challenged for a 12 men on the field penalty.

Sorry about that, Diary, but Joe Buck told me to “write that in my diary”, so I did. He just speaks with such an irresistible combination of moral superiority and smugness…it’s like he has a direct line to my soul. Anyway, on to the real reason I’m writing…

I hope those greedy bastards are happy. Eleven years ago I almost got rid of this damn franchise at a handsome profit; had another shot 6 years ago, at an even handsomer profit. And now I have to sink another $125 million into it! I tell ya, Diary, the sunk costs make my banker’s soul yearn for a little nip! I could be down in Fiji right now, sipping on a mimosa made with fresh orange juice, toes in the white sand, watching the natives alternate between falling all over themselves for my money and recoiling in horror as I poke them with a stick…haha, happy days. Ah, I do so appreciate a good mimosa. Took me some time to find a speakeasy that would let me in at ten back in the prohibition days, but Carl Pohlad will not be denied. Also, it helped that the laws only applied to poor people; and Smilin’ Carl is not poor, Diary! But no! It’s February, my mimosa has concentrated orange juice in it, and I have to pretend to be excited about sinking $125M into a project that will only benefit the damned unwashed masses.

Sadly, this extortion of $125M is but a symptom of the root cause, Diary. Thirty years ago I could do whatever I goddamn well pleased. Those legislative weasels would look the other way or just nod knowingly and respectfully. Used to be a man could make an example of a whiny subordinate without Johnny Law riding his ass! I still remember the Chinese water torture I gave the loan officer who refused to foreclose on that cute family farm out in Willmar in 1973…it was glorious, Diary. What the hell happened since then? Now all Peters says is, “liability this and civil suit that”. The whiny bastard had the nerve to tell me the other day that I should give the employees health insurance! The worst is Peters keeps asking why I have my miniature coliseum, something about “massive tort liability”…in the glory days, he would’ve found out the hard way why I keep it around!

Society calls it a problem, my coliseum. That and the other treasures I’ve added down below my Dome over the years. This pansy society wouldn’t like finding the scavenger’s daughter or the brodequins setup, even though I only used them once each; both times for reasons other than personal pleasure. But a man’s home is his castle, damn it! And in my castle, I’ll partake in whatever I want! But never mind how Peters keeps that mongol Burilgi happy; that freak of nature likes handing out the punishment more than I like watching it. He once turned on Peters and tried to rip his arm off; Peters managed to dive under the portcullis as it fell and blocked the only entrance, locking Burilgi in. I do not want to directly interact with that bastard but he’s the best damn entertainer I know, Diary!

The hidden door to the viewing gallery is only accessible through my office, so no pansy “human rights activists” have managed to find my treasures yet. If I sold this damn team while they were still in this stadium, it would only be a matter of time. First I thought I was in the clear thanks to that Don Beaver guy. He wanted the team, but was going to move it away from Minneapolis. Music to my ears. Sometimes I still think fondly of the going away party I had planned with Burilgi… Then those goddamn whiny bastards in North Carolina voted not to build a new stadium. Beaver backed down. I was still stuck here in the fucking arctic.

Then Selig came along to bail me out. We made a plan to contract the team. The party with Burilgi was back on! It would’ve worked, too, if the team didn’t take off and win the goddamn division the next three years in a row. I’m going to make Gardenhire’s life hell for this; Burilgi’s getting old…he doesn’t have much time left... Now, over ten years later and I’m still in this freezing hell instead of sitting on a beach with a fresh mimosa, a solid stick, and memories of the best damn party of all time. And the orange juice is not fresh! The only way to get my dream is to buy my way out. I have to spend $125 million of my own goddamn money on this new stadium. But at least by 2011, I’ll have my dream. I think Burilgi can make it until then…the party is scheduled for November 1, 2010 and none of those unwashed bastards that call themselves Twins fans are invited!