New Mantle 'Inventive Memoir' called 'porn' and 'vile'

Don't forget he was also a dancer. He went from rags to riches.



Schlameel, schlamozzle, hasenpeffer incorporated.

 

Contrary to popular belief, Roy Campenella did not become paralyzed in a car accident. That was a cover story straight from Walter O'Malley's PR people.

Campenella heard from Carl Furillo, who heard from his buddy Andy Pafko, who heard it from Warren Spahn when he played for the Braves that you can't please everyone, so you've got to please yourself. As in, fellating yourself. The future HOF pitcher even joked about it, riffing off his famous phrase from his Boston days.

"When Spahn Gives Head, Pray For Adjustable Bed."

Campenella, always willing to experiment, was fascinated, but he failed to take Spahn's height into account when he tried the deed.

The much smaller Campenella couldn't reach his erogenous ground zero in several attempts, but his well-known will and scrappiness that made him an All-Star catcher in the 50s, pushed him beyond his physical limit. Just as he came enticing close to living the dream/living the horror -- his mouth gaped open like a child doing a goldfish impression -- his neck snapped.

With the Dodgers headed to L.A., there was no way O'Malley was going to let the real truth out. So he trumped up the car accident.

(Dammit! I'm no good at novels! That reads like a press release. And I'm going straight to hell!)

 

The Mick noticed that Marylin's breasts felt like giant bags of sand.

 

Update: Bitch fired. What does this do for the Mantle book?

http://www.sportsjournalists.com/forum/threads/35248/

 

Might be worth mentioning that Jane Leavy (who wrote the Koufax book) is coming out with a Mantle book FOR THE SAME PUBLISHER, different division, same time as the Golenbock thing.

At some point, you have to believe that the rest of the HarperCollins folks were sick to death of dealing with Regan's junk.

 

... and also Regan herself, methinks.

 

no, YOU get over it. using henry's name is just flat-out wrong. pay homage to someone not in the biz, you swine!

 

Billy Martin fumbled with the hotel room keys. His brunette for the evening (what was her name anyway? Mandy? Candy? Whatever...) pouted, and asked, "Are you sure this is the right room?"

"Sure I'm sure," snarled Billy, and lowered his shoulder into the balky door. The lock gave way, and the two of them bounded into the room to discover Mickey Mantle, The Mick, ol' No. 7 himself, on his knees, slamming his Louisville Slugger into a heaving, panting, brownhaired ....

German shepherd.

"What the hell?" stammered Billy.

Mickey looked up with a bashful grin. "Waaal, you and Whitey were goin' on so the other night at the Copy about how great 'doggie style' was that Ah figgered I'd try it mahself."

"Oooooooh," cooed the brunette. "I LOVE animals."

 

But would Spaceman hit it?

Tune in again next week for another chapter in the continuing saga of....."Yankee My Wankee!"

 

Did I see the phrase "Reality Fiction" in this? Talk about oxymorons. That's more contradictory than "Christian Right" or "Country Music."

 

Fucking awesome. I'd buy this book yesterday.