"Oh yeah! Oh, Derek Jeter! Your wiener rules!"

"YEAH JEETS! YEAH JEETS!"

"Wow, Derek. I love the way your penis feels."

The above conversation took place while Greatest Baseball Player Ever and Savior of America and the World Derek Jeter was nailing the hottest chick you've ever seen. I mean, he was really whomping her, just so much humping. After they boned, they boned like two more times, and then Jeter looked her in the face and said: "Time for you taste a World Series ring, baby."

"What?"

"Get a helmet on, because you're in the hole! Look out - your next pitch is in the dirt. But don't worry! I batted cleanup."

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Somehow she knew that he was asking her to eat his ass. She hesitated - her friend (who is also really hot by the way) hooked up with Jeter before, and she did it, and she said it burned her tongue! Like there was so much magical white-hot energy just beyond the precipice of the butt hole.

But who can say no to rimming out Derek Jeter? She got to work... and nothing happened! Her tongue was fine.

Hmm. I don't know whose asshole I'm touching with my tonguepart right now. But for some reason, I don't think it's the real Derek Jeter!

—-

The next morning, "Derek Jeter" woke up and took a shower, just like the real Jeter would. He took extra care to wash the pussy stank off his dongus and face and chest and lower back, just like the real Derek Jeter would. He headed to Yankee Stadium for a day game, just like the real Derek Jeter would. He warmed up, ate sunflower seeds and horsed around with his teammates, just like the real Derek Jeter would.

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During the game, he went 0-4 with three strikeouts and a weak groundout to first. Just UNlike the real Derek Jeter would.

"What's going on with Jeter?" said Bernie Williams, who is still on the Yankees.

"I don't know," said Jorge Posada. "It seems like he hasn't been... himself lately. All year, in fact."

"At least he doesn't smell like a fuckin' fart all the time anymore," said Paul O'Neill.

After the game, "Derek Jeter" headed back to his righteous penthouse apartment. He shoved his bed - double-king-sized, for fucking purposes - to the side, revealing a small cubby in the wall. He took the transponder out of the cubby and spoke into it.

"How much longer?" he asked. "There's only three games left. You said I'd be done before the end of the season."

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Silence. And then, a garbled voice, emitting from the transponder: "Patience, Fartfucker. You were chosen for this mission... because of... your patience. We are almost done with Jeter, and then we will dispose of him, and then you will come home to a hero's welcome. Patience, Fartfucker... Patience..."

Fartfucker angrily switched off the transponder. Earth sucks. Hardly anybody smells like a fart. I don't even smell like a fart, thanks to this stupid human suit. I miss Buttworld. I miss my people.

Fartfucker stepped out onto the balcony. Fartfucker gazed up at the heavens, and Fartfucker looked at the spot where Fartfucker knew Fartfucker's home star to be, around which orbited Fartfucker's beloved Buttworld.

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King Methane has gone crazy, thought Fartfucker, not for the first time. But I, whose name really is Fartfucker, will be home soon. And I'll set things right.