The semen-crusted column he delivered on Pat Burrell today was a potently clear reminder why reading sites like The 700 Level take a distinct and obvious precedent over newspaper columnists that choose to spend their time penning embarrassing, verbal rim-job tributes to the coolest kid in school.
Blessed with heavenly looks, Burrell proved mortal most of his 11-year career. A foot injury has ended his run. Incredibly, Burrell is only 35.
And supposedly still single, which will likely liven up the afternoons of countless middle-aged sportswriters who find themselves socially flaccid and thus, living vicariously through those that often spend their Friday evenings playing spirited bongo solos on Philly’s finest fake cans.
Standing 6-4, movie-star gorgeous and often without scruple, “Pat the Bat” thrived.
Heavenly looks. Movie-star gorgeous. Got it. Let’s just make sure Marcus Hayes is firmly fastened to Hannibal Lector’s harness the next time he interviews Pat the Bat.
The corner locker belonged to Burrell. He radiated charisma, with his Ray Liotta eyes and his Rat Pack exploits.
But of course. How could we forget? When I think of Pat Burrell, I think of Ray Liotta’s eyes, which is naturally followed by a very loud “Karrrrrrrrrren,” and eventually a string of impure thoughts centered around Paul Sorvino cooking sausages in prison.
Marcus Hayes, ladies and gentleman, Mr. Marcus Hayes.
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