Little Happy Clouds

It was the prize of any young fellow's baseball card collection circa 1990. It was a rare, almost mythical specimen that combined two things that adolescent boys simply love: money and vulgarity. It was valuable and it was forbidden. It was quite simply, the perfect baseball card.

Though it may be difficult to understand in today's over-saturated and ultra-connected media landscape, where the images available instantly from a ten year old kid's click of the mouse could make even steely old timers blush, but there was a time not so long ago when the mere glance at a bad word could send otherwise decent and upstanding young men into fits of laughter. To get that on a baseball card, something so innocent and pristine, was almost unfathomable. Those truly were the days.

Billy Ripken wasn't much of a ballplayer. Though that may be unfair, simply because he played in the shadow of his hall of fame big brother Cal, a mythical figure in his own right. Poor Billy, good enough to be better than 98% of baseball players in the world, but never even close to the asshole in the bedroom next door. Well the jokes on you Cal, because for all the games played consecutively, and the fantastic numbers you posted in your illustrious career, there is and forever will be, only one Fuck Face.

Billy Ripken, Fuck Face for life.