A baseball owner visits an executive, and says, “We’re a small-market baseball team, and we’d like you to be our new GM.”

The executive says, “Sorry, I don’t do small markets. I’d just be swimming upstream.”

The owner says, “But our ballpark is really a gem.”

The executive says, “Okay, then, sing to me: how’s your team?”

The owner says:

Oh budded bellbottoms,
Thy pitchertations are to me
As gobbled gubiczotchlets
On a lowery buck
That runelvysly goeth hocking hocking hocking
Hocking out its long brown hubers
Into a rancid howell chip!
Now thou must suck the stemlid guiel
Slurping sweenely up the greinkeloogies
And dip living gotays
Down thy snotted sisco stairs
While certain lima leoslime
Beneath the bayless brett berroan
Gloop doth dare make ewing not teahendrones.
Go camp and carrascolate under my snyde,
Amborixing my dougals
With slimy slimy blancowoodles,
Or else I shall slide thy gobblewarts over my burgoscruncheon
See if I don’t.

The owner looks at the executive and says, “That’s what we’ve got. Aren’t you enthralled?”

The executive sits silently, then finally says, “That’s quite a team. What are you called?”

The owner says, “The Royals!”