Tonight was the playoffs in the Random Publishers League. I thought we were playing Time but actually it was the NY Times. Which is a lot more fun, because everytime one of them gets up to bat you can yell shit like "must be hard to field a team with all your employees in jail" and "you swing like an anonymous source!" (nonsensical but oh so apropos) and "don't you people have a front page to fake?" and so forth. Unfortunately they still handed us our asses. We smelled a rat, though. They had ringers. We've played them a few times before and none of us recognized half those guys. I think they had Roger Maris. There was one wizened weatherbeaten old man who Dh'd and they'd obviously brought him in just because he had some sort of superduper stringy old-man muscles. He just clocked the ball and stood there and watched it sail into the crowds of people having sex in the middle of the great lawn. He didn't even bother to run. Once it became apparent that the ball was on its way to Newark he sort of jogged around the bases, clutching his pacemaker. A team of EMTs with a defibrillator followed him. He definitely never played before. I call shenanigans.
Sadly we played like shit. It really was pathetic. I would be embarrassed, but I'm a Yankee fan. And considering the way they've been playing lately, I feel justified in believing that it doesn't actually matter how shittily you play as long as people keep believing you're going to win and I am talking to YOU, Mike Fucking Messina. Jesus, Moose! Hah. Jesus Moose. But seriously, Jesus, Moose! Put some shoe polish behind your ear if that's what you need. Or try breathing through the other goddamn eyelid.
Oh well. I could analyze what went wrong, but...don't think. It'll only hurt the ball club.
This is incoherent and not at all clever. But I have had many beers and several shots and I'm tired in that "holy shit, I got exercise" kind of good way. I'll rewrite this tomorrow.