Triumphant Arm Raising Lays In Wait

Do refer to the pleasing use of a 'whammy bar" in the first four bars!

Do refer to Joe Piscopo not referring to Eddie Murphy for the first time ever whilst on camera!

Do refer to Kevin Mitchell not murdering anyone!

Do refer to the splendid perm atop Gary Carter's genetically fine noggin!

Do refer to the 1986 Topps baseball card set handled in a most haphazard way!

Do refer to the rhyme scheme of "Let's" and "Mets" and of course "Go" and "Go!"

Do refer to the presence of  both God and a buccaneering Chang-Sing warrior from "Big Trouble In Little China" at 3:21!

Do refer to the passable batting stance and swing of the irrepressible Gene Shalit at 3:31!

Do refer to the entirety of "Let's Go Mets!" in all its splendor and glory!

In summation:


Carry on.



He stood shivering on the corner in a drenched trench coat staring at his brogues. 

She was garbed in heliotrope avoiding the puddles.

Making her way to him, she paused to think about last year's wine and cheese tasting. 

He remembered that he loved her. 

The rain began again.

She hurried to the corner all the while forgetting her wine; and cheese.

He looked up to see her approaching; he pretended not to see her.

She stopped at the corner.

"Your trench coat is soaked," she says. "And you're shivering."

"Yes, I know.  I've been in the rain."

"Perhaps you should get out of the rain."


"May I ask why?"

"Because you wouldn't be there."


Harbinger of Misery: Baseball is a Cruel, Cruel Bint

Expansion season, you ask?  Why no, my dear, that is most certainly not the case.
A mentally incapacitated manager, thereby rendering Mittens Tuberculosis -- his most favorite-ist cat-- writing the opening day lineup, you inquire?  Nope.  Sorry, squirt, you're rather mistaken.

Then how, you wail to the heavens above, could anyone trot out what could only be considered a stream of consciousness lineup for a professional game?

No idea.  But here's the poop-pudding in your lunchbox:

E Young30100000.94.060
J Peterson21100001.01.019
N Markakis20101001.17.061
F Freeman20100000.90.015
C Bethancourt20000001.25-.049
K Johnson20000001.14-.060
A Callaspo20000000.88-.043
A Simmons20000000.61-.030
J Teheran20000000.70-.035


*Lineup courtesy of FANGRAPHS



Of Whom the "Bhagavad-Gita" Was Referring, Probably

In the Hindu text "Bhagavad-Gita," Vishnu was imploring the Prince to toil if only for the fact that toiling was the Prince's duty. As such, the Prince scoffed and Vishnu was forced to manifest itself into its multi-armed form saying, "Now I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds."

While one should never think to disagree with religious text -- regardless of the mutual absence of empirical proof -- one could allow themselves to assume that Vishnu's form was not so much intimidating for his multiple appendages, but for his striking resemblance to...



Chris Johnson Stars In: A Happy House Has A Vacant Master


Chris Johnson grumbled and stood up from the couch. The old Teledyne giggled at him with its archaic HORIZ and VERT as he adjusted the antennae.  The screen door whistled a monotone tune from the constant breeze.  Autumn is good for song.

Chris Johnson sits back down and finishes his Salisbury Steak Hungry Man dinner.  His fork bangs against the aluminum trey forming a beat to the wind-skirl coming through the screen door that is hanging off its rusted hinges.  He sometimes wonders if he actually forgets to repair the door or that he forgets to care about repairing the door.  "What's the difference," he thinks.

The wife is in the kitchen.  She is playing solitaire with red-backed cards.  She had blue-backed cards, but the print on the front was too small for her.  The red-backed cards have bigger print.  Now she doesn't have to wear her glasses.  She thinks she's less attractive in them.  She has never bothered to ask anyone.

The dog gets up from the wife's feet and enters the living room where Chris Johnson has fallen into a dreamless state.  The dog looks up at him and tilts his head.  Slight whistling sounds are coming from his nose making a pleasing harmonic with the evermore gusty breeze outside.  The dog barks at the high frequency of the sound and Chris Johnson is startled awake.  His body flings itself into an apoplectic ballet while his foot kicks over the aluminum tray that contains the remnant of his Salisbury Steak onto the floor.   How long had he been asleep?  Had he even been asleep?  He'd prefer to remember being asleep as opposed to the idea of being asleep.

A dull thud comes from the kitchen.  Chris Johnson stands up from the old couch with its third (or was it the fourth?) slipcover.  The color was always brown; always brown.  He walks into the kitchen to find the wife standing over a rubber-headed mallet on the floor.  This is must have been the thud he heard.  Why was there a mallet on the floor? 

Chris Johnson looks at the wife.  The wife looks at him.

"Chris," she says putting on her glasses, "do you think I look less attractive in glasses?"

"No," he lies,

"Are you lying?" she asks.

"No," he lies.

"Okay," she says while turning around.

The mallet sits in the middle of the dirty dyer's-broom linoleum floor.  Chris Johnson hears the wife quietly crying.  She must have known he was lying.

"For Christ's Sake," he mutters as he picks up the mallet.