For several years in my feckless post-collegiate youth, I had the same plans every Fourth of July. Two friends of mine shared an East Village apartment with roof access. So every Independence Day, we'd go up there, grill up some grub, drink some beers, and watch the fireworks. The festivities were occasionally enhanced by a live band, or a roving hitman with a squirt gun full of vodka. It was like something out of a Smirnoff Ice commercial, but with more body fat and fewer douchebags.

The fireworks were the highlight of the evening. Partly this was because the roof gave us an awesome vantage point to view them. But mostly, it was because of a weird, dorky tradition amongst my friends. I have no idea how this started, but before long it became just as much a part of the holiday as blowing off your pinky with an M-80.

Basically the game was, as each rocket's red glare burst in the air, at the exact moment when a normal person would say 'oooh', you had to yell out an obscure American history reference. Preferably, one with negative connotations. And you had to scream it out in the same kind of voice heard in that timeless patriotic anthem "America! Fuck Yeah!"

Obscure scandals of yesteryear were the most popular choices. Nothing can make a whole bunch of dorks laugh harder than suddenly screaming out TEAPOT DOME SCANDAL! or XYZ AFFAIR!

Presidents were okay, but not the really big ones, obviously. Thomas Jefferson? No. But Franklin Pierce? Solid!

And since the Fourth of July is about America, anything American was fair game. Whether it be YELLOW NUMBER 5! or RIP TAYLOR! or CASSINGLES! These were initially frowned upon, but permitted once we'd burned through more strictly-history-oriented references like GEORGE WALLACE! and THE BULL MOOSE PARTY!

So what would you yell out during the fireworks this Fourth of July? Let's hear some suggestions, fellow patriots.

During the Mets' mostly disastrous series in Milwaukee, the team stayed at a haunted hotel. So they had to be relieved to move on to Pittsburgh for today's make-up game against the Pirates, and stay in poltergeist-free lodgings.

Except that last night, SNY's Kevin Burkhardt tweeted about something strange goings-on at their hotel. Ghosts? No, but something almost as terrifying:

Our hotel in Pitt is overrun by people dressed up as animals. Anthrocon? And they act as animals. I have seen it all and I am freaked out

Yes, the Mets are staying at the same hotel that's hosting a FURRY CONVENTION. I'm gonna assume that you know what furries are, because it's way too early in the morning for me to google "furry" and provide you with a proper definition. I haven't even had breakfast yet.

This is not the first time a visiting baseball team has had to share a hotel with...these guys. The Brewers had this happen to them back in 2007 during a series in Pittsburgh--as evidenced by the picture to your right--which inspired this hilarious Dugout. (Is Pittsburgh particularly tolerant of the fake-animal-loving community?)

Oh, but Mr. Burkhardt's tweets got even more intriguing/horrifying as the night wore on:

I just took a picture with a person who was dressed like Ralph Wigam as a Beaver.

Of course, I had to see this. And I'm sure many of you may be curious, too. Keep in mind, if you click on this link, that there are some things you can't un-see.

Poor Kevin later reported that he was too disturbed to sleep. I assume the players were no less disturbed. So if you watch the game this afternoon and you see a baseball team of dead-eyed, shell-shocked zombies...actually scratch that. The Mets look like that most days anyway, even without the influence of furries.

June 7, 1999: Mets 8, Blue Jays 2

The Mets had just snapped an eight-game losing steak and left the limelight of the Subway Series behind. But the media (and the front office) weren't ready to let the team off the hook just yet. Fred Wilpon (still a co-owner of the team, along with Nelson Doubleday) gave Bobby Valentine a tepid vote of confidence, but wouldn't guarantee the manager would finish the season with the team.

To many writers, Valentine's exit was not a question of if, but when. His recently departed coaches attested to his managerial skills, but their praise could do little to ensure his future. Meanwhile, Bob Raismann raked ESPN's Jon Miller and Joe Morgan over the coals for their failure to ask Steve Phillips tough questions during their Sunday night telecast.

Amid this maelstrom, the Mets had another interleague matchup, welcoming the Blue Jays to Shea. Toronto was a team mostly bereft of stars, save for their slugging first baseman Carlos Delgado. They also had a promising young pitcher, Roy Halladay, who started the first game of the series. But Doc was not yet the ace he would become, and the Mets touched him up for six runs and three homers (one by Mike Piazza, two more by Benny Agbayani) in five innings of work.

Almost as encouraging as two consecutive offensive explosions were two quality starts in a row. Orel Hershiser was certainly not overpowering, but the six innings and two earned runs on his record were more than appreciated by the Mets and their taxed bullpen.

After the game, the crafty pitcher told reporters that when his shoulders sagged on the mound, that didn't mean he was tiring.

I looked like that on purpose. I'm kind of carrying myself out there like I'm tired, but I'm not really tired at all. I'm doing that to conserve energy before the pitch, because if I go out there and get all into it the way I feel emotionally, then I feel like I'm expending energy. So on hot days, it looks like I'm tired, but I'm not.

June 8, 1999: Mets 11, Blue Jays 3

Jason Isringhausen pitched 5 2/3 solid innings, allowing only two runs on two hits. Mindful of his injury history, Valentine removed the righty once he'd hit the 100 pitch mark. Bolstered by a homer by Edgardo Alfonzo early and another by Roger Cedeno late, it was good enough for his first major league win in almost two years.

Izzy pitched knowing that Bobby Jones had just been cleared to throw again, thus jeopardizing his spot in the rotation. That, and his history of misfortune, weighed heavily on his mind. "I get teased that every time I go out there, there's a black cloud over the stadium," he told reporters. "At times, if I didn't have bad luck, I wouldn't have any luck at all."

June 9, 1999: Mets 4, Blue Jays 3 (14)

Even in a season rife with crazy games, this contest stands out, and provided a signature Bobby Valentine moment. The fact that Venezuelan president Hugo Chavez threw out the first pitch is probably the least crazy detail.

The Mets were down two men before the game even began. Agbayani had been hit near the eye during batting practice and had to sit down. And Bobby Bonilla would sit for the next six days for undisclosed reasons (the team denied insubordination was the cause).

David Wells made his first start in New York after being traded to Toronto for Roger Clemens. As Faith and Fear in Flushing noted, there were a considerable number of Yankee fans at Shea to cheer on Boomer. They had plenty to cheer about for the first eight innings, as Wells kept the Mets off the scoreboard. The Blue Jays got to Rick Reed for two solo homers and an RBI double, which looked like all the offense Wells would need.

But much like Curt Schilling did in May, Wells made the mistake of trying to throw a complete game. After Jon Olerud reached on a fielder's choice, Piazza hit a single to bring Robin Ventura to the plate as the tying run. Wells still managed to get Ventura down to his last strike, but after fouling off five pitches, the third baseman ripped a double to score two runs.

Wells was removed for closer Billy Koch, but Brian McRae hit a double of his own to score pinch-runner Luis Lopez and tie the game. And then the fun really began.

As the game dragged on into extra frames, Valentine was forced to be creative, and in some cases reckless. He used Todd Pratt as a pinch hitter in the eighth inning, thus burning his only backup catcher. Even Jason Isringhausen was prepared to enter the game as a pinch runner.

Perhaps that's why he got punchy in the top of the twelfth, when home plate ump Randy Marsh awarded Craig Grebeck first on catcher's interference. Valentine argued the call vociferously and was ejected.

Reliever Pat Mahomes escaped that jam, and Valentine thought he'd found a way to escape his own predicament. He reentered the dugout wearing sunglasses, a Mets t-shirt, a black cap with an inscrutable logo, and an extremely fake painted mustache. This might have made his team laugh, but it didn't amuse Marsh, who ejected Valentine for a second time. (The skipper's costume hijinks would eventually lead to a suspension.)

In his absence, Mahomes pitched two more scoreless innings, and the Mets finally got their chance in the bottom of the fourteenth. Walks to Lopez and McRae started the inning, and after Cedeno bunted them over to second and third, the anemic bat of Rey Ordonez somehow managed to poke a single over the drawn-in infield to score the winning run.

Four hours and thirty-five minutes after first pitch, the Mets had an improbable victory, a three-game sweep of Toronto, and a four-game winning streak. The problems of the previous week weren't quite in the rear-view mirror yet, but this was a good start

Living in NYC, I'm never at a loss to find something to complain about, as far as local government is concerned. Oh man, the government. Don't get me started about the government! I believe Mayor Bloomberg got most of his philosophies by watching Brazil and studying how to make citizens pay for their own punishment.

But occasionally, the city gubment can do good things. Like this past week, when they awarded a $1.65 million grant to punk landmark/Lower East Side community center ABC No Rio for construction of a new building.

After technically squatting at 156 Rivington Street for much of its existence, ABC was sold the site for one dollar on the condition they make necessary repairs. Problem was, the building was in need of more than a few repairs, and costs ballooned exponentially the longer it took them to raise the necessary funds. Then, a city architect told them the whole building would have to come down (which, if you've ever been inside it, should come as no surprise).

That seemed to be that, but thanks to grants from the Manhattan borough president's office and the work of city councilman Allen J. Gerson, ABC will be able to build the new facility they need. I didn't know you could even bribe the necessary city officials for less than $2 million, but apparently the grant will cover the cost of a smaller one-story facility with a basement (as opposed to the four-story tenement that's housed ABC since 1980).

Having seen many, many shows there (and played in a few), I'm very happy that ABC can continue to exist in a city that seems bent on destroying everything organic and interesting. So kudos to everyone involved for finding a way to keep something vibrant and important alive in Manhattan. I don't know what horrible, unspeakable deeds you committed to make this happen. I'm just glad that you did them

Since I spent several hours yesterday writing totally insensitive tweets about Michael Jackson's death (like this one), I thought it would be a good idea if I spent five minutes not speaking ill of the dead.

I "liked" Michael Jackson when I was a little kid. I put "liked" in quotation marks because in the early 80s, saying you liked Michael Jackson was equivalent to saying you liked food and water. It wasn't an expression of taste so much as an admission of being alive.

One Christmas, I received my first non-kiddie albums ever: Thriller, Off the Wall, and a Jackson 5 greatest hits collection. This last one contained several infuriating "medley" tracks that compressed four or five classic tunes into one ungodly super-mix, thus introducing me to the effed-up world of endless album repackaging. This might have also been the Christmas when I got both Atari and the Castle Grayskull playset, thus making it The Greatest Christmas Ever.

It's hard to comprehend now just how big Michael Jackson was back then. And there probably will never be anyone that huge again, because the media has grown so enormous and ghettoized. Michael Jackson conquered pretty much Everything in the 80s, but nowadays there's a lot more Everything to conquer, and all of it is so compartmentalized. During the height of his fame, there was one music-related channel. Now there's dozens, and the one that made him famous spread itself so thin with reality nonsense and game shows that it doesn't even feature music anymore.

When I heard Michael Jackson died, I felt a vague sadness, if for no other reason than it made me feel horribly old. But I also felt something else that I couldn't really articulate, until The Wife said it for me: "I'm kinda glad he's dead."

She didn't mean it like "good riddance!" She meant that this was possibly the best thing that could have happened to him. Because let's face it: Was anything good going to ever happen to Michael Jackson ever again?

He'd become a walking punchline long ago, so much so that Neverland Ranch Sleepover jokes became the touchstone of cheap hack comics (as Tom Scharpling and Drew Magary tweeted separately, Jay Leno just lost a huge amount of material for his new show). Once joking about you has become cliche, you really only have one choice: Go along with the gag. Poke fun at yourself. You might as well, because no one will ever take you seriously ever again. This is called The William Shatner Principle (or the Gary Coleman Corollary, if you prefer).

The problem with Michael Jackson is, he wasn't a joke because he was a bad actor or because he pissed away all his money. He was a joke because he was a suspected pedophile. What could he do? Guest-host Saturday Night Live and play Father O'Hallihan, the Boy-Touching Priest? Appear in a fake viral video for NAMBLA? Get a sitcom role as the elementary school principal with the wandering eye? That would've been horrifying.

Everyone loves a comeback story. America is the birthplace of the comeback story. We love to tear down heroes just so they can rise again and make us feel warm and fuzzy. But you don't come back from something that awful. You just don't. Even if Michael Jackson was somehow "cured". Even if it was proven beyond a shadow of a doubt that he never molested any child ever, how could that stain ever go away? How could you ever feel good about him ever again?

As horrible as Michael Jackson's alleged crimes might be, the man never stood a chance. The poor guy was doomed the minute his crazy father forced his brood into show business. He had to sing insanely passionate love songs at age eight. Even the kids on Toddlers and Tiaras aren't destined to be warped the way he was.

Listen to this Jackson 5 cover of Stevie Wonder's "I Don't Know Why I Love You". It's great and creeptacular all at the same time. The kid singing this song is throwing his whole heart and soul into it--but what kind of heart and soul do you have when you're ten years old? How did he have any idea of the heartbreak and longing contained in this song when he sang it?

Of course someone who grew up like this would regress into a twisted, Peter Pan-esque perpetual childhood full of llamas and caroussels and Elephant Man bones. As nuts as he was, we're probably all lucky he didn't grab a sniper rifle, climb a bell tower, and start picking people off (while moonwalking).

The way it ended for Michael Jackson is the only good way it could have ended. He dies young. We remember that he had some great songs. We forget the bad stuff for a while. Hopefully, he's at peace now, free of whatever demons plagued him in life.

Plus, a million lousy standups have to retire their lazy, unfunny, outdated material. All in all, a win-win proposition for the human race.

Oh, and Off the Wall was the best Michael Jackson album. I will not debate this.

June 4, 1999: Yankees 4, Mets 3

After a horrific homestand, the Mets couldn't have been looking forward to the media hoopla of the Subway Series (although Mike Piazza told reporters he was excited about his first game at Yankee Stadium). The Yankees were, of course, at the pinnacle of their latest dynasty, the defending world champions, a team that seemed to do everything single thing right at just the right time. Whereas the Mets found themselves mired in a stretch where did nothing right, and all the breaks went against them.

And this would only be the first round. 1999 marked the first year of two separate series between the Mets and Yankees; the two teams played single three-game sets in the Bronx in 1997 and at Shea in 1998.

The Mets started out well enough in game one. A solo homer by Brian McRae (who just found out he'd been placed on waivers earlier in the week) and a sac fly by Edgardo Alfonzo put them up 2-1 in the third inning. But a two-run homer by (of course) Derek Jeter put the Yanks up 3-2 in the fifth.

The Mets tied it up in the sixth on a two-out walk to Robin Ventura, a single by McRae, and a double by Rey Ordonez. They could have taken the lead, were it not for a fan reaching over the right-field stands and interfering with Ordonez's hit. That kept McRae anchored at third, and reliever Jason Grimsley made sure he stayed there by inducing a groundout from Rickey Henderson to end the inning.

Predictably, a single by Tony Tarasco and a double by Scott Brosius in the seventh gave the Yanks the lead yet again. After a two-out single by McRae in the top of the eighth, Joe Torre called on Mariano Rivera for a four-out save. That inspired Bobby Valentine to try some very Valentine-esque manuevering, first batting for Ordonez with Benny Agbayani, then replacing Agbayani with the lefty Matt Franco once Rivera was announced into the game.

But it was all for naught as Rivera got Franco to groundout, then worked around a hit batter in the ninth (Rickey Henderson, who took a scary shot off the wrist) to preserve the victory.

There was no questioning of Valentine's moves this time, as there had been the year before during the infamous Mel Rojas debacle. But the skipper told reporters, "I'd have rather won the game and been second-guessed all over again."

June 5, 1999: Yankees 6, Mets 3

The Mets took an early lead in game two of the Subway Series, scoring two runs in the second and one in the third off of Cuban exile/future Met Orlando Hernandez. But Masato Yoshii couldn't hold the Yanks at bay. It took the Bombers only five batters to tie the game in the bottom of the third. They then took the lead on a solo homer by Tino Martinez in the fourth, and never looked back.

The Mets threatened in the seventh, when a leadoff walk to Henderson and a single by Alfonzo put runners on the corners with nobody out. But Mike Stanton came on to strike out Jon Olerud, then Ramiro Mendoza came in to strike out Piazza and Bobby Bonilla. Mendoza stayed on to pitch a scoreless eighth, and seemingly as always, Rivera did the same in the ninth.

It was the Mets' eighth loss in a row, putting them below .500 for the first time since Opening Day. And as is historically typical of the Mets' front office, they managed to pour gasoline on a roaring fire.

Bobby Valentine had told the press more than once that he should be fired if the Mets didn't make the playoffs in 1999. But rather than axe Valentine, GM Steve Phillips fired a warning shot across his bough. At a post-game meeting at Shea, Phillips dismissed pitching coach Bob Apodaca, hitting coach Tom Robson, and assistant pitching coach Randy Niemann.

Apodaca's firing was particularly unsettling, as the former pitcher had been with the Mets organization since 1971. Phillips denied he was trying to undermine Valentine, but since all three canned coaches were close to the manager, his intent seemed obvious. Especially since he restocked each positions with candidates of his choosing (Dave Wallace as pitching coach, Al Jackson as assistant pitching coach, and Mickey Brantley as hitting coach).

Apodaca was defiant following his dismissal: "Am I responsible for their lack of success? If they want somebody to to be responsible for it, I'll be responsible. I'll be responsible that [Al Leiter] hurt his knee. I'll be responsible for Bobby [Jones] hurting his shoulder. I'll be responsible for Rick Reed pulling his calf muscle."

Valentine could scarcely believe the chain of events that led to him to this point. The normally effusive manager could only mutter to Daily News writer Bill Madden, "It is what it is".

June 6, 1999: Mets 7, Yankees 2

The Mets had lost both eight games in a row and half its coaching staff to front office whim. The tension in the air was palpable before the Subway Series finale, made even more so by a bizarre pregame press conference in which Steve Phillips sat side by side with Bobby Valentine. Phillips defended the firing of the Valentine's favorite coaches, while Valentine bit his knuckles in silent protest.

Amid this insane atmosphere, all the Mets had to do was beat Roger Clemens, who'd won an AL-record 20 games in a row stretching back to May of the previous season. So naturally, they torched him for 7 runs in 2 2/3 innings, the worst outing of his brief Yankee career.

Clemens loaded the bases in the second inning on a double by Piazza, a single by Robin Ventura, and walk to McRae. Then Bonilla drove in two with a double, and Benny Agbayani did the same with a single, and the Mets were up 4-0 before an out had been recorded.

The Rocket managed to avoid further damage, but got right back into trouble in the third. Following a single by Jon Olerud, Piazza crushed a two-run homer to straight-away center. Shortly thereafter, Agbayani drove in another run and drove Clemens to the showers.

Almost as amazing as the Mets' sudden offensive outburst was the pitching of Al Leiter. After being up and down all season (mostly down), Leiter turned in his best effort of the year: seven innings and only four hits and one earned run. Ironically, his success came from using all of his pitches, particularly his changeup--something the recently-axed Apodaca had pleaded with Leiter to do.

Considering the turmoil surrounding the team, it was possibly the most important pitching performance of the season. A post at Faith and Fear in Flushing captures the mood of the time:

At the time, the Mets were 27-28. By my calculations, they were on pace to finish 27-135, after which they would reel off consecutive seasons of 0-162 unless somebody stopped them from competing, which would be the only way to stop them from losing.

I had no proof to the contrary, not on June 5, 1999.

I have no idea how this escaped my notice up until this point. But I've seen several people post and/or tweet about it in the past few days, so allow me to jump on the bandwagon way too late.

This thing is a site called Flip Flop Fly Ball, wherein artist Craig Robinson has created a whole slew of awesome baseball-related infographics. These graphs answer such questions as, how long did it take to assemble (and disassemble) the 1986 Mets? If bases were literally stolen, how much would it cost each team? How do the Indians reflect the Native American population of Cleveland? (As you might guess, not very much.)

And the best one of all: a complete box score for "an Eastern Division Tiebreaker Game that Exists in My Head" between the Wu-Tang Clan and the E-Street Band. As you might expect, the starting pitchers were RZA and The Boss.

This just scratches the surface. There's a buffet of awesomeness here--including an 8-bit page header with many subtle nods to baseball touchstones both real and fictional (see if you can figure out what "game" is referenced on the scoreboard). So click and enjoy.

Where have I been? Out. I went out.

I was gone for four days? No, I don't think so. No, I'm pretty sure I was just out for the afternoon.

Today's Wednesday? Really? Yeah, I guess I was gone for four days. Boy, time flies when you're...well, you know.

Where did I go? Hiking. Took a little hike. You know how I love to hike, honey. Can't get enough of that hiking.

What's this? A duty free bag. They got some great stuff in them stores. I got a hundred Kit Kats for, like, five bucks.

Yeah, I was at the airport. Why?

Oh, I see. My staff told you I was on the Appalachian Trail. That's where the whole misunderstanding comes from. See, they have code phrases they use so no one else can figure out where I am. So when they said I was "hiking on the Appalachian Trail", what they meant was I was on a very important diplomatic mission to...France. Qatar. Argentina-land.

I meant Argentina! See, sometimes we use "France" and "Qatar" as, um, alternating code words for "Buenos Aires". See, I'm getting myself all mixed up now!

I know I said I was hiking. That was because of the hiking code word, so I got that all mixed up with...you know, I'm so confused from the trip and the jet lag and the secret code words and whatnot, I think I'm gonna turn in early tonight...

What was I doing in Buenos Aires? Oooh, that's a good question. It was a diplomatic mission, honey. You know how those are. Just trying to get the Argentinians to be more, um, diplomatic. Can't say too much about it, though. Pretty hush hush, you see.

Why was I on a diplomatic mission for the current president, who I don't like very much? Boy, that's another good question. You are just full of them today! Well, honey, some things are bigger than partisan politics. And I would love to tell what those things are, I really would! But I am just so bushed from my flight, I think I'll just go hit the hay right now! *yawn*

Why was this trip such a big secret? It wasn't a secret, honey! Sure, I left for several days and didn't tell you or anyone else where I was going, but that doesn't make it a secret!

Okay, fine, that does make it a secret. Technically. We're not gonna argue semantics, are we? Because I could do the same thing back to you! What does the word "secret" mean, huh? Think about it!

Jeez! Can't the executive of a state of the union go completely off the grid for a long weekend to commit certain unnamed deeds without it being a huge deal?

Tell you what. Why don't you fix me a scotch and we'll go watch Jon and Kate Plus 8 on Tivo. Sound like a plan? Great.

Oh, and honey? If you ever tell the press you don't know where I am again, you're gonna wind up with a pair of cement shoes. Got it?

Good. Thanks, sweetie! Still waiting on that scotch!

I'm a busy man with an active lifestyle. A lot of people count on me at my job. And a lot of people count on me at home. But that doesn't mean I don't have time for joint pain. On the contrary, I take time every day to have at least one crippling bout of arthritis.

Some guys my age slap on some Ben-Gay, others take prescription drugs. I even have a golf buddy who swears by acupuncture. Not me, though. I set aside an hour a day to make sure I can find myself beset with agonizing rheumatism flare-ups.

Because only when you're in the midst of true suffering do you really know the complete limits of the self. Only then can you know exactly what you're capable of, and how much you can withstand. Am I right, people?

Everyone's coming and going so fast in this crazy, mixed up world of ours. Why not take time to smell the roses? Or, alternatively, to find yourself in the grips of searing agony?

Of course, joint pain doesn't just come and go on command. That's why I make sure to put myself in an extra-humid environment, like a sauna, or the Everglades. That usually gets my bones a-achin'!

And if that doesn't work, I sit on my hands in a weird stress position, until the blood flow's constricted and my fingertips turn purple. Just like Mistress Ilsa taught me.

Ever had your pinkies smashed with a stiletto heel? How do you know you don't like it if you don't try it?

Y'ever see Hellraiser? I have. Sixty times. Truly underrated film. I think it's got a lot to teach us. Don't you?

How 'bout whips? Is that something you might be into? If you're not, that's cool. Just sayin' is all.

So remember to take some time out of your busy schedule for pain. Nine out of ten dominatrices recommend injuring yourself at least four times a week. Jump down a flight of stairs. Hold a lit candle to your groin. Or just cut yourself! It works for me.

Pain: It can't stop you unless you stop for it.

This message brought to you by your local Winger's and The Pain Council. SUBMIT.

Welcome bu-hack to the program. My next guest is the general manager of the Mets, Omar Minaya, who's gotta be feelin pretty blue these days. Run it down for me. What's the litany of injuries?
Well, Carlos Delgado's got a torn labrum, Carlos Beltran's got a bone bruise, Jose Reyes got hit by a fire truck, Ollie Perez has got seven swans a-swimming, and John Maine's got six geese a laying. Although I'd rather be laying those eight maids a milking, right, Mikey? *honk* *honk* Say Mikey, I haven't gotten a word in edgewise since I got here. You must've been vaccinated with a phonograph needle!
Since when do you talk like Groucho?
Since when are you such a grouch, Mikey? Boy, if this room gets any livelier, a funeral's gonna break out!
And what's that in your hand, a martini glass?
I would've brought my brandy snifter, but it got shattered by a mortar at the 38th Parallel!
Mets fans think you're not taking this situation seriously, that the season will soon slip away because of your inability to make a move to bolster the offense.
I take this very seriously! You should see how much serious drinking I've been doing!
What is your plan to fix the glaring deficiencies in this team?
I'm not too worried, Mikey. You know what they say--there's always more de-fish-in-the-seas. *honk* *honk*
Are you gonna make a trade for this team, or are you just gonna sit around and crack jokes while the team falls apart?
Listen, I've seen enough blood and pain and horror to last me three lifetimes. I patch these kids up just so they can run right out and get torn up again. What's the sense of it all? Sure, I tell jokes, Mike. But is it any worse than the joke that's been played on me? So laugh! Laugh at all, cause it's one big joke, isn't it? And the punchline is, we all die alone and afraid, stranding men in scoring position.
Wow, this front office used to be light hearted and satirical, but this season has really changed you. Made you all...morose and dramatic.
You should see what it's done to Fred Wilpon.
Colonel, I request a section 8!