and we loved the view of the arch. We were under the overhang, which was lucky as it started pouring half an inning after we arrived. The rain delay only lasted 20 minutes or so but was more than enough time to make me look like a drowned and exhausted rat.

At every stadium I go to I try to find one thing that they do better in that city than anywhere else. My favorite thing about St Louis is that after every at bat, they put the scorecard notation up on the big screen so that people who want to keep score the old school way can do it easily. Whenever I’m at a game with my dad, he always seems to find the one guy in the crowd who’s annotating a score card so he can point at him and tell me that it’s a dying art, and this was such a smart and easy way to keep it alive I hope all the other stadiums eventually pick it up.

 Our next morning in St Louis was brought to us exclusively by Camilla of OldJob fame who had great suggestions about what to do while we were in town. We hit Left Bank Books first, where I grabbed another bunch of books (including a used copy of Matilda, since my problem with used book stores is the same problem I have with dog shelters, except it can be alleviated with a much smaller financial and time commitment) and perused their selection of Congrats On Your New Baby cards directed towards lesbian moms.

Immediately from there we hit the frozen custard stand Camilla had suggested, which was one of the best meal time decisions we made all week. Seems like the easiest way to make me wildly happy is to put something cookie dough flavored in my hands:

I would probably go back to Missouri just for this. I love you, Ted Drewes.

Um, no. He’s the one flying the plane over Shea Stadium for the last home opener that the Mets will ever play there.

I took a personal day after getting the news that my dad had arm-twisted Opening Day tickets out of one of his Glen Rock Inn drinking buddies (the InnMates) and that my stepmom had declined accompanying him upon learning that A-Rod doesn’t play for the Mets. Even if I didn’t like baseball, I would have been all over this for largely spiteful reasons. On my last layover in GRock, I logged some Inn time with my dad and two different people double-taked at me and then went “You have a DAUGHTER?” to my father, who has apparently failed to mention the fact that I exist during the last 800 or so hours he’s put in at that fine institution. “Oh, you mean Megan’s mom,” one of them answered herself. I’m sorry to disappoint you, but no. You’re just going to have to come around to the fact that he has children that aren’t producing babies, flying jet planes, or going to Harvard. Oh, but I did get dressed all by myself this morning, and my group leader says I can move out of the locked unit and into the halfway house as soon as I learn to go to the bathroom alone. Jesus. Apparently being the only girl is no longer enough to warrant me a cursory mention between Guinnesses, so I’m going to have to apply myself to making sure I show up in the background of pictures where Bud or Peej is doing something awesome. Luckily, I am fantastic at being spiteful. No, really. Just today I caught myself thinking that it might be fun to vote for John McCain to spite someone. THAT’s how serious I am about this genre of motivators. Additionally luckily, Bud and Peej both had moments of greatness in the pipeline, starting with the opening day fly over and winding up with Peej’s graduation in May, which I will distinguish from my own college graduation by not playing Tetris on my Game Boy through most of it. And by graduating with half of Peej’s GPA, but whatever.

I met my dad at Penn Station, as he decided that this would be his introduction to the subway system so that he can get on with his plan of coming into the city and wandering around now that he’s approaching “the autumn of his career.” “I got you a metrocard,” I told him, and watched as he got way, way more excited over that than any present I’ve handed him in my adult life. Had I known it would be that easy, I would have just wrapped up a NJ Transit train schedule every time his birthday rolled around instead of hunting down obscure books on the gardening habits of presidents or comparison treatments of the Gospel according to Mark and the music of Blood, Sweat & Tears or whatever the heck he’s into these days. “So it goes like this? Right like this? This is how I do it?” he said, miming my actions of getting through the barrier but never actually applying the card to the swiping mechanism and making people veer around him as he stood there. “Like this? And then I can just walk right through?” YES, dad. For the love of GOD, please join me on the other side of the turnstile. “Isn’t this fun? This is a nice preview of my old age for you, when you’re going to have to drag me around on a leash because I’ll be all DURRRRRR,” my dad cheerfully told me once he had used one of his many graduate degrees to enter the subway station, immediately launching into his impression of Lenny from Of Mice and Men. We made it to Shea without killing any rabbits.

I’m a little upset that this is the last season at Shea, for obvious reasons, but I’m also secretly thrilled that by the time I’m mature enough to have children and/ or dogs, I’ll be able to name one of them after the stadium without the connection being as obvious as if, say, I named him/ her Citi Field.

Plus, there won’t be much of a shocking transition to the new field, as the boys are going to play all of this season literally in the shadow of it.

Hit the new stadium, get a free steak!

We were about an hour early getting to our seats, so we had plenty of time to take care of the hot dog eating portion of the day, and my dad’s Things That Make Me Happy stream of consciousness monologue. “Man, I love baseball. I don’t understand people that like football. Baseball is so much better. I love baseball. Know what else I love? YouTube,” he declared. This wasn’t as huge a shock as if he had said, say, Facebook, or music recorded in the last decade, or pants that aren’t sweatpants– I’ve heard about my dad’s love affair with YouTube before. “I don’t have to watch anything anymore. I missed the last NCAA game and-boom!- it’s up on YouTube. Or the Obama race speech. And you can fast forward through anything that’s boring,” he went on cheerfully before his tone became serious. “But they just blocked YouTube at the office.” “No! That’s awful! How are you going to watch the trunk monkey ads?” I asked, remembering when my dad was fond of acting out the commercials that showed monkeys coming to the aid of stranded motorists. “No more trunk monkey, no more darth vader goes grocery shopping,” he said sadly. I didn’t ask for clarification on the second one, but it sounds exactly like something senior partners should be devoting themselves to during billable hours.

I thought Bud had the coolest job of the day, but we later found out that one of his, uh, coworkers? pilot-mates? flew up to NY ahead of the boys who were doing the fly over so that he could stand behind home plate from batting practice through the national anthem and radio to the pilots. So while I was having a hot dog, he had a bunch of the Phillies come up to him and go “Hey man… were you in Iraq?” and then have their eyes get really wide when he said yes. I look forward to the day when professional athletes are envious of and impressed by what I do for a living, and I am happy to have David Wright over to the office to watch me do V-lookup in Excel (which is an actual thing, not a dirty metaphor, get your mind out of the gutter) any time he wants to make that happen. It was also, as I understand it, this guy’s job to sing along to the national anthem into his headset so that Bud could time the fly over for the ending. If you’ve already watched the YouTube video then you know that this didn’t work out perfectly– due to some issues with the opera singer, Bud was 12 miles away when the anthem started. But I also look forward to the day when I can cover 12 miles in under 2 minutes.

When they announced that the fly over would be happening, my dad immediately tapped the person sitting in front of us on the shoulder and said “That’s my son!” then he remembered he had an offspring with him already and, in some attempt to include me in our family awesomeness, slung his arm around my shoulder and pointed at me saying “and her brother!” Phew, I feel much better now. Not about having my association with Brendan clearly spelled out for complete strangers who don’t care, but that I didn’t have to worry that that guy thought I was there as my dad’s date and not child. This is a fear I have with all of my male relatives, regardless of age and the fact that we all have the same face, and one of the biggest indicators that living in new york has messed me up. Why, of course I’d love to pay $1100 to live in a box! And it’s not unreasonable at all for men in their 50s to date women my age! Seriously! During college, someone once mistook my little brother for my boyfriend, and ever since then I’ve been really into loudly and publicly declaring my relations in situations that don’t warrant that kind of attention, at all. “Well, DAD, mass sure was great today, I’ll meet you at the car!” “Hey Patrick, what are you getting mom for mothers’ day? Since we have THE SAME MOTHER, and all.”

I took a video of the fly over on my camera and intended to post it but the YouTube ones are, remarkably, much better quality. I have a bit of a shaky hand for a videographer, something I’ll have to figure out before my mom and I head out on Road Trip USA 2008, since I recently decided that I’m going to buy one of those flash memory video camera things so I can record footage of my mom and I at Graceland, oohing and aaahing over Elvis’ toilet. (Webmaster Kyle, I have many questions for you about equipment of this nature and if it’s ridiculous to try to sloppily edit things on my 3 year old Dell laptop that has never done anything other than maintain my increasingly ridiculous iTunes catalog and save my Christmas Card list. {just as a sidenote, my iTunes are Out Of Control. The last time I was Breakup Cristin, it manifested itself in that month where I didn’t consume anything but skim milk and freaked out every time I thought someone moved my calculator at work but this time, evil alter-ego Breakup Cristin has a whole new and exciting bag of tricks for me. Specifically, I can’t get enough of George Michael. All I want to do all day is listen to George Michael songs. Oh, and Mariah Carey. Seriously, this has to stop. The stuff that iTunes is recommending for me is horrifyingly embarrassing. I would rather have someone root through my underwear drawer than look at my Purchased playlist. Though this has lead to some of the best punning I’ve done in awhile. Like when Jordan tells me he’s sure I’ll grow out of the George Michael thing and it’s probably just a phase related to my recent love of Arrested Development, I get to respond “You’re right. I’ve just got to have faith, a-faith, a-faith.”}). So I chucked the video of the fly over due to the issues I had with its quality, and also because as soon as they got to “and the hoooooome of thhhheeeeee…” you can hear my dad and I both shouting “BRENDAN! Come on, Brendan!” as if we could summon his multi, multi million dollar jet plane with just the dulcet tones of our voices.

And the planes came, and it was awesome, and people in Shea Stadium high fived each other and my brother flew over their heads, which is not something a lot of people can say that they’ve seen. Bud landed at LaGuardia and then had seats on the other side of the stadium, but he came over to visit during the 7th inning stretch.

Uploading this picture is the greatest sign of love for Bud I’ve ever displayed considering it’s not arrogant of me to say that I am at least 50% better looking than this in real life. I mean, come on. This is like my drivers license picture, that has never not made people break into hysterical laughter and say things like “this is so much worse than I thought it was going to be!” Also, I am wearing my super cute new Mets jacket that Dad’s InnMate Clete, our inside man at the stadium, got for me, and that my father has alluded to stealing at least 8 times. No dice, bob.

Seriously. Who told me that parting my hair in the middle was a good idea that day? Is this what I get for actually achieving a new years resolution for once (2007 resolution: handle stress better. 2008 resolution: grow out bangs)?

My dad didn’t wear anything Mets related to the game, because he thinks wearing baseball jerseys to a baseball game makes you look “silly.” (Spoken to the girl who was, at the time, wearing 4 different pieces of Mets apparel, including a Reyes jersey). Falling down in public for the sole purpose of embarrassing your preteen daughter is apparently fine, but showing support for your lifelong favorite team by wearing the appropriate apparel comes in at “silly.” Fine.

(I am fighting hard the urge to photoshop in, say, this picture of me  in order to eliminate the amount of fug here, but what can you do. Besides, if I leave it like this, you get the whole creepy face-replica effect that happens when I stand near one of my brothers, and it’s like seeing those weird twins in the Shining or whatever).

True to form, my Mets lost, but I (almost) didn’t care.

I jumped into Jeremy’s league last year after I decided to not go another season with my all-girl fantasy baseball league. When not even I was keeping track of anything in the girl league any more, I thought it might be best if we all took a summer or two off before returning, refreshed and with sassy new haircuts, to the girl league at some point in the indeterminate future. Other than Jeremy, I don’t know a single person in the league where I play now, and they only know me by my team name (Kathleen Turner Overdrive) and message board posts about how I’m only going to draft players who I estimate it would take me 3 or less beers to want to make out with. I initially said I was going to gracefully excuse myself from this year’s league, seeing as how I ignored my team entirely for most of last year’s season and wound up ranked third from the bottom, but the boys, bless their hearts, don’t mind having a Token Chick around. So I’m back with a vengeance. Or, just back.

Our league did an online draft so we wouldn’t have to all be in the same room, though Jeremy wisely suggested that we pair up for the BK-based portion of the draft in order to keep me from getting distracted and leaving the autodraft function to do its worst. The main thing that sold me on this was that ESPN drafts have a chat room function that allow you to constantly talk smack to the other managers as they draft players. Throughout two and a half hours, not a single person in the draft used a single curse word. I had to really bite my tongue a few times, not wanting to be the only girl and the only potty mouth.

I foolishly thought we were going to have a lot of down time– so much so that I had brought work with me to do while other people were making their draft picks– but with only have 90 seconds to make a pick once your turn came up and trying to come up with clever jokes that don’t require any actual knowledge of baseball, I had a hard time concentrating on anything else. I wooed Maggie and Kyle into coming to hang out with us, and then when they arrived they were met with Jeremy and I side by side staring at our laptops and occasionally rolling our eyes at the girls sitting across from us doing their taxes but mostly looking at the various players’ headshots and deciding who to draft based on hairstyle.

Afterwards, even though I was totally full from the remarkable tea lounge grilled cheese that I hastily procured during a five minute break, jeremy made me go see the waffle truck, which should be considered a national treasure. As we got closer to where the truck was parked, people were wandering down the street towards us holding their waffles and I saw at least two of them get stopped by strangers who wanted to know where the magical waffles were coming from. God bless america, man. And brooklyn, maybe.

And so, I give to you the 2008 lineup of Kathleen Turner Overdrive, sectioned here based on my rationale for choosing each player. You’ll notice a glaring absence along the third base line… I had the 6th pick in round one, and someone got to David Wright before me. I know. I know. It’s cruel. Considering the alternate names for my team were Finding Mr. Wright and If Loving You Is Wrong I Don’t Wanna Be Wright, a move like that seems tactical and cruel. I’m trying to come up with trades to propose to him. Based on the caliber of my team, though, I think the only thing I have to offer is a one night stand. (Kidding, dad!).

Some Like It Hot: Players Selected Because, If The Conditions Were Right, I would Probably Make Out With Them

1. Pat Burrell, Phillies,Outfield. Yowsa. In college, my friend Susan used to refer to this one as “{her} boyfriend,” and it got to the point where her dad was mailing her the special section of their home newspaper that featured Burrell with notes that read something to the effect of “Looks like your boyfriend is doing pretty well these days.” So this one’s for you, Susan! Wikipedia tells me that his nicknames are Pat the Bat and Penthouse Pat and that in high school, he played football against Tom Brady. And probably bagged his girlfriend, because Tom Brady sucks. There, I said it. We’ll ignore the fact that he generally hits more home runs against the Mets than any other player.

2. Justin Morneau, Twins, 1B. Justin’s birthday is a mere 12 days before mine, so clearly he was meant for my fantasy team. Also, last year when we were in Flordia for our march sales conference(did I mention I have sales conferencenext week? In…. BERMUDA? Before you get jealous, please know that it’s going to be in the low 60s and raining for a lot of the time, and I’ll also be in meetings starting at 8 every day, during which I’ll likely find myself getting way, way, way emotionally overheated in a discussion about early chapter books. But still- I can think of MANY worse things than going to Bermuda for work, especially since I’ll be accompanied by the Jens and we have a jet skiing reservation for Tuesday. By the end of sales conference we’re generally all worn so thin that we have no problem turning on the “no one speaks to one another until we’re back in the office” deflector shields, which leads to everyone standing at 10 foot intervals at JFK’s baggage claim waiting for our identical rolley suitcases to get spit down the conveyor belt and trying to silence the voices in our heads that are still rambling on about Dr. Seuss and the Wonder Pets, and no one respects this more than the Jens, and I love them for that, among other reasons) I skipped an off-site dinner only to find out that Justin Morneau had been kicking around (it was during spring training) and one of our directors bought him a drink. It’s probably better that I didn’t meet him, since I would have said something to the effect of “I picked you for my fantasy team because you’re cute– now, please don’t suck this season.” Also, he’s canadian (points off), but he lives, or at one point lived, with his teammate Joe Mauer and I find that insanely adorable.

3. Casey Blake, Indians, 3B. Pretty sure I picked this guy based entirely on his headshot, and because I needed someone in this position after D-Dubs was cruelly ripped from my grasp. He has the most boring Wikipedia page on earth. I am pretty sure at some point in my life I will draft an entire team of players named Casey. If you’re a dude named Casey, your chances of becoming a professional athlete are at least 8% higher than everyone elses’. I feel this way about a lot of name/ identifying characteristic matchings, particularly when jeremy passes along the roller derby name roster. If your parents name you Andromeda, you’re probably not going to be a tax accountant. Just sayin’.

4. Rick Ankiel, Cardinals, Outfield. Admitting to using HGH as “a theraputic treatment” and spent his whole career as a pitcher before recently switching to the outfield. I’m sure he’s not bitter at all! And he just hit a two run homer in spring training against the Mets. Thanks, I think?

5. Ben Sheets, Brewers, Starting Pitcher. I think I’ve had ol’ Ben on my team every year for the last 4 years, ever since I learned he is a fellow sufferer of ear infections. You’d think recurring health problems would deter me from drafting him… you’d be wrong!

Coming Soon: Players I drafted because of their hairstyles; Players I drafted because they had funny names.

And thusly, I have a lot of stuff that I probably should have been rid of by now, stuff that ranges from entirely useless (of COURSE I need the pref night drinking shirt we made during rush, never mind that it’s too lewd to wear out of the house) to entirely awesome, like the set of mittens my mom got me in high school from Delia’s (yes, that Delia’s) that were ahead of their time with their option of converting to fingerless gloves that allow iPod manipulation without mitten removal. This saturday I decided to delve head first into Christmas shopping and dug the glove-mittens out to accompany me on my journey to The Container Store. (Is there ANYWHERE as awesome as The Container Store? No. There is not. The Container Store is one of a limited selection of places in new york were I would happily lease space and live there if the occupying party would allow it. {see also: dinosaur floor of the museum of natural history; david wright’s apartment}. And leading up to christmas, it goes from being the Happiest Place In The World to being the Seriously, This Is The Happiest Fucking Place In The World for me. I want to freelance for them and just do gift wrapping demonstrations all day long. I didn’t wind up buying any wrapping paper because I haven’t picked a gift wrap theme for this year… as dramatic as my theme was last year, black paper/ metallic ribbon doesn’t exactly scream holiday cheer so much as it screams I Am A Stark Minimalist, which isn’t even true, so I’m exploring new options. This year might be the year of brown paper packages tied up with strings and by strings I mean something in hunter green with gift tags that make use of my entire rubber stamp collection). And en route to The Container Store, in addition to accidentally buying myself three sweaters that you will say look identical but *I* say are each beautiful and unique snowflakes, or at least they are when your entire wardrobe is the same color, I spent a lot of time thinking about mittens, and how fall is most certainly my favorite season, but its one failing (other than not enough baseball) is that there’s not usually any need to wear mittens. Because really, it’s impossible to be upset when you have mittens on. In gloves you can be all kinds of upset, but if mittens don’t make you automatically happy, you have a cold, dead soul. I wore my mittens to The Container Store and had to physically restrain myself from hugging strangers. It’s the mittens (and seeing Enchanted), I swear.

(Okay– WHERE could this story be GOING? Master of suspense that I am… a regular dean effing koontz over here).

I came home with only one glove mitten. ONE. The other, it seems, decided that it would also like to live in The Container Store. I can’t say I blame it. But I will anyway. WHAT the EFF. I called Jordan as soon as I found out. “I LOST one of my MITTENS!! This is the worst possible thing that could happen to me at this exact moment!” Quite the gift for hyperbole.

Replacement glove mittens coming shortly after a long struggle with google “How could it possibly NOT know what I mean by ‘mittens that are really gloves and let me use my iPod???’ No, I am NOT feeling lucky, google, you asshole.”

Also, this bookfixes everything. I only hope that my lost mitten is similarly in love on the streets of manhattan somewhere:

Hobo: Spare any change? Any change?
Man in Mets hat: Sorry.
Hobo: Don’t worry about it. If you’re a Mets fan, you’re worse off than me.

–4th & 6th

via

There are plenty of things I love about my apartment. Like the fact that, because I live there, I don’t have to move, as moving is awful. Or that I installed shelving in our living room in 2004 and still point them out to anyone who visits for the first time, saying “See that? I used a DRILL,” or that Amy never judges me for setting all of our DVR’d Hills episodes to “save until manually erased.” But very, very high up on the list, and one of the first things I tell people when they ask where I live and if I like the upper east side (really, how could anyone not?), is “I’ve been there for four years and we’ve never had bugs.” I know that this is a very special and demented form of ny real estate bragging a la “No, there was no broker’s fee,” which I could also say about my place but don’t because I’m a nice person. But the bugs thing is huge. I’m not super-girly about bugs–when they had us write a letter to ourselves on outward bound, the 16 year old version of me actually said “since you lived in the woods for three weeks, you should probably be able to stop screaming whenever you see a bug back home”– but that doesn’t mean I like them, particularly when they’re large enough that they should have to pay rent if they want to live in apartment 4A. A couple of months ago Amy said that she saw a roach, but I was convinced that our apartment was still an impenetrable fortress of solitude, so while she chalked it up to all the awesome renovation going on in our building that has, among other things, made our hallway look like a pediatrician’s waiting room with it’s faux cracked marble paint job and put a gaping hole in the wall of the first floor, I chalked it up to Amy hallucinating or something. How could there be bugs? There can’t be bugs. There are no bugs in my universe.

Oh, there are bugs, my friend. There was a particularly enormous one obstructing my path to the shower today. I thought you could only find roaches this size on the subway platform– it had more or less the same dimensions as an aircraft carrier, and was one of the healthiest looking creatures I’ve ever laid eyes on. It looked like it had been bottle fed and kept in an incubator with Baby Mozart playing softly in the background for the first six months of its life. And it had no fear– it didn’t even try to run when I turned on the light, so we got in quite a few moments worth of sizing each other up during which I actually said the sentence “Ready to dance, bitch?” (Happily, Amy is in california this week and wasn’t there to see/ hear any of this. I’m sure she would have felt validated about being correct re: the pending bug invasion, but I don’t think anyone wants to see her roommate in her turtle jammies standing in the bathroom doorway talking like she’s at a Deadwood audition). I wound up killing it with the Style section and then throwing the whole mess away (an appropriate end for both the bug and the va-jay-jay article). The phrase “only in new york” really, truly grates on my nerves in a way generally reserved for people who still think it’s cool to say “‘aight” in a faux-ghetto voice that is in no way appropriate for the workplace (says the girl who spent all of last Tuesday dressed as a pirate at her desk), but I feel like I couldn’t have had this experience anywhere else. Killing a centipede with a copy of the Bergen Record’s  high school sports section just wouldn’t have felt as good.

Afterwards, as I was cleaning up the carnage, I started to feel really guilty. This was the biggest thing I’ve ever killed (if my mom is reading this, she’s now clearing her throat in order to say “Actually, you crushed your brother’s pet mouse to death when you were 3.” Two things: this roach was bigger than that mouse, and I intentionally killed the roach but accidentally killed the mouse. Totally different) and if I recall my dad’s flirtation with Buddhism correctly, that thing could have been my grandfather reincarnated who worked his way into my apartment to tell me where the family fortune is buried. I was feeding my turtles and it occurred to me that the roach was bigger than my smallest turtle, and I thought about how upset I would be if someone killed my turtle with the Style section. Then I thought: Whatever. Bugs are effing gross. Especially when they’re big enough that you should have to list them on your lease. Turtles, on the other hand, are awesome. Exhibit A:

This is one of my older turtles–I can only tell them apart by the lower part of their shells, but I think this is Donatello. Or, as I like to call him, “Stop biting your brother! God, you’re such an asshole!” He and Raphael came to me a couple of years ago when one of the kids in my mom’s anger management group hatched a bunch of turtle eggs he had found in a river. I think they’re painted turtles. And I think that they openly hate one another, and openly hate me for making them live in the same tank. The only time they coexist peacefully is when one is using the other one as a step to put himselfcloser to the heat lamp. I just put a new bulb in that thing and they’re all over each other trying to go towards the light. It’s like turtle brokeback mountain in there. Hey, that joke is only two years old.

And this is the little guy, so called because I haven’t been able to pick a name for him since Book Club Laura dropped him off on her way back to Austin (he’s doing great, Laura!). He’s roughly the size of a quarter and he gets his own tank because I was concerned that he would carry disease to my other, extremely healthy thus far except for the time one ate a rock and it got lodged in his throat, turtles. Also, I’m pretty sure the big turtles would eat the little one for breakfast. This guy recently went through a good week where he refused to move unless I picked him up and shook him to make sure he was still alive. Then I faced the wrath of the PetCo employees to get him his own heat lamp, and now he’s fine, though I’m a shell of my former self after having to deal with some annoying blue shirt going “You mean you don’t have a heated tank? Really? And he’s still alive? huh.” PetCo employees are all like the comic book guy on The Simpsons, only worse, because delicate animal lives are hanging in the balance and need help that only they can deliver. Anyway, I’m open to naming suggestions, as long as they aren’t Leonardo and Michaelangelo, as I never liked those two. Right now I’m leaning towards Mack, after the good turtle who foils Yertle by burping in the Dr Seuss book. Though maybe I should name him after the roach, as a tribute. Though maybe not.

And today the great Yertle, that Marvelous he,

Is King of the Mud. That is all he can see.

And the turtles, of course… all the turtles are free

As turtles and, maybe, all creatures should be.

via Katie

ANDY PETTITTE: I never wanted to be on this team in the first place.

DAD: Well, I didn’t want you on my team, either, asshole. But I was drunk at the draft, and I thought you were that other tall, brown-haired Yankee pitcher, the one who does crosswords. That’s who I wanted, you Yankee shit.

JOHNNY DAMON: I feel like you play favorites, and you’re really mean to the Yankee players.

DAD: How can you say that? I built my entire team around A-Rod! He’s my star player! He used to play for the Mariners! I love him!

ALEX RODRIGUEZ: Then why is our team name the Gay-Rods? That kind of hurts my feelings.

KHALIL GREENE: I think it hurts everyone’s feelings.

DAD: How do you say your name again?

KHALIL GREENE: I don’t think you’ve ever even heard of me.

Done and done.