There’s a ping-pong tournament going on in my office today and I wasn’t invited to play. It’s not because they all hate me, but because I just started here — a magazine in New York — and the tournament was bracketed and made before I actually came on board.
At least that’s what they tell me. Little do they know, I often played in tournaments in my Tampa days, so them dawgs is lucky. I’m picturing them wafting shots back and forth like pure n00bs, giggling at the new d-bag who’s upstairs editing stories and deflecting annoying, frivolous emails from the digital team. “Hey Terse, do you approve of the latest SEO titles we put up for the latest magazine issue?” “Yeah, for the eighth time, everything is fine.” “Ok, splendid! How’re you doing in the ping-pong tournament?” “They didn’t have room for me.” “LOL YOU SUCK.” “I know… I know I do, Marc.” Perhaps they all dislike how I insist on being called Terse. I feel like David Adams — everyone hates me before I even get a chance to do anything good. Hopefully there’s not a steroided, crappy Twitter-user waiting in the shadows, willing to pounce and take my spot once his dead hips are resuscitated. I can’t compete with a 38-year-old ex-magazine MVP, I just can’t. I WON’T. Speaking of A-Rod, I think you should pick him up and use him for this year and plan on keeping him for 2014 and 2015. There’s still life in there. Please, blog, may I have some more?
Today, I listened to a podcast. In that podcast, the two hosts pontificated sharply about how Kris Medlen isn’t for real and that his success last year was merely a result of a few lucky match-ups. His success this year? Unsustainable. The name of that podcast? There Is No Such Thing as a Pitching Podcast — a pun from the old baseball adage “there is no such thing as a pitching prospect”, meaning that young pitchers are too unreliable, disappoint too much, surprise too much, need Tommy John too much, die too much. What they fail to realize, though, is that sometimes we’ve thrown all our coins into Mike Moustakas and are now left in squallor on the street corner getting moosed by strangers just for a quick buck, and our only hopes of redemption are guys just like Medlen. Sometimes, we don’t have our hands on the next Wil Myers or Jurickson Profar, or even a Leonys Martin, but, HAHAHA!, we do have our hands on sexy beast Matt Harvey. Harvey, of course, is seen by many as a better keeper candidate than even Profar, so that old adage can go get moosed by Old Buck in the alley, not us. Anyway, to save ourselves the moosing — which pitchers are worth targeting as keepers going into this year’s playoff push and 2014? Please, blog, may I have some more?
Today I had jury duty for the very first time. As a lot of you know, that means I sat in a room doing literally nothing for eight hours hearing about some guy who accidentally burnt himself, while I’m sitting there wishing the trial was actually for a drug-deal-gone-bad-quadruple-homicide. After about five hours I was simply staring at the hottest fellow juror because at that point I no longer cared what she or anyone else in the room thought of me. As you might assume, all the time I didn’t spend making phony racist assertions and promising that in no way will I be a fair judge, I was fantasizing about fantasy baseball. It was the only thing that kept me from scratching my eyes out, God of War combo-punching everyone, and subsequently getting shot in the face by a security guard, which now seems like it might have been the best course of action because I have to go back tomorrow. “Who the hell is Yoervis Medina and why did he get a save last night?” “Excuse me, sir, phone usage is discouraged.” “LOL, yeah.” In a way, the entire day’s proceedings were eerily similar to a lost fantasy season — as time went on, things seemed bleaker, time moved slower, and windows seemed more appealing. Even if this season is a jury duty of a season, don’t let next year’s be. That’s why we have our beloved keepers — guys on whom we develop creepy man-crushes and who symbolize hope. Please, blog, may I have some more?
You’ll be surprised to know that on September 28, 2011, both good and bad things happened. I’m sure someone got married and someone got divorced and someone was born and someone died, and I’m sure somewhere someone was fired and someone hired, but, to be frank, I do not care about these people. Ex-girlfriends have made it fairly clear that I only really care about myself. Hopefully they’re not reading this because dem chicas was whack, yo — always asking for my attention and for kisses and hugs and love and stuff. I mean, C’MON. Did they have a point? Do they still? Maybe, but that doesn’t mean I want to change (not yet, at least), especially after my debauched trip to Costa Rica, which so happened to help end my fantasy baseball hopes, and which so happened to end on that fateful night in September. Please, blog, may I have some more?
It happened again this Saturday. I went out with some pals and gals, like usual — pick a friend’s apartment at which to do some borderline problematic pre-bar drinking, have too much, pick a Manhattan bar that is depressingly similar to the one we attended the night prior, stumble down the subway stairs, meet friends, undereat food, overdrink drinks, over-laugh laughs, flirt with a girl, start enjoying myself, develop a crush, have great conversation, she goes to the bathroom, I check my fantasy team quick, I’m a petulant schmuck for the rest of the night. Please, blog, may I have some more?