A few years ago, my wife and I found this amazing 100-plus-year-old house for rent within walking distance to our downtown. It was a beautiful place, not even publicly listed for some reason. We were working with a property management company to find a place in our new, unfamiliar town, and it was one of those, “Well,…

Anybody else notice that headcase is wearing an Orioles jersey under his uniform? Seriously. 

Keith Hernandez is surprisingly agreeable, off the coke, off Seinfeld, not in a Mets uniform and 30 pounds heavier. 

Pretty soon, MLB will be nothing but teenagers owning the world, 40-plus old men holding down the fort and everyone else on the DL.

“You’ve never heard of the ol’ Cuban Cigar gag? ... No? ... Oh my Lord. Oh my fucking Lord. Oh, that’s what you get for being Mark Cuban.”

The fact that I won’t read any dumb opinion beyond two sentences, but this dumb opinions is floating on 40-plus people high-fiving some awful bullshit to attract a spotlight on some awful bullshit makes me feel so fucking good. I’ll go three sentences deep moving forward.

More like ... running from precedence! Amiright! Fuck everything!

Why do I suddenly despise anyone in the stands who appears to be enjoying themselves?

What are the odds that his girlfriend and his ex ended up with seats together? Unbelievable.

“Trust me guys, this is our chance to jump to the top of the food chain... Those idiot slack-jaws are in full-out dinosaur mode. If we don’t to it now, the dolphins are gonna beat us to the punch... OK GO.”

Bob Hamelin, AL ROY, 1994. ... Who still only signs his name “AL ROY, 1994”

I didn’t get through the second sentence of this comment without wishing for sweet death. You are a very good Brewers fan.

Great. Now I get to sound like a douche while looking like a weirdo.

REEEEEEEEMIX!

I used to hate Votto ... Now he feels like a soft, warm hug from a big ol’ puppy-bear-kitten. What the fuck is happening to this world?

You silly-ass journalist and you journalizing shit that happens in your dumb journals.

One sunny day of clarity, a box arrived at the doorstep. Sifting through a sea of styrofoam peanuts, I arrived at my prize - a pair of fucking human arms and hands. I then recalled drunk-me running across an Odd Fellows Lodge parting out a ceremonial skeleton they found in their closet. Drunk-me found that hilarious…