Take a number.

For Starters
Today, I salute you, Mr. Major League Baseball Scout. Sirs, I'm not fans of yours. Not all of you, of course -- those of you cut from the Jim Fregosi cloths are actually pretty neat -- I'm talking about those of you with the slicked-back hair and the Hawaiian shirt/dockers combo and the holier-than-thou attitudes.

Many of you believe that just because you critique talent, that you possess a smidgen of your own. Perhaps you think that writers are the same way. Maybe you think that because we report daily, that we labor under some grand delusion that we are, in fact, capable of doing a better job than the players. You're wrong on both counts, and you can all bite me.

Most of the time, I can tolerate when I walk into the press room and some douchebag or another singles me out to ask where copies of something are, or whether there's hot coffee around anywhere. I'm no dummy, those are "girl" questions. But I'll take it in stride while you sit with your fellow slick-headed friends and discuss conquests of old.

It's when you critique my driving that I get pissed.

I'm pulling in the parking lot today, and the attendants like us to park as closely together as possible, so that they can fit as many cars as possible in the rows. I'm not gonna lie, I thought for sure I was going to have to back up and reposition to avoid rubbing bumpers with the car I was parking next to, but as I inched in, tiny bit by tiny bit, I was clear and threw it in park.

There was a man in the car, so I rolled down my window and asked him if he had enough room to get out, or if he'd like me to move over a bit.

"No, you're good, but I think you bumped me coming in."

To read the words is not to understand the ridiculous assholiness of the voice. It was not kind, it had no soul. The guy was a dick. I apologized for pulling in so close, but told him I knew I didn't "bump" him because I was hanging out of my window to make sure that I didn't.

So he rubbed a smear of birdcrap from his quarterpanel and looked at it skeptically. "Well, I guess it'll be OK. I drive a nice car, though."

Was he waiting for a blowjob? What the hell? Congratulations on your Dodge Avenger (which, by the way, isn't really all that worth bragging about).

I contented myself with watching him wipe the birdshit on his excessively-creased khakis. Fucker.


Iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit's Tourney Time!
Selection Sunday has long been one of my favorite days of the year, and this one was no different. I got my AP story submitted just at the stroke of six, and watched my beautiful Sparties take the No. 2 seed in the Midwest, just like I said they would.

And then I compulsively researched everything, and filled out a million brackets.

I picked up interesting tidbits along the way. These names are among the most fun to say out loud: Luka Drca (Utah); Mezie Nwigwe (Robert Morris); Uche Echefu, Deividis Dulkys, Luke Loucks (Florida State); Arinze Onuakau (Syracuse); Chinemelu Elonu (Texas A&M).

And that's all. Boy, am I tired. Luckily, my boss loves me enough to not force me to drive to Bradenton tomorrow and experience what I can almost positively say would be a setback of biblical proportions along the path to stopbeingsodepressed-iveness.

So I've got Monday and Tuesday to relax, sleep in and write my story on Jeromy Keen, cover the Rays on Wednesday and Thursday, and have Friday and Saturday off before tackling the Rays again on Sunday. I'm still taking suggestions on how to fill that weekend. I HATE not having anything to do.

/yawns

I guess that's it for now.