"I told you so," or "Ya gotta believe?"

I'm thinking of reserving my new post until after tonight's game.

While it seems as if writers at CBS and SI are reading this blog, or scanning my brain (and Joe_bu's), I don't think anyone else is, so who cares if I predict the score? Oh, yeah, that whole probability thing, and why I don't bet on sports.

I'm rambling. My brain is as much a mess as The Mess.

Tony Awards

Jerry Manuel is following in the footsteps of Sweeney Todd and West Side Story; he's whipping out the knife and he's gonna start cutting.

If the Mets turn into a bad off-Broadway musical, God knows they've already got enough drama, then I officially quit the world.

Good Morning Sunshine

Now get lost.

How bad are the Mets that they can't even fire their manager the right way. They make the move that everyone wanted, but look like a bunch of jack-asses in the process. Woke up this morning to Scandal's 1982 classic "Goodbye to You" and found out Randolph is gone. After a win. In California. Announced by a 3:15AM EST (What the fuck, Omar?) press release.

I'm starting to believe Minaya doesn't understand the concept of time. Maybe that's why he's leaning on a first baseman and an outfielder from the Mesozoic.

A fitting title...

Some might think I haven't been blogging because I'm so upset at the Mess' play.

Some might think I've been too busy, or lost interest.

I'd say it's because I know.

And you know.

These Mets, like so many others, need to be aborted.

Can't hit. Can't pitch. No clutch.

None of them deserve to be All Stars.