NEW YORK, NY - Another Wednesday already? Holy crap! These column obligations are piling up like Eli Manning sacks or Eli Manning interceptions or unanswered Tiki Barber voicemails on Tom Coughlin’s cell phone. (Can you even picture Tom Coughlin on a cell phone? I see him more on one of those old-timey phones with a crank where you have to click the receiver hook up and down and scream, “Operator! Operator!!!“) Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, I need to write something this week. But what I really need is some sort of full-time job. As it turns out, this gig just ain’t paying the bills. The good news is, my work here the past five or so years should qualify me for any number of high-profile and high-paying positions. It’s time to take stock.
ESPN On-Air Personality. Do I want to work for the Worldwide Leader in Sports? No. But desperate times call for desperate measures. For starters, I know I’m no matinee idol (or even that bad luck idol from when the Brady Bunch went to Hawaii) but I know I’m better looking than Captain Combover, Chris Berman, and that bespectacled homunculus, John Clayton. Stephen A. Smith hasn’t said a coherent word from day one and Skip Bayless thinks the Seahawks still play in the AFC West He does! CLICK THIS. So, I’m guessing I know enough about sports. How far is Bristol from Cookie Country? Maybe I can move into her basement.
New York Mets General Manager. Why not? George Costanza was once considered for this job and Omar Minaya (and now Sandy Alderson) actually held it! I really don’t see where I could do much worse. First thing I do is convince the Wilpons to leave the country for three years or so and have no contact with the team. Next I fire the entire medical and training staff and replace them with Raquel Welch’s plastic surgeon and whoever is responsible for Short Matt still walking upright. Then the real gut renovations begin. Frank Francisco? You and your 8.10 era can just f**k right off. Don’t the rest of you start laughing because most of you are going with him. You too, Terry Collins. I’ll save the rest of my plans for the interview.
NY Post Headline Writer. I’m quite sure that no such specialized position truly exists at the Post. But a man can dream, can’t he? The thought of sitting around spit-balling ridiculous headlines for political scandals and celebrity deaths is one that really appeals to me. Failing that, I’d be happy to work as Post columnist extraordinaire Phil Mushnick’s assistant. I don’t care if the job is about picking up Phil’s coffee and dry cleaning. The guy abhors personal seat licenses, ESPN, and Mike Francesa. I’m in.
Baltimore Ravens Fixer. Pulp Fiction had Winston Wolfe. Showtime’s got Ray Donovan. The Democratic Party has Bill Clinton. Everyone needs that one guy who can step in and make your problems go away, and man do the Baltimore Ravens need that guy all the time. Their most recent hilarious escapade allegedly involved receiver Jacoby Jones, offensive tackle Bryant McKinnie (he of the Vikings’ Sex Boat scandal) and a champagne-wielding stripper named Sweet Pea.
Seems McKinnie wanted to celebrate his birthday on a bus in Washington D.C. (who doesn’t?) when Jones somehow ran afoul of Ms. Pea and she sweetly clocked him upside his noggin with a bottle of something called Ace of Spades champagne. Apparently all the blood pouring out of Jones’ head disappeared into the night like a Ray Lewis white suit and no charges were filed. So I guess this position has already been filled. Oh well.
Filed in: Angry Ward