Recently, the New York Yankees agreed to pay 45-year-old Roger Clemens (it's funny how so many writers always write it like that, you know, as if 29-year-old Roger Clemens was available or something) 28 million dollars to pitch the remainder of this season. In a related story, every northeastern sports writer experienced simultaneous orgasms on Sunday. Win, lose, get injured, or die in a thresher accident, Clemens is news like Peter Falk is “Columbo” (the character, not the yogurt).

In case anyone was unaware until Josh Hancock died while driving under the influence, drinking and driving is a bad idea. Also, so is smoking crack.

As I was driving home from work today, I saw a grown man pop a wheelie on his mountain bike. In honor of that grown man, I just injured my hand trying to do a cartwheel. There are two lessons here: one, you're never too old to let some of that little kid in you shine through, and two, I am a moron.

I've never met the man who is apparently heavily working on PIC 2.0 (motto: This Would Take Way Too Long To Explain To You, DeGraaf). But, in his first email to all of us fine writers at PIC, he insulted my character. So he's either a quick study or a total jerk. Though, more than likely, both.

Recently, at a little league park, a woman asked my girl and me to stop making out in front of her children. After apologies were offered, the husband of the prude lady said to her, “I don't know what you're getting so excited about. We saw a lot worse when we lived in Miami.” This caused the wife to reply, “This is not Miami.” In a related story, I am moving to Miami.

One of the baseball cliche's I hear way too much involves the use of the word, textbook. As in, “That was a textbook double play” or “That was a textbook hit and run.” And well, I'd really like to see this textbook. I'll bet it would be really insightful.

And finally, because logic and fluidity have about ten minutes to eat something, get to the ballpark and eject irate coaches (it's tournament time), I leave you with the following, which was told to me by a cocaine addicted stripper and which I will probably never hear again.

“Nathan DeGraaf, you are such a goody-two-shoes.”

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