Baltimore at Twins. Orioles 3, Twins 2. 11 innings

Oh, great, so I get tossed from the game and I have to blog for BG again. That's just fabulous. That's exactly what I need, to do your [EDITED BY JEB] entry for you while you are sitting in your [EDITED] hole eating [EDITED] bon bons. I mean sure, Batgirl, you make like it was an accident and all, but I know the truth. You talk all Tom Paine, but as soon as things got a little tough you saw the nearest hole and dove right into it. You don't see me diving into holes—oh, no. I've got a [EDITED] job to do. I've got to manage this bunch of halfwits, pantywaists, and [NOW, REALLY GARDY]wads. I've got to pitch BP for them every day. Do you know what my ERA is this week? It's 1.25. And the only reason it's so high is that I pitched to the players' kids on Sunday morning. That little Ford boy's got some pop. I'm going make him my DH. He can't do any worse, I tell you what.

Okay, well, I lied, BG. I can’t take it any more either. That pitch Mauer looked at was such a classic strike the Teamsters called a meeting about it. I just had to get out of there because when a grown man wants to cry, he likes a little privacy.

It's hard, BG. My pitchers, well, they've pitched their tails off, BG. The whole pitching staff is totally tail-less now, BG, but that's just the kind of guys they are. Absolutely willing to sacrifice their tails for the team. And you know what they get in return, BG? Bupkis. Bup—[EDITED]—kis.

Look at Big Carlos tonight. Have you ever seen anyone pitch so well in your life? Have you? Nine innings, eighty-five pitches, with one mistake to Sammy Sosa. One mistake. My guys, they can't take the pressure any more. They're cracking. After the Sosa homer, Big Carlos goes in the dugout and just starts washing his hands, over and over again, and I tell him to cut it out, and he says he can't, he just has to keep washing because he's "unclean." I'm no shrink, BG, but that doesn't sound good. Yesterday, after giving up the dinger to Jeff DaVaWhoever, Joe Mays comes into the clubhouse with this really funny look in his eye, puts the Gatorade bucket on his head, and introduces himself as the Queen of England, and he fancies a scone and then would like to attack France.

It just ain't right, BG, I tell you what.

You know how they say that if a million monkeys typed on a million typewriters one of them would eventually produce War and Peace? Well, give me that damned monkey and I'll bat him clean-up. I don't even need the War and Peace monkey. I'll take the DaVinci Code monkey or the Thinner Thighs in 30 Days monkey. I'll scatter the monkeys through the line-up and put a whole bunch of monkey chow on second base and see what happens. Worse comes to worse, the other team's infielders slip on the monkey chow and can't execute the double play.

You know what the crazy thing is, BG? I actually let myself hope when we came back in the ninth tonight. When Torii hit that double and then they made that retard-o play on Boone's bunt, I thought we could come back and win. I thought the agony might stop. Oh, BG, I clapped my hands together and I said, "I believe!"

You know why that happened BG? Because sometimes it's not good enough to rip off a man's testicles. Sometimes, BG, you gotta stomp on them, too. And you know what? Even without testicles, I'm still going to pitch a no-hitter at BP tomorrow.

Oh, [EDITED] BG, I don’t know. There was a time when I thought it would be really fun to be a manager, but I can't help but think there's got to be another job. I'd rather wipe a million monkeys' [EDITED] than live through another week like this one. In other words, I don't really know what you're doing down there in that hole, but I've just got one thing to say: Make room for me.