Twins at Detroit. Twins 10, Tigers 5.

Hey, Batgirl.

So, um, I'm suspended for the game tonight and I thought I'd use this chance to apologize to you and your readers. I said some things on Monday that I really shouldn't have said. I know you didn't fall down that hole on purpose. I know you wouldn't do that, Batgirl. Sure, you milked it for all it was worth (I mean are you on DQ's payroll, BG? I thought you were lactose intolerant!) but I don't think you did it on purpose.

And you know how I said Hunter Wendelstedt was a big—well, it rhymes with "trucking bassbowl." That was a little uncalled for. Sometimes we say things, Batgirl, we say things we don't mean because we're angry. I'm sure it's happened to you. It's just, I bet when it happened to you no one put it on the internet. And I bet no one remixed it to a groovy dance beat. And I bet your wife didn't listen to both the thing-you-shouldn't-have-said and the remix. I'm suspended for one game, but I'm grounded for two weeks. Meanwhile, Hrbie keeps leaving the thing on my voice mail. Very funny, lard ass.

Okay, anyway, so my point is I'm really sorry. It was nice of you to edit out all those bad words, though I noticed you seem to have a slightly different standard when someone else blogs for you. But that's your prerogative, I guess. I'm just saying.

Well, anyway, it's just the 4th inning, but the game's going pretty well. We scored 5 runs in the second inning which was pretty cool. Sure, when I manage, the guys can't get a run to save my life, but they go all Offensive-Powerhouse for Scottie Ullger. Even Morneau got a hit, and he couldn't hit a pitch thrown by my Aunt Fanny, and she died in 1995. But it was nice to see that there is a force more incompetent than our offense, and that is the Tigers D. It was cute when Pudge tried to throw to the first baseman, and the first baseman wasn't there. No wonder he lost a jillion pounds; his soul's getting eaten away every night. That's got to be, oh—

Huh. Well, you know? The ump just warned both benches. Interesting. Fascinating, really. Jason Johnson goes butt-hunting for Little Nicky Punto, and they warn both benches. Well.

Normally, this is the kind of thing that would really pi—I mean, make me angry, but not today. There's no way I'm going to call the umpire a trucking bassbowl, because you shouldn't call people names. There are several reasons for this, including: 1) It isn't nice and 2) You get grounded. And Ullger did a good job of protesting the warning anyway—really, he sort of sauntered out and muttered a few things and meekly went back into the dugout like a good little boy. That's appropriate behavior—we shouldn't kick dirt and throw things at umpires because umpires are our friends. Even though it is absolutely ridiculous that they warned our bench when we didn't do a single darned thing. Even though they've taken away the inside part of the plate from Johan. Even though we can't protect our guys now. Even though we've gotten screwed on that all year. Even though this rule is the most moronic thing to happen to baseball since Hunter Wend—Ah, never mind. Well, anyway, Ullger did a good job; he just registered his disapproval and sat back down and, now, the game can continue, nice and civilized, and no one has to get tossed, and no one's wife has to get upset. It's a good way of doing things, if you don't mind being a huge pansy.

Huh. Well, you know the funny thing? They just called a Craig Monroe foul ball a homer. The third base ump didn't see it right and called it wrong, and then they had a conference, and then, well, I guess the other umps didn't see it either. The funny thing is Craig Monroe saw it—he started running then stopped and turned back toward home and said a very naughty word, the kind of word that can get a grown man grounded. Everyone in Tiger stadium—or whatever the heck it's called now—saw it, apparently, except for the four umps. I guess that's the problem when you spend so much time with your head up your bass.

Well, Scottie's barking a little more now, but I have to say, he doesn't really have the hang of this. What you have to do is kick the dirt around home plate so the ump has to clean it off. Otherwise, you just look like a chicken flapping around out there, and unless you lay out a big chicken turd right there on the field, it's not going to do anything. And if Little Nicky Punto can hold you back, well, you’re not angry enough, I tell you what. And now the whole dugout's barking. Heh, I think Newmie just questioned whether the ump's parents were married upon the occasion of his conception and eventual birth. Ooh, Liddle got in a good one. He may be a pretty boy, but he sure can swear. And I think Radke just—oh. Oh my! Wow, well, I never would have thought of putting those particular words together in that particular way, but, you know Radke's a bit of a surrealist.

Oh, huh. Well, Brad's in here with me now so I'm going to pass this thing on. One sec.

Brad Radblog.

Twins at Detroit. Twins 10, Tigers 5.

[EDITED].