Cleveland at the Dome. Cleveland 4, Twins 3.

Batgirl says whenever I get thrown out of the game I have to do her entry for her. I'm not sure how that makes any sense, I mean I still have a job you know. Just because I'm not out there managing doesn't mean I don't have, like stuff to do. Do you know what it's like to have a job, Batgirl? Do you? Huh? I mean, sass isn't a job, it's really more of a hobby, don't you think? And not like a real hobby like fishing or the crossword or Little House on the Prairie reenactments, but a totally lame hobby without even any annual conventions at Walnut Grove. So there.

And you know what? You said you were in France last week delivering sass to homeless orphans, but I think you're full of…well, I don't really like to use that language, but you know what I mean. I called France and they never heard of you! Ha!

(Only problem is I used the bullpen phone and Pohlad's probably going to dock me. He's such a cheap bas—ah, well, you know. I don't know what long distance company he uses but man he should really look into Vonage.)

Oh, where was I? Oh, yeah—France. You know, I don't know French orphans from Little Orphan Annie—I'm just a simple guy from Okalahoma (home of YOUR American Idol Carrie Underwood! Woot!) but I can't imagine that what they need is sass. I mean—they're orphans BG. Do you think they might maybe have some other needs? Like, you know, say they're playing French orphan baseball and because they're orphans they can't afford any decent umpires and have to put a beret on a baguette and pretend it's an umpire and then who will call the balls and strikes? Who? I ask you, Batgirl, who will umpire the French orphan baseball?

Well, I have a plan, Batgirl, and that plan involves shipping our godda—I mean darned—umpires to France to help the orphans and then when little Marie-Claude pitches a little too close to Antoinette's head, that umpire can issue a warning to Marie-Claude and her team of orphans all he wants, because he's in France and we have to keep the French orphans in line, don't we? And then the French orphan manager—let's call him Monsieur Gardie—can storm out of the clubhouse and take one of those baguettes and use it to kick the living sh—

Okay, okay. I'm ranting. I'm just, you know, I'm just a little irritable right now. I shouldn't take it out on you, Batgirl. You're my guiding light. You know that. It's just---oooh! I get so mad! I mean, normally, I'm a peace-loving guy. You know me. I try to keep my temper in check. I don't yell at Big LeRoy when he fields like Mary Ingalls after her sight loss or at J.C. when he starts thinking he's playing Crazy Pepe's Chug&Toss. I don't get upset when my daughter starts talking about how hot Steve Liddle is or when Torii substitutes Lew's Star Wars figures for my fishing lures. (Turns out walleyes really like wookiees. Who knew?)

All I'm asking, Batgirl, is for a little consistency. All year the Cleveland pitchers have been taking target practice with our heads and they get to bean us six or seven times before the ump warns both benches, which means my pitchers don't get the inside corner anymore and what the hel-- heck did they do wrong, Batgirl? I ask you? What?

So every time I go out and very politely tell the ump that my guys didn't do anything wrong and perhaps he might like to reconsider his ruling and the umpire explains to me that he can't help it, it's just the rule, there's nothing to be done, his hands are tied, he's got to enforce the rule, it's for everyone's protection, and I—very politely—say that the rule makes no sense and it's an umpire's job to use some discretion and this might be a case when discretion is called for, discretion being the better part of valor and all, and that Camus says that integrity has no need of rules, and the ump says that I shouldn't get all Frenchie with him and he's just enforcing the rule and I—very politely— tell him that he can shove the rule right up his—well, you know. And then I spend the rest of the game in my office playing Batkitty Detective.

Okay. Fine. That's the way it's going to be, fine. If that's the rule then every time some punk-a—I mean big bully—pitcher treats Lew Ford like a backstop we're going to get warned and I'll run out of the dugout and dance around and wave my arms like everyone's monkey 'til I get thrown out. Because I have no choice, Batgirl. It is my moral imperative. I cannot sit back and do nothing in the face of injustice, can I Batgirl? Can I? What would Camus say?

Okay, so that's the way we're going to play it, fine. But you know what happened today? Do you know? Today, Batgirl, Silva loses control of an 0-2 pitch and the pitch sails right over Jody Gerut's head and Jody plays all, like, AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAACK! and what kind of a guy's name is Jody? I ask you? So, fine, then the ump, you know what he does?

He warns us.

Just us.

And what the goddamn motherfucking kind of ass-sense does that make?

And where's a baguette when you need one?

I ask you, Batgirl. I ask you.