Tag: tim flannery

“If you pop the ball up, you’re out.”

“No. Only if there’s men on base.”

“Sexist.”

“I agree, Bob, but the fact remains that this is an all-male league.”

“Sometimes it seems like this country doesn’t take Lena Dunham seriously at all.”

“Sure.”

“First and second.”

“If you pop the ball up, then the men on first and second are out? That seems punitive.”

“Why would the men on base be out?”

“That’s what I’m asking.”

“The batter is out. Men on base with less than two outs? A pop-up to the infield is an automatic out.”

“Does the ethnicity of the shortstop matter?”

“Why would it?”

“In a perfect world, yeah: why would it? But we live in a racist society.”

…

“Which one of you am I talking to?”

“It was never made clear.”

“Could be either.”

Phil looks happy: that’s because he’s a professional. But they’ll start the song when Walter White over there spits out the gum and not a second sooner.

Everyone told Bobby that it was unnecessary, but he showered with the players anyway.

OR

Hair, Weir, Nair.

OR

Phil took his eyes off Bobby for just a second and Bobby stole a full tray from a beer vendor and poured most of it down his gullet in one greedy glub and then he picked a fight with the Batboy and Billy, who had been snorkeling in McCovey Cove looking for a harbor seal named Rudy who owed him money, joined in the fracas and the umpires threw the entire Grateful Dead out of the game.

OR

Look how excited Phil is to be out of that fucking restaurant. Doing Pink Floyd covers in Queens? Vegas residency? Just one single solitary night with my old pal and the bald guy? It’s the playoffs, for Christ’s sake, and if Phil doesn’t get away from that kitchen and those conversations he doesn’t understand about “seafood purveyors” and “linen costs.” Phil will play Bar Mitzvahs in Oakland to get away from those horrible busboys, whom he is quite certain are mocking him in Spanish.

OR

“YAAAAAAY!”