Countdown to NYC

My cellular telephoning device tells me that in just 77 days (17 hours and 50 minutes) Whiskey, Leslie and I depart for New York City. Flights - check. Hotels - check, check. Yankees tix - check, check, check, despite major pissing and moaning from the Big Stupid Monkey.

So now he's offered to cut a deal. He'll stop telling people I'm a lesbian (long story), if I forego the Yankees game. I told him I would abstain only if he handed over all of his Islanders cards, including the Mike Bossy ones he carries around in his wallet. What? Every 34 year-old man DOESN'T carry collector cards of his childhood sports heros on his person at all times, you say? Shocking!

Needless to say, we're at an impasse, which is pretty much status quo for us as of late.

Anyway, the BSM thinks, for some foolish reason, I'm going to ruin the Yankees. I don't know what gives him that idea. Just because I've managed to successfully ruin his beloved Cowboys and Islanders in the past just by watching them on television (you'll get yours soon, Lions!) doesn't mean I'll send the Yankees to their demise through my mere presence at the game.

Shit, I'm funny.

Yes it does! With all my foam-hand wearing, over-priced beer drinking (seriously, I'd have to be drunk at a baseball game to keep myself from lapsing into a coma), and ball-park frank eating, those Yanks are as good as done.

Now if I can only get Jeter to kiss me on home plate....