Maybe if they turned off the dark, I could finally get rid of these goddamn sunglasses.
After months of previews, injuries, rewrites and bad reviews and, undoubtedly in an effort to recoup some of the money the producers threw down the proverbial drain, "Spiderman: Turn Off The Dark" finally debuts this week. We guess if you spend $70 million, it just can't go away.
As you may remember, we were fortunate enough to get to see the show as it was originally intended. In addition to questioning whether it would ever actually open, we suggested that it needed an almost complete rewrite, including jettisoning the awful Greek spidery, woman thing, Arachne. Well, the producers must read The Project (though we struggle to figure out which one of our 34 followers they are) because that's basically what they did, canning Julie Taymor and minimizing the role of Arachne and expanding upon the show's one bright spot - The Green Goblin. The result? Well, according to the New York Times, the show still kinda sucks. Apparently, the only thing that was interesting about the original show was how bad it was. Who knew? Maybe they should have just renamed it "Spiders on a Plane" and moved on.
It really is too bad that they couldn't have made it better. We would have considered going back but now, the chances of spending more money on this debacle fall somewhere between LeBron coming up big in the Finals and Herman Cain being our next president.
For anyone who may have missed our original, sprawling review of the show, our esteemed editor (The Mrs.) suggested we repost it. We call it "How To Build an Atomic Bomb on Broadway." It might be your only chance to truly understand the original.
One of the fringe benefits of working in the office of a MAJOR INTERNATIONAL CORPORATION is that we get to see a ton of really unnecessary and disingenuous corporate signage. Most of it deals with how great a place we work and how committed they are to following the rules, or how to keep your damn hands clean. The other day we saw one encouraging people to stay home if they're sick and it inspired us to begin drafting our own signs explaining the Project's corporate policies.
Accordingly, this will one day hang in our posh offices in some soulless building:
The Project is committed to maintaining a healthy and, above all, productive workplace for those individuals who find comfort in the rote nature of corporate life. To that end, it is The Project’s Communicable Disease Policy (APR 999-4784.3.5.65:2, Part Z, Section 12) clearly states:
If you are sick, stay the fuck home.
Since your illness, and the inevitable complaints associated with it, are likely to hinder not only your productivity but that of the people around you, The Project takes this policy very seriously and will enforce it by any means necessary.
The term “sick” includes any serious communicable disease, including the flu, bird flu, swine flu, Ebola virus, the gout, crones disease, athlete’s foot, hammer toes, coughing, sneezing, wheezing, bleeding ulcers, explosive diarrhea, gynecomastia, GERD, erections lasting more than 4 hours, acid reflux and melancholy or any other illness or malady that may hinder your ability to give maximum effort or which could distract and/or infect others. In short, the spreading of diseases directly effects The Project’s bottom line and it cannot and will not be tolerated.
Accordingly, if you become sick, don’t be a douche and stay at work coughing and sneezing on everyone, complaining about how crappy you feel and putting on your best “sick voice.” We get it, Ferris.
All employees should also note that being sick DOES NOT EXCUSE you from your work responsibilities. The Project’s Updated Modern Indentured Servitude Policy (APR 888-8763.6.4.78:5, Part LL, Section 7942) provides that all employees must work from home during normal work hours (12 A.M. to 12 A.M.) in the event of sickness, vacation, death or rapture. The Project encourages you to always remember that your biggest asset is your inability to say “no.”
Your Supervisors have been reminded (read: ordered) to strictly enforce this policy to protect others in the workplace (read: prison) from your nastiness and will enforce this policy in an evenhanded manner unless, of course, they choose to (read: they will) completely ignore it and make you work anyway. Should you refuse to adhere to the policy, as enforced, you will be gently (read: forcibly) asked (read: told) to vacate the building (read: get the hell out of here)
Frequently Annoying Questions
Q. What if I am out of PTO days for the year?
A. Nobody cares. If you need more information, please contact your local talent inhibitor (HR) who will remind you that you have no options.
Q. What if, by taking the day off, I won’t have enough money to pay the mortgage this month?
A. See Answer to Question #1.
Q. What if my child is sick, may I stay home?
A. Your decision to reproduce is not a problem of The Project. If you do not present any symptoms, you SHOULD NOT be absent from work. Additionally, the Project expects you to take full and complete caution to ensure you don’t catch whatever that little mongrel is carrying. This includes refraining from all contact with your children (including your customary kiss on the forehead after yet another 18 hour day) if they present even the slightest hint of a cold or flu infestation.
Q. What do I do if a co-worker is sick and comes to the office and keeps coughing in my general direction?
A. Report your coworker to the “authorities,” he or she will be disposed of in rapid fashion.
Q. What if I am seriously ill but have a really important “deadline” and my supervisor has indicated if it is not met I will “have my ass in a sling.”
A. Oh, well.
Q. I think I just threw up in my mouth?
A. Go the f home.
Thank you for your complicity in ensuring this office continues to be a place where you can make money for The Project while being vastly underpaid and undervalued.
Superman. The Diesel. The Big Artistotle. The Big ... Disappointment?
In a move that surprised no one who saw him running around like someone who no longer wished to use his legs, Shaquille O'Neal, the Man of a Thousand Nicknames, one move and the best center of his generation, is retiring, ending a 19-year career in which he was mostly dominant and always entertaining. In a world that rushes to instantly put everyone and everything in historical context, the first question everyone asks is where he ranks amongst the other all-time great centers.
[In our estimation, he can't be better than fourth. Not that he should be ashamed, but he lacked the pure statistical dominance of Wilt, Russell's winning disease or Abdul Jabbar's longevity (though the thought of Shaq attempting to prove his dominance by violently and repeatedly dunking on Kareem's bald, alien head is intriguing). After the Big 3, you get into guys like Shaq, Hakeem, Mikan and Walton. Mikan belongs in his own category as the first real big man and Walton, who may have been as good when healthy as anyone, just didn't last long enough. The Hakeem-Shaq debate is much less settled. Shaq has the edge in titles 4 to 2 but Hakeem never played with anyone as good as Wade or Kobe. Still, Hakeem loses points for winning his two during the mid-Jordan void. But Shaq's Lakers never really beat another dominant team and his Magic lost to Hakeem's Rockets. The debate deserves even deeper analysis, but we give Shaq the edge over The Dream on sheer dominance. Hakeem was wonderfully skilled but Shaq was a force majure.]
And while that's makes for a legitimate debate, the more interesting question for us is: How will Shaq be remembered?
Will he be remembered for what he was? The player who won 4 titles, 1 Regular Season MVP (one vote short from being the first unanimous choice in history thanks to Fred Hickman who keeps telling himself Iverson was better), 3 Finals MVPs (all while playing with the annoyingly precocious Kobe), made 8 All-NBA First Teams and lead the league in scoring twice. The physical freak who burst on to the scene (averaging 26 and 13 his first two years) as a 300 lb, 7-footer who moved like no man his size had any business doing, displaying the flair to lead fast breaks and make diving for loose balls look like fun. The force who was simply just too much for the league to handle, nobody could guard him and the refs couldn't officiate him fairly. The gifted scorer and passer who won everywhere he played. And the legend who walks away ranking 5th all-time in scoring, 12th in rebounds, and 7th in blocks.
Or will he be remembered for what he could/should have been? The player who's combination of size, strength and agility (and, if you're being honest, the lack of players who could physically compete with him) who always left you thinking he could have done a little better and maybe been the best to ever lace up a pair of basketball shoes (we started to read a book once that attempted to argue that Shaq was the best ever. We stopped reading after page 5). The young hungry player with something to prove that set career highs in rebounds (13.9), blocks (3.5) and games played (81) during his first two years in the league but never improved on those numbers and never, despite his obvious physical advantages, lead the league in blocks or rebounds. The injury prone star who never seemed able to stay healthy, missing more than 15 games 7 times in his prime. The underachiever who, only when paired with Phil Jackson, was motivated and in shape (two continuing problems for the Big Whatever) to put together his definitive season in 99-00, averaging 27 ppg, 12 rbg, 3.4 asp and 2.7 bpg in 79 games) and winning the title, MVP and finals MVP (38/17 averages in the finals) in the same year. The veteran who never quite reached that peak again but continued to show what he could when he wanted it by averaging 29/15 during 4 consecutive playoff runs. The athlete who, when he put together a Wilt-like triple-double of 24 points, 28 rebounds and 15 blocks, made you wonder why he didn't just do that every night.
The problem with Shaq is that those times when he put it all together, instead of just being good games, or hot streaks or career years, gave us glimpses of the player we thought he should be. But Shaq was always about more than basketball. Instead of spending off-seasons running sprints, finding new training edges or simply figuring out how to shoot free throws (his fatal flaw), he was off cutting weird rap albums, starring in some of the worst movies of all time (Kazaam and Razzie-Award Nominee Steel), learning how to be a cop or pursuing his Ph.D (Dr. Shaq?). And shouldn't that be ok? In real life we laud people for being well-rounded and valuing things beyond their jobs. But when it comes to our sports figures, we project our undying obsession with the game and expect them to meet not their standards of excellence or even societies, but our own. We expect them to be the best they can be, even while routinely falling short of that lofty goal in our own lives. It's simply not fair. Shaq was great, as good as he wanted to be, and if we remember him for anything but that, it's on us.
So we'll choose to remember Shaq fondly. Sometimes it's hard to remember when our most recent memory is of him “running” around like an extra from “The Klumps” (Eddie Murphy IS Shaq in “Fat in Cleveland”) but we still have vivid memories of his dominance. Of him at his early 2000's peak, catching a low entry pass, drop stepping as what seemed like 10 guys converged upon him, exploding out of the crowd to throw down yet another vicious dunk and sprinting back down court like big kid trying to decipher what he'd just done. Eventually, despite his flaws and our unfair expectations, we suspect everyone will see him in that same positive light. Because, after all, like ears and noses, reputations just keep growing.
"The Wire” is easily the greatest tv show we’ve ever seen. Maybe we're a decade late to the party but it was true when the show came on, true when it was cancelled and true right now. That's not an easy statement for a "Lost" fan. While we long considered the island saga to be the best, as we finish the 4th (and penultimate!!) season, The Wire didn't (and we're reasonably sure won't) give us pointless episodes about people trapped in Polar Bear cages, randomly eating dinner on the beach in a dress or, worst of all, The Temple (you see, he carries around a baseball because .... zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz). Perhaps the viewing experience isn't as interactive as Lost (the biggest mystery The Wire ever introduced was what the hell a “stevedore” was) but, the race isn't even close. If you haven't watched it yet, we highly encourage .. no .. IMPLORE you to do so. It might kinda change your life.
So, how could a show that good, be ignored by the general public? There are a million reasons why a show does or doesn’t get an audience and The Wire probably suffered from everything from being on HBO, a channel not everyone has (though that didn’t seem to hinder The Sopranos) to America's not always subtle racism. Spoiler Alert: The show primarily features black actors. Whatever the reason(s) others might have had, we stayed away for so long due to a preconceived notion that a show about crime, murder and corruption might be a little too depressing (as opposed to real life which, of course, is always a fuck-in great). And maybe the show is a little depressing (not every show can be a laugh riot like “Two and a Half Men”) but it’s not in the way you might think. We always leave an episode slightly sad about the life the characters live only it's less in "Hoarders" way and more in a "Friends" way.
Yes, a show about being a drug dealer makes us jealous. The more we watch the show, the more we think, if we have to work, dealing drugs would be way better than say ... working in a law firm. Since we've both worked in a law firm and watched The Wire, we're uniquely qualified to break it down, Tale of the Tape style.
So, here we go, in honor of the great Nick Bakay: Drug Dealing v. Working at a Law Firm
1. Compensation
Drugs: Apparently any enterprising young man (East OR West side) can secure a corner and supplier (both of which are plentiful in many major American cities) and easily clear a couple thousand dollars a week. And the big wholesaler/dealers (vertical integration bitch!!) bump that up to a couple million a year. All tax and debt free.
Law: After obtaining a useless liberal arts degree (and associated debt) you went to law school on the promise of six-figure starting salaries and left with an additional degree (and debt) to find that you're lucky to get a $40k a year salary, a sweet gig as an hourly employee reviewing documents or an “alternative” career path processing insurance claims.
Edge: Drugs. More money, less problems. You can keep your bonuses and profit sharing, we’ll take heroin.
2. Hours
Law: 9 to 5, if you're lucky. Every single day of your miserable life.
Drugs: Whenever the hell you please. Crack heads don’t have alarm clocks.
Edge: Drugs. Maybe you only live to 25 but at least you have time to play video games.
3. Career Path
Law: In the land of diminishing returns, you start out as an associate with little free time and even less money and if you're lucky, you screw over enough people and succeed to a point where you make more money but have so many unreasonable responsibilities that you can't find any time to spend it. If the money is enough to keep you from killing yourself, you die from a heart attack or stroke.
Drugs: The exact opposite. As you work your way up, where you used to spend, 3 maybe 4 hours working, if you kill enough people your typical day not involves taking reports from your crew on business, counting your money, checking on your investment properties and reading Adam Smith.
Edge: Drugs. There's blood on your hands either way, might as well get something for it.
4. Dress Code
Drugs: The uniform: Anything that doesn’t help the cops pick you out of a line-up. Jeans? Sure, and you won't even be extorted to give to charity to wear them. Over sized sweat suit? Hell yeah. Wife beater? Can't see why not. The only time you're wearing a tie is in court.
Law: The uniform: a button-down shirt (striped or solid), slacks and sensible shoes. The only time you’re wearing a suit is in court.
Edge: Drugs. See what happens next time you wear your Artis Gilmore throwback to the office. Business casual is nothing of the sort.
5. Safety.
Law: ID’s, self locking doors and a security guard who never seems to recognize you no matter how long you've worked there.
Drugs: One word: Muscle. If you control drug money there’s no shortage of overweight, borderline psychopaths willing to protect you from all those pesky people out to take your life. Just like the secret service.
Edge: Push. The drug game is more dangerous but your security guard doesn't even have a real gun.
6. Integrity:
Drugs: The Sunday Truce. A rule passed down through generations and observed by everyone: no matter who you are or who you crossed, there’s no killing on Sundays.
Law: None.
Edge: Drugs.
7. Hoops:
Law: The Lawyers League, a place where shot attempts are determined by senority and no one can figure out what law school the 6’10” dude who just scored 50 attended. Oh, he works in your mail room? Sure he does.
Drugs: Sponsor a team to play in local tournaments, maybe even paying off some local college talent to join your squad and if he plays bad, he doesn't make it home after the game. Essentially, you're George Steinbrenner.
Edge: Law. Kids dream about becoming Jeter, not Cuban.
8. Standing in the Community:
Law: You’re typical introductory conversation goes like this:
Person: Hello You: Hi Person: So what do you do for a living? You: I’m a lawyer. Person: Bye.
Drugs: You’re like the neighborhood Robin Hood. Need money for the ice cream truck? We got you. School clothes? How much? $10k for a boxing gym? Is that all you need? Hand out a few twenty dollar bills here and there and all of a sudden you’re an icon. You’re typical conversation goes like this:
Person: Yo You: Yo Person: Can I get some money? You: Yes Person: Thanks. Will I have to kill someone one day for you? You: Most likely. Person: Aight.
Edge: Drugs
9. Retirement Benefits
Law: 401K or Pension. It doesn’t matter which one, you work all your life and then (the government or a sketchy investment banker) ends up losing it all so you can eat cat food and not even the good, expensive stuff.
Drugs: If you're lucky enough to make it to retirement (who wants to get old anyway) or, more likely, jail, you're set for life. Your 401k is knowing where the bodies are and in exchange for your silence you and your family get a nice furnished apartment and a luxury car.
10. Language
Drugs: You have talks like this (Spoiler Alert: This happened in the show but it's so out of context that it probably won't ruin anything):
Law: Around a law firm you might here fun terms like: Complaint, Answer, I need this on Monday and I don't care if it's Friday at 5 P.M., Bifurcation, You're not working the weekend?, In Limine, Motion to Suppress, Demurrer, Billable hours, Voir Dire, Adjudication, Billable Hours, Compel, Dictum, Escrow, More Billable Hours, Fee Tail, Gag Order, Hate Your Life, You need more billable hours, Hung Jury, Summary Judgment, You're Fired.
Edge: Drugs. Tell us that's not the coolest 2 minutes of television ever.
The Verdict: Drugs by a landslide. When you break it down scientifically, dealing drugs wins hands down. It’s the “4 Hour Work Week” with bullet proof vests.
"On May 21, 2011, The Dirtiest Player in the Game will rule once again, baby!!"
Bob James was certain it would never come to this. On May 23, 2011, he received a certified letter from his mortgage holder, Bank of America, telling him that his house was being foreclosed on. It sounds like a familiar story about a victim of the housing bubble or predatory lending. But it's not. James was the victim of something different - Judgment Day.
As one of the key members of a movement aimed at convincing non-believers that this past Saturday, May 21, 2011, would bring about the end of the world, James simply stopped paying his mortgage six months ago.
"It's not like a took this decision on faith." he said. "I did my research. I knew that you got about 6 months before the bank would foreclose. So I stopped making payments right before what was supposed to be my last Thanksgiving. I sure as heck wasn't going to give those bastards any more money than I had to." he said.
"I was pretty certain I wouldn't be here today. Figured I'd be up in the clouds, wearing a white robe and hanging out with Bob Hope and Elvis and The Ultimate Warrior. And no, I don't mean that metaphorically." he continued.
"It was weird. All of us, the people behind the billboards and everything, we all thought we'd get sucked up to heaven and raptured, just like the Simpsons episode. But, somehow, we're all still around. The only person missing is Oprah. What the heck happened to her?"
Oprah's representatives confirmed that she was, indeed, not raptured and is appearing on her new network that nobody watches. They would not confirm, however, that the TV star does not believe she will be the one doing the rapturing.
Despite his apparent misstep, James believes he did the right thing.
"So maybe it didn't happen, but seven billion people were going to die. I couldn't just sit on my couch watching the '700 Club' and eating Ritz crackers." says James, who viewed the billboards as a message of hope. "What else was I supposed to do? I love men ... err .. I mean man. I love my fellow man. Yeah, that's what I meant to say. Definitely not that other thing, that's why we're here in the first place."
So why not, now that the rapture hasn't happened, just fix his mistake?
"Well, it wasn't just the mortgage. I'm up to my ears in debt. It was car payments, credit card bills. I even let my subscription to Readers Digest. I'm lost without "Humor in Uniform."
So where is all the money?
"I spent it all on billboards. Or at least that's what Mr. Camping told me, the money was for."
Mr. Camping is the 89-year old Harold Camping the head of a California radio station who first predicted the end of the world in 1994.
"Everybody makes mistakes, right? He just seemed so certain about it this time." James responded when asked whether someone should really get two chances to predict the end of the world.
"I mean, it's right there in the Bible. The world will end in 7 days, 7 days equals 7,000 years. Square root of pi, carry the 1 and it's plain as day - May 21, 2011." said James showing creative math skills.
Although the May 21 prediction is widely dismissed, even mocked, Camping’s followers, like James, see validation in that reaction. After all, they say, Noah met nothing but skepticism when building his ark.
"It probably wasn’t even raining at that time while Noah was building the ark. People were probably scoffing at him while he cleaned up all that animal dung. Do you have any idea how much poop an Elephant makes in a day? Multiply that by like a million and you'll see what Noah was dealing with. Anyway, imagine how silly all those people felt without their bathing suits on when the flood came." says Joe Gullible, a 39-year-old father of six who is crazy. "It's the same thing, only this time they'll be without our their spiritual bathing suits drowning in their sins. And they'll all die. All, the scoffing, scofferers, will die, I tell you. They'll die!!!!!"
In summary: Poop. Scoff. Death.
Bank of America is expected to commence foreclosure proceedings this week which, given the backlog of foreclosure complaints in the State, should have James without his home three days before the world ends.
When asked how things could have gone so contrary to his beliefs, James remained dumbfounded.
"I mean everything else in there was true. Adam & Eve, The Great Flood, Zombies. I figured I couldn't go wrong."
1. Flush toilet with foot or not at all. Listen carefully to determine if you are alone.
2. If you are alone. Skip to Step 10.
3. If you are not alone. Walk over to sink.
4. Turn on faucet. Let faucet run for at least 20 seconds or until you've sufficiently convinced anyone around that you have actually wet your hands.
5. Pretend to wash hands thoroughly, paying special attention to how you are being perceived. Under no circumstances should your hands ever become wet during this process.
6. Turn off faucet with fingertips only. That shit is dirty.
7. Step to paper towel holder or, if applicable, hand dryer.
8. Take paper towel from roll or turn on hand dryer. Wait 3 seconds.
9. Discard unused paper towel in trash receptacle.
The Mets beat Josh Johnson last night. Seriously, it happened. Look it up. Sure they didn't exactly "beat" him as much as "win a game in which he pitched." And maybe they had to literally hit him with baseballs in the hand to get him out of the game. But, still, a win is a win. And in Queens, these days, that one was monumental. So it's exciting times at Citi Field. The Mets are ... Wright and Reyes have ... How bout that ... oh forget it. The Mets stink.
Even with the win, they're mired in last place in the NL East, 6.5 games out of first, 5.5 games out of the Wild Card and even a game behind the Washington F'n Nationals, a team that has celebrated its move to our nation's capital with back-to-back #1 overall draft picks. The team's best active starting pitcher (as opposed to the one on the DL with no elbow or the one on the DL with no shoulder) sports an ERA of 4.78, a mere 3.14 runs behind the league leader and it's fading closer stands to make $17.5m for finishing 50 games, leaving the team awkwardly hoping NOT to win many close games. To add to the misery, the best overall position players on the roster are, in no particular order: (1) out with a broken back (presumably from hauling around the expectations of all 15 remaining Mets fans); (2) without the functional knees; (3) about to be traded; (5) apparently still concussed; and (4) named Ike. Oh yeah, the team is also being sued for ohhh, something like $1 billion for ownership's "role" in the Madoff scandal.
(Quick note on the Madoff thing. We're not saying that Wilpon and Katz knew that Madoff was a fraud but anyone who managed to accumulate enough wealth through your business acumen to buy a BASEBALL team in New York City and then started receiving 20% returns on their hedge fund investments, well ... they fucking knew. Maybe they didn't know exactly how it was happening but they knew something wasn't right. And now they have the balls to want to keep the money they "withdrew." Guess, what, it's not your money. You didn't get a return on your investment. It's stolen from someone else who didn't act fast enough. like you did. So give it back. Assholes.)
All those things are bad. And they all deserve a spot on the list. But none of them is Reason 4,723. That spot is reserved for the most reviled of players in Mets franchise history - Roberto Martin Antonio Bonilla. His friends called him "Bobby." Mets fans (none of which would ever be confused with friends) called him "Dickhead." Why dredge up such bad memories, now? Well, we received word from one of our Philly fan friends (who no doubt wanted to torture us) that ol' Bob-O was about to start collecting $30m in deferred salary from his days with the Mets. Yes, that's right. The Mets are playing one of the most disappointing players, in a long history of disappointing players, to ever don the orange and blue $30m over the next 25 years.
Our first baseball memories are from the magical season of 1986. We vaguely recall watching the Mets win the World Series on our tiny black and white tv as we fell asleep. Whether this actually happened or we just made it up, that, and the fact that the team boasted plays with kid-friendly names like Doc, Strawberry and Mookie, and that was enough to make our six year old ass a Mets fan. The memories we are sure we actually do have began with a shocking loss to the Dodgers in 1988 and the subsequent series of moves that doomed both the franchise and any chance we had of actually loving baseball. At the top of that list stands, defiantly and rotundly, Bobby Bonilla. Maybe Hubie Brooks was worse on the field. And maybe Vince Coleman was worse off it. But nobody seemed embodied all that was wrong about the Mets than Bobby-Bo, a guy who just really didn't seem to give a shit.
And why should he have. After few excellent seasons teamed with Barry Bonds (in his normal head-size era) he came to New York and was showered with a, huge at the time, 5 year, $29 million dollar deal. It's been said that money changes people. But it really doesn't, it only magnifies their best or worst traits. Bonilla was a bad guy in Pittsburgh, allegedly assaulting a clubhouse attendant because he wouldn't segregate the Bonilla family from the commoners in the stands. In New York, the rich Bonilla was even more of a problem, threatening to show Bob Klapisch "the Bronx", complaining to the scorer about being charged with errors and just generally being a problem. His underwhelming, but not disastrous, combined .267, 73 homeruns (including a career-high 34) and 224 RBIs didn't help so, in the midst of his best season (hitting .325 with 18 home runs and 53 RBIs in 80 games) the Mets took their first, best opportunity and moved him, just to get away from the stink. In proof that the universe is screwed up, he went on to have an excellent season in Baltimore and, disgustingly, win a World Series with the rent-a-team Florida Marlins. If that was the end of the story, it would have been fine. But, of course, since they're the Mets, it wasn't.
No, in 1999, during the pennant race, the Mets thought it prudent to go out and reaquire the man who had once laid waste to their fair clubhouse. Not surprisingly, he fought with manager Bobby Valentine's and ended his tenure with a bang by playing cards in the clubhouse as the Mets were eliminated from the playoffs by the hated Atlanta Braves. After that little card game, the Mets rightfully released Bonilla and the rest of his career passed without incident with his most enduring accomplishment being injured as a Cardinal and replaced by an unheralded rookie named Albert Pujols.
Again, if that was the end, it would barely be worth discussion. He would have faded off into bolivian. But because they are still the Mets it, or course, isn't. You see, instead of just paying him the $5.9m they owed Bonilla when they released him, the Mets decided to defer it. For 11 years. Anyone who's ever had a credit card or owed the Mob money knows when you defer making payments, it grows. A lot. So that $5.9m, it's now $30m. And the Mets, who can't afford to keep ownership of the team or players like Jose Reyes, will be paying almost $2m a year to Bonilla until 2035 as an eternal reminder of their ineptitude.
That, friends, is Reason 4,723 why it sucks to be a Mets fan.
Have a sports question you want answered? Want to suggest a topic or become a contributor? Have a story with a dumb commenters that need to be ridiculed? Email us at thepersnicketyproject@gmail.com.
