And thy name is Mike Francesa. Yes, you miserable rat bastard....
I don't know why I let this over.... uh, bearing, yeah, that's right, overbearing, overstuffed, blowhard of a windbag take up space on this here blog, but today, I thought he truly deserved another mention.
I'm on my way up to north Jersey last night, to Ft. Lee, to be exact. Never mind for what..... anyway, I'm listening to Francesa on the FAN, talking about the Yankee/Oriole game then in progress. The score goes from 6-1 in favor of the Orioles to 6-5 in favor of the Orioles rather quickly, and Francesa is sitting on his oversized throne, glibly extolling the non-virtues of the Oriole bullpen (i.e., they have none), loudly proclaiming in peacock tones and tenor that the Orioles will have their hearts broken by the [insert favorite Francesa adjective for the Yankees here] Yankees.... and no sooner the shit was out of the shinola than Yankee middle relief coughs up four runs and the "non-existent" Oriole bullpen shuts the door on the [insert favorite Francesa adjective for the Yankees here] Yankees.
And them, folks, is all she wrote.
It's really hard to believe anybody takes this [insert your favorite adjective for Francesa here] idiot seriously.