I'm (expletive) sorry

By Harvey McGuffin
I remember when ...

Men normally don't admit their wrong. That's the way it's been done for 100 years, and no pansy umpire is going to change evolution.

But I had a strange sensation when I watched Bob Davidson use a series of F-Bombs to explain how he completely (bleeping) blew a call on Sunday Night Baseball, where he disallowed a home run. He did that because he was a moron, and does not know what a foul pole looks like.

Of course, the Mets still won by nine runs and the two that they missed out on because of Bob Davidson didn't really matter. It's only newsworthy because it's the annual media sploogefest known as New York vs. New York. My days of sploogefest have long since passed me by. I'm lucky just to urinate pain-free these days.

This odd apology has given me new perspective. After all, I'm going to die someday, and my kids aren't going to get anything close to the sum of money they expect. I do love stringing them along, however, as they politely come visit me every Sunday and pretend like they're all interested. Fuckers.

With the last laugh already written on a legal document, I might as well use this opportunity to apologize for all those times through the years I've been wrong. Allow me to use Bob Davidson as my beacon of contrition.

1920: I'm sorry, Harry Frazee, that I told you to sell that one fat guy to the Yankees so you could finance your Broadway show. I still maintain you can't pass up a chance at Broadway, but I concede that the fat guy was probably the wrong guy to trade. I (expletive) blew that one.

1969: I'm sorry, my beloved Colts, for getting that punk Joe Namath drunk during the week of the big game. I thought we were in good shape when he opened his big yap and started talking about guarantees. Nobody (expletive) feels worse about that than me.

1983: I'm sorry, Portland. You probably shouldn't have paid me all that money to be a consultant prior to the NBA Draft. I knew that kid from North Carolina was good, but if you had seen Sam Bowie play, you would have gotten that tingling feeling like I did. I think it was Bowie who caused all that. Anyway, I'm a (expletive) stick and totally (expletive) that up.

1989: I'm sorry, baseball. It was a very dark period in my life, and I happened to be using a whole lot of fantastic anabolic steroids so at least my body was bitching, even if my mind was not. I should have never invited Jose Canseco to my grandson's bat mitzvah. (Expletive)! I (expletive).

1997: I'm sorry, Evander Holyfield. I needed the money and paid your trainer to sprinkle some seasoned salt on your ear, hoping it would drive Mike Tyson into a furious rage of awesomeness. I wasn't exactly sure what it would do, but I can promise you that wasn't the intended effect. If I wasn't such a (expletive) (expletive), the world would be a better (expletive) place.

2003: I'm sorry, Chicago Cubs. I had a bad case of the runs when I was watching Game 6 of the NLCS at Wrigley Field, and I told this nerdy punk kid that he could sit in my seat down the left field foul line. I was in the can for 25 minutes. When I went in, the Cubs were on their way to the World Series. When I came out, everything smelled like shit. (Series of expletives). Also, (expletive).