Dave The Dastardly

Is that why they call it a sanctuary?

My Chief Procurement Officer and I (Titular Head of Household) start every day bird-watching over morning coffee and cookies (she makes these tremendous shortbreads) from either the sun room or the deck, weather depending. But our orioles are limited to the Baltimore and Orchard varieties. We'd kick the coffee table over with excitement if one of these babies ever landed at one of her feeders. But I'd make sure there was no damage to the shortbreads. A man's gotta keep his priorities straight...

The Rangers should be the Lonesome Doves.

Two tousand feet! Uff Da! I heard dat dey can see Norway from up dere. You betcha!

I like those pretty boobies!

Been through Ames many a time. You know, because it's in the middle. If it was at the end I wouldn't go "through" it. It's a nice place to go through, just like my home town is a nice place to be from. They both look good in the rearview mirror; one says you're on the road to greener pastures and the other says you're not there yet.

Forties? I have shoes older than that.

I have driven through Kansas numerous times. It was sort of like a "why did the chicken cross the road" thing: I needed to get to the other side. Now Nebraska; let me tell you about driving through Nebraska. The first time I did it was back in the 1970's. In a pickup truck without air - not the air you need to breathe, the air you need to keep your cool. I really had no intention of being in Nebraska. It was just in the way of me getting to Colorado and escaping my in-laws for a couple of weeks. It was July. Mid-day temps were barely south of 100, humidity was like having a wet blanket slapping you in the face. I had both windows open but the resultant breeze was akin to sticking your head into a blast furnace. I had the Platte on my left, a paltry line of scrubby trees hiding its muddy brown waters. To the right were relatively flat parched pastures, an occasional forlorn cow contemplating suicide and on the western horizon a line of railroad cars stretching from here to eternity. An hour later I was in the same place despite my gas gauge having dropped a notch. Two hours later I was in the same place, despite what my odometer was telling me. Three hours later, with the sun now shining in my eyes and bringing the cab temperature up around 150 degrees, I started to wonder if I had died and gone to Hell, condemned to spend eternity in a hot truck driving through Nebraska with the Platte river hiding behind skinny trees on my left and long trains that either never ended or weren't moving on my right. Four hours later I was still in the same place and I was contemplating suicide along with the forlorn cows. Then, just after I'd begun pawing through the cab with the thin hope that I'd left a pistol under the seat (I didn't even own a pistol) that I could use to end it all, I caught a glimpse of dark shadows on the western horizon that slowly grew in size. Mountains! Laughing deliriously, I eased the truck up to 90 mph. Salvation was mine! Until I got stopped by a highway cop. I've crossed Nebraska a half dozen times since, but always at night. In an air-conditioned vehicle. At the speed limit. Crossing Nebraska is sort of like being a Twins fan; it's a long and endless journey, the scenery never seems to change and just when you think you've finally suffered enough, something comes along to dash your hopes.

I'm at a loss. Does the FO think we need help with the pitching staff? How did they come to that conclusion? What was the first, second, third, fourth clue?

Gee, I'm not impressed. How come the Twins only sign guys the buzzards are circling? Don't we have anybody in the minors who isn't dead meat? Are we really sure Terry Ryan isn't pulling levers behind the big curtain?

Dude! Highness is a state of mind.

The last Chicago guy I looked in the eye gave me a belligerent "What are you looking at a$$hole." That was my brother. Experts say you should never look a mad dog or a Chicagoan in the eye as they consider a direct look a challenge. Even the guys in the toll booths scowled at me when I said "Hi, how's the wife and kids? Got change for a hundred?"

I see what you mean. I love the flowers but what are those big brown things? Rotten molars? And that green guy... one of the Transformers?

Don't do it. It's addictive.

Hey, I'm happy because I never have to go to either NYC or ShyTown ever again. I'll admit it, I'm a BigCityphob. Man was never meant to live in hives or swim upstream on cement highways hoping to fertilize something (an idea, a paycheck or a fellow human being) before they die. Give me the wide open spaces where men are men, women are naturally gorgeous and you can catch a baseball game from the comfort of your own couch where the beer's cheaper, the refrigerator is a few steps away and the bathroom's just down the hall. Wait a minute... I just heard a car go by. First one this morning. Damn traffic! Going to ruin the neighborhood if this keeps up!

I had an irregular heartbeat once. But after I left the strip club it straightened right out... the heartbeat I mean.

Should we consult the Twoth Fairy?

I heard the Portly Panamanian is going to be in town, maybe they're waiting to re-sign him.

David Alan Coe turned me on to country. I'll take that beer. Just don't call me by my name.

Don't worry. If there are, the Twins will find them. I'm going to cry myself to sleep, knowing full well when I awake the Twins world will be a darker place. How 'bout them Vikings!

Your perspicacity speaks volumes. But that muffled thud we hear in the background is the excitement over our new high school shortstop.

Instead we got bupkis?

They'll be into the bullpen by then. Bring your blindfold. Maybe a cigarette... Firing squad optional.

I live 60 miles from the ballpark and there's always a dark cloud over my house.

I'm stunned. Shades of ignoring an immediate need for a long term project. Al la Vikings? Treadwell instead of an O-lineman? Is there something in the Minnesota water?