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The verification code writers are scraping the bottom of the barrel for words these days. Or else they're just playing a fun game of irony.

This is the bar closest to my new apartment. (Not named after the pitcher, but the recently deceased Irish owner.)

There's only like 1 window so I can't really get a good look inside. So I did some online research and found the following feedback:

Scariest dive bar in NYC. You won't find anyone in here younger than 50 unless it's a prostitute. And even then.... Only chronic alcoholics are welcome here. I stumbled inside out of curiosity (and drunken mirth) one late Saturday night and I was immediately regretting it. The bartender suggested I take my still-full Budweiser out the door. I practically ran out. --Thomas K.
Noted. Also:

A sports bar/dive bar/place where old drunks go to die, Phil Hughes sells pints of Bud for $3 and has a surprising amount of TV's given the space. If you stop in here, chances are you'll hear Irish music on the jukebox and find an Irish bartender mixing some strong drinks (just keep the drinks simple). It also opens really early just in case you wake up with a bad case of the shakes (most of the patrons do). Just one more note of advice, if an old guy with a white beer asks you to pull his finger, don't. He actually just ends up shitting himself (I can't believe he didn't foresee that happening). --Stuart S.
That is sound advice. Good looking out, Stuart S.

Coincidentally enough, it's right next to The Bullpen.

* * *

Today was a rough Monday. And I didn't put up much of a fight. Pretty much let it batter me around, and now I'm very much ready to retreat, call today a wash, and do my best to cope until Yankee games resume.

I guess you could say I'm not losing like a Mexican boxer. Sorry, Ozzie.

Maybe it's just because his name is Ozzie, but I am starting to see a resemblance:

And this pointless observation made me think of this item from a few years ago that cracked me up for some reason:

Stop Singing and Lick Me
Chubby chick #1: Oh my god, you know who I look like and who I sound like? I saw like this really, really old CD of Barbara Cook, and she's so much fatter than me, but we sing exactly alike! [Sings.]
Chubby chick #2: I don't really think I look like anybody. That's not true -- I look like a Gummi Bear.

--Starbucks, 52nd & Lex
via Overheard in New York, Nov 30, 2007

oaweuirhakljsdal;sdmasdmasd grumble grumble. It's like Monday saw me toiling around at my desk and just complacently giving in, and decided to deliver the final blow that would undoubtedly, and unnecessarily, aggravate me.

What is it about vending machines that can always tip you over the edge? I wonder how many people's mental breakdowns take place in an office kitchen because the Zagnut bar didn't fall all the way to the bottom.

Or...sigh...because their was a dark void where the Cheeze-Its should have been. That's it, Mikey. That's all I can take, and I can't take no more.

I'm such a pain in the ass. I'm like a cranky toddler who needs a baseball pacifier shoved in his mouth.

To be clear, I meant a figurative baseball.


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