Jason Bay has rejected the Sox' initial offer of four years at 60 million bucks. My question for you this morning is what's the highest amount you'd want to see the front office pay to keep his 36 home runs, 119 RBIs, 162 strikeouts and .384 OBP (all 2009 stats) in Boston?

Anybody home?


If you're waiting for "Get Your Picture Taken With the 2008 MVP Day," that's only on Wednesdays.


We're actually lookin' for yer roommate. Is he around?


Probably upstairs tuggin' on his jay-jay. Want me to get him?


Indeed.


What's up?


That was fast.


Ah. Mornin', there, Jacoby.


Hi.


We understand that you'll be wearin' a new number next season.


That's right. Number two.


I see. Ya know, sometimes wearin' the number two can get you into all sorts of trouble.


Huh?


What my brother's tryin' to say is that some cultures consider the number two to be a little unlucky, heralding the arrival of all sorts of bad stuff. Like plague or pestilence or a new John Mayer album.


You're a pretty good lookin' guy. I mean, just imagine if you was running after a pop fly and fell and smashed your face into a pile of bricks or, say, the side of someone’s gun. I mean, that'd hurt, mate. You follow?


Uh...


Or let's just imagine, for a moment, that summa that bad luck followed you home. I mean, that's a nice lookin' award you got there for most stolen bases by a Red Sox player. But, y'know, things break.


Are... are you guys threatening me?


Threatenin's a strong word, mate. We're just makin' sure you've properly considered all the other numbers out there. Y'know, besides the number two.


Anyways, our boss is the only one who does the threatening. He'd like a word with you, too.


Your boss?


Hello, Jacoby.


Remy! I... I--


You what? You gonna tell me how you weren’t on the phone the minute Brad Mills left town so you could snag number two all for yourself? ::Casually tosses beer bottle to the side of the room and starts to roll up sleeves::


::moving back:: No, no. It's just... I've always wanted to wear number two, and--


And you think just like that we have to give it up?


No. I mean--


Look here, pretty boy. Number two ain't just something you inherit. It's something you earn. Something you fight for. Think you're man enough to wear it?


Well, I--


Back in the day, when I wanted to wear number two, think they just handed it over to my rookie ass? Feck, no! First I had to pay off Mikey Andrews and Doug Griffin, because that's just what you did. Are you ready to pay?


Pay?


Then Dewey and Butch Hobson put the number two jersey on a Bengal tiger and locked me in a cage with it, saying that whoever comes out wearing the jersey gets to keep it. And that’s why, to this day, I’m the only major leaguer with a pair of Bengal Tiger slacks. BECAUSE I WANTED IT MORE THAN THE TIGER.


You're frightening me.


Not to mention the game of “Find the key hidden somewhere on Bob Watson’s body” that I was subjected to if I wanted to get into my locker. I won’t sicken you with the details, but it was probably the most romantic night of Bob’s life.


::Covering his ears:: No more. Please.


Then, just when I thought the number two was finally mine, Yaz came up and kicked me square in the nuts. And when I asked him why, you know what he said?


No?


He said he did it BECAUSE HE WAS YAZ. And as I writhed on the floor, clasping my onions, he pointed and laughed before walking off in a cloud of cigar smoke and teenage girls. But the very next day, when I got to the park, that number two jersey was hanging in my locker. Because I earned it. So now it’s your turn to earn it. ::strips off his clothes:: You think you’re man enough for number two? Kick these nuts. Just you try to kick my nuts!


::Shielding his eyes:: Please, Remy, put your pants back on. I don’t want to see your nuts and I don’t want to kick them and I don’t want your number. You can have it.


Really?


Yes. Just take it.


Well that was easier than I thought. Come on, boys. Let’s roll.


Boss, don’t you want to put your pants back on first?


I’m Jerry Remy, motherf#$ker. I wear pants only when it’s convenient for me to do so.


::sidles over to Jacoby:: Dude, that was awesome.


Glad you were amused.


Also, you’re kind of a pussy.

:: The Next Day::


Well, since I couldn’t be number two, I just decided to take the two and add a one to it. So my new number is twenty-one.


Alls well that ends well. Time to call some hookers.

::knock at the door::


Why don’t you get that first. I’ve got to fill out my licensing paperwork.


It’s for you.


What's up, peckerhead?

* * * * * * * * * *

Interestingly, only three Red Sox players have worn the number two for more than one season since Remy left the Sox: Luis Rivera, Damon Buford and Carl Everett. Coach Millsy has worn it since 2004.

Oh, and if you didn't know this, the theme for today’s episode was shamelessly cribbed from this Monty Python classic:

Only, it won't be. Because George Kottaras, the light-hitting, fast-loving and oft-injured back-up catcher, has been waived by the Sox and picked up by the Brewers.

This move leaves us with two catchers, one Canadian (With Kottaras' departure, Bay is now the Sox' lone Canuck) and nobody named George. And that, as they say, is that.

Stepping out of the fog of business travel for a few moments yesterday, I was saddened to hear about the passing of Ken Ober, former host of MTV’s game show Remote Control.

Honestly, I was never a big fan of Remote, and it’s hard to wax nostalgic for a show that pushed Adam Sandler, Colin Quinn and Kari Wuhrer on an unsuspecting world. But Ober always seemed to rise above it all, giving knowing glances to the camera as if to acknowledge to all of us watching at home that, yes, this sucks, but he really needs to eat.

That said, having consumed a night’s worth of Remote Control re-runs being shown on MTV2 to commemorate Ober, I gotta say the show holds up as a handy if wince-inducing Cliffs Notes version of growing up in the late '80s. And the “Beat the Bishop” segment, in which contestants have to answer questions before a guy dressed as a bishop completes a lap around the studio, is bloody genius.

Anyway, godspeed, Mr. Ober, to that podium in the sky.

I'm back. Or did I really ever go away? Not for you to know. Just listen. Everything happens for a reason. Consider all the theories you've heard for the past 48 hours about the Patriots-Colts game, and let it go. Dust in the wind. Forget every mangled statistic you've heard defending how going for a 4th and 2 inside your own 30 gives you a better chance to win a football game than punting the ball away and making Mr. Manning work for his glory. What? You didn't know I was a sports fan? I'm not. I'm a fan of the truth and the deception that makes you believe that truth. Forget the Kool-Aid drinking media and their "In Bill We Trust" mantra. Forget the enraged fans that think Belichick has "lost it" - too consumed by his own ego and invincibility to make the right call. Yes, forget it all. Everything happens for a reason...just not the reason you might think. There is a greater power out there controlling the fate of men, moving even the great Bill Belichick like a pawn on a chessboard. No, no, don't look to the sky. The great puppetmaster walks among us, pulling strings, making us dance. Verbal Kint said it best: "The greatest trick the Devil ever pulled was convincing the world he didn't exist." While you were commiserating over what could have been, drowning the echoes of "4th and 2" with so much cheap booze and wanton sexual escapades, he struck again. Right under your noses. While you were caught up in the smokescreen he created with one quick phone call to The Coach, he had his hand in your pocket, pulling out just a few dollar bills, nothing you'd notice. Don't believe me? I didn't expect you too. But think about it. We'll talk again soon.

A few years ago, I found myself in a heated argument about former Sox prospect Abe Alvarez.

After the second-round pick was named Pitcher of the Year for the Sea Dogs back in ’04, I figgered he’d eventually prove a useful left-handed cog in the machine, most likely at the back of the rotation. The other gentleman politely disagreed, claiming Honest Abe was a soft-tosser destined to unravel in the big show. Fueled by the demon alcohol, our disagreement quickly got out of hand.

Needless to say, I ended up killing the other guy with a crude weapon fashioned from a broken Schlitz bottle and plutonium. But I still carry the lesson of that day: Prospects are prospects, and no matter what the stat sheets and minor league reports tell you, you’re never quite sure what they’re going to give you on the main stage.

It’s a point that the great Chad Finn hammers home in his insightful piece on what it’s gonna take for the Sox to pry Adrian Gonzalez from San Diego.

Simply put, it’s gonna take prospects. Lots of them. And with Jed Hoyer’s intimate knowledge of our farm system, you can safely bet he’ll be weeding the contenders from the pretenders. As Chad notes:

If Theo has to part with Casey Kelly (is he closer to the next Frankie Rodriguez or closer to the next Zack Greinke?) or Ryan Westmoreland (are the injuries officially a concern?) or frankly, anyone in the organization with legitimate aspirations of playing in Fenway Park someday, he must do it, unless and only unless he's covertly hoarding his chips for a possible Felix Hernandez sweepstakes.

Otherwise, he's got to go get Gonzo. He won't be 28 until May, he's a terrific defender with a pair of Gold Gloves (for what those are worth), and he's coming off a monster season (40 homers, 119 walks, .958 OPS; 28 homers and 1.045 OPS away from the Petco Canyon) while anchoring a lineup that featured no one else more venerable than Will Venable.

I not only concur, I'll even bring the argument down a few notches by offering another, more sordid reason to deplete the farm for A-Gon. Have you seen his wife, Betsy?


Together, Mr. and Mrs. G front the Adrian and Betsy Gonzalez Foundation, which helps underprivileged youth. And I have to say, having another hot charitable wife in the stands never hurts.

In fact, it’ll almost be enough to help us overlook the unstoppable barrage of “Yo, Adrian” headlines.

Baseball is in hibernation, we can no longer trust Bill, the Celts lost two in a row...tomorrow will be a better day.

Everytime I turned on a radio this week, all I heard was BradyManningBradyManningBradyManning. True, the Patriots and the Colts are playing Sunday night. But people, it's a regular season game in November. It's not the Superbowl, it's not the playoffs, and it certainly isn't going to determine which one of them is the greatest quarterback of all time. Someone will win and someone will lose. And if it's the Colts that win, you can be sure the Big Show clowns will be blaming the referees.

So to avoid the incessant babble, I flipped over to 103.3 to sweat to the oldies and they were playing Christmas songs. Ditto on 105.7.

What is going on with the world?

Belated congrats to future ex-Red Sox Jason Bay for winning his first Silver Slugger award.

Congrats, also, to The Great Untanned's agent, who will no doubt be able to spin this into a couple more zeros. Or a boat.

Congratulations to Clay Buchholz for pulling off the most mismatched marriage since Salman Rushdie scored Padma Lakshmi. Clay and "Deal Or No Deal" briefcase opener Lindsay Clubine (right) will tie the knot in California later today. The event will inspire millions of not-so-good-looking young boys across the nation to go out in their backyard and learn how to throw a curveball.

Oddly, while "researching" for this post, I couldn't find a single mention of Clay on Lindsay's website.