Cashman: [scribbling in journal] Okay, so. I like the way Wang matches up with Beckett, so he gets Game One…

Headwarmer: What’s up?

Cashman: Not much, headwarmer. Just setting the ALCS roster.

Headwarmer: The what?

Cashman: ALCS roster. We’re taking this show to Boston, baybee! ::Gets back to scribbling::

Headwarmer: Are you nuts? It’s over.

Cashman: What’s over?

Headwarmer: The season, you oaf. We got beat. By the Cleveland Indians. We’re going home.

Cashman: But… we’ve got a plane to Boston. It’s waiting.

Headwarmer: Let the Indians take it. We’re on winter break.

Cashman: F@#k you, headwarmer. You’re not shutting down my good time. We’re the New York Yankees. We’re going to the ALCS.

Headwarmer: F@#k me? F@#k me? No, buddy. F@#k you. And f@#k the Yankees.

Cashman: [gasps] F@#k the Yankees? Bite your tongue!

Headwarmer: No, f@#k the Yankees with their “we’ve got more rings than you” and “Yankee pride.” Since 2001, you know what you guys have been? The world’s most expensive failure, so caught up in your own mystique you let the Red Sox pull the rug of 2004 out from underneath you.


Headwarmer: F@#k Derek Jeter with his Gatorade commercials and omnipresent chewing gum and fist-pumps after he’s safe at first on a fielder’s choice. The guy’s got supermodels lined up outside his door, millions in the bank and a fistful of rings. Think he’s hungry anymore?

Cashman: No. Stop.

Headwarmer: F@#k Roger Clemens. Guy sits around all winter, mauling donuts and Texas Light, then dangles his bloated, pock-marked ass outside our office and we bury him in cash and private jets. Hey, thanks for coming back, Roger. You really made a difference.

Cashman: You can’t…

Headwarmer: F@#k Jason Giambi. Greasy slimeball motherf@#ker injects himself with HGH with the same hand he uses to sign autographs for kids. You betray our trust, you dirtbag. You besmirch the very game on which you’ve built your sad-ass career.

Cashman: [Blocking ears.] No…

Headwarmer: F@#k Alex Rod-ree-gwez. A-Rod, baby! Yeah! Highest paid player in baseball and when we need him most, he turns to loose change. And his agent has the balls to tell us he might be leaving? Hey, don’t do us any favors, pal.

Cashman: It’s not right…

Headwarmer: F@#k Joba Chamberlain. The new face of the franchise. The heir to Roger Clemens. The next generation of Yankee superstar. The punk waltzes around like he’s got cojones of steel, throwin’ at people’s heads and screamin’ his balls off in the dugout. And he gets thrown off his game by a couple mosquitoes? Give me a f@#king break!

Cashman: [pulls from bottle of whiskey.]

Headwarmer: F@#k Mike Mussina. The smug guy. The smart guy. Hey, calculate this, motherf@#ker: since you got here with your fat contract and your Matthew Perry charm and your penchant for throwing teammates under the bus when you can’t hold a lead or wet your pants with the bases loaded, we haven’t won shyte!

Cashman: Please…

Headwarmer: F@#k Johnny Damon, selling his soul to come to our side. You had it all and then you threw it away, you dumb f@#k!

Cashman: Not Johnny. No…

Headwarmer: And f@#k Joe Torre. Crying in the clubhouse, cozying up to Don Zimmer and saying how “this win meant the most to us” and how “these guys really battled for everything.” Just take your paycheck and hit the golf course and let us get someone with a little more piss and hellfire in here, Gramps.

Cashman: Sacrilege. It’s sacrilege.

Headwarmer: In fact, f@#k this whole city and everyone in it. From the row houses of Astoria to the penthouses on Park Avenue. From the projects in the Bronx to the lofts in Soho. From the tenements in Alphabet City to the brownstones in Park slope to the split levels in Staten Island. Let an earthquake crumble it. Let the fires rage. Let it burn to f@#kin ash then let the waters rise and submerge this whole, rat-infested place.

Cashman: Wow. Okay, so. I guess we’re done.

Headwarmer: [lights cigarette] Yes. Real done.

Cashman: That’s too bad. Joe really wanted to keep his job.

Headwarmer: Hey, I wanted to be a pair of Eva Longoria’s slacks. Instead, I ended up on your worthless noggin.

* * * * * * * *

Today’s monologue completely lifted from Edward Norton’s diatribe in The 25th Hour, one of the single most underrated films of the past ten years. You can see the actual rant here, but it sure ain’t safe for work.