To fire your manager midseason.

Last year, it was the Marlins who spent a midseason stormy night digging up the literal remains of Jack McKeon from his grave, recomposing his decomposed body, and giving him control of the Fighting Fish and their 4,000-fan base, leading them to the promised land that he could not find in his first death.

This year it’s the Astros that managed to scrape Phil Garner off the literal dung heap, shower him up, scour the symbolic banana peels (which are, in fact, actual used diapers) off his mustache, and suit him up for playoff duty.

Next year, when you’re standing in line for an unemployment check because of that throwing-a-sack-of-ferrets-at-your-boss misunderstanding, make sure to get Dusty Baker’s, Jim Tracy’s, and Tony Pena’s autographs. You can sell them for drugs. Which, in turn, you can barter for woolen hats.

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That John Kruk is a golden god.

Oh boy, is he ever! I’m blushing just thinking about that stout genius.

If you missed this season of Baseball Tonight, where The Kruk-raker gave his varying opinions on Jeter’s catch, Pedro’s daddy, or Burrell’s impotence, then you missed something truly special. And you should be ashamed.

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To draft Ken Griffey Jr. as your fourth outfielder.

And pray for the glue to hold him together for 60 games, or 250 at-bats, whichever comes first. If you go into the season expecting more, Junior will leave you constipated with disgust, your only diarrheic being complete inebriation.

The alcoholic blackouts will have both a positive and negative effect. Positive: Blacking out the memory of throwing your dog out of your seventh-floor window. Negative: Trading Gary Sheffield for Hideo Nomo.

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Not to forget Poland.


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That the Braves will win every division championship until 2015.

And then they’ll only lose by a half-game to the Phillies, who will finally get over The Terror of Larry Bowa. What makes the streak most impressive, however, is that

Bobby Cox will win five of those championships with Chan Ho Park as his ace, and Chuck Johnson as his battery mate. Kudos.

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That the Mets are retarded.

If I came up to you before the season and told you that the Mets would trade away one of the best minor league pitchers in recent history, Scott Kazmir, for Victor Zambrano, you would laugh at my nonsense, punch me in the face, steal my wallet, woo away my girlfriend, mow my grandma’s lawn too closely, and tape over my eight VHS tapes of Seinfeld with reruns of Who’s the Boss?

I would get the last laugh, though, by using the tapes to analyze Alyssa Milano’s rise from prepubescent sex icon to postpubescent sex icon; writing three treatises and 14 book-length poems on the subject; and receiving a marriage proposal from Ms. Milano herself. I will reject her, however, because I will feel she is using me for my gobs of money and enormous genitals. Later, I’ll find out that she loved me because of my intellect and generous soul. I will spend the rest of my life wondering what ’Lyssa is doing.

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That Lindsay Lohan has breasts.

The six-month-long national campaign of unveiling these dual delights to the masses made this past baseball season fly right by.

Also: they make John Kruk’s boobs look bad in comparison.

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The definition of “quagmire.”

Whether discussing (a) that minor skirmish in the brownish country with all the oil, (b) Family Guy, or © the Cubs season of inadequacy, this word’s a keeper. Use it as the cheddar cheese of conversation: peppered throughout and layered heavily on top of everything. Simmer to perfection.

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So that’s that. Hope you enjoyed it.

Thanks to everyone for the queries on how to manage their fake baseball teams, and to those who offered lengthy sonnets on their heckling exploits. If the lash marks on my back have healed by next season (bestowed by a heavily intoxicated John Warner after he received my “Trade Deadline Winners and Losers” a day late), maybe I’ll even be back for more.

But seeing as the scabs have recently broken open, ruining my authentic Jack Wilson throwback jersey in the process, I guess we can’t take anything for granted.