From George King in the Post:

Russell Martin was ejected by plate umpire Paul Schrieber in the fifth inning after Hughes believed the ump missed a couple of pitches.

“I said to (the umpire), ‘Did you stretch before the game?’ He said ‘What?’ I asked him again. Then I said, ‘I believe you are kind of tight right now.’ And he threw me out of the game.

“He wanted to hear what I was going to say because why else would he take off his mask and walk around me. I kept my mask on my face, nobody knew what was going on. I thought this was a game it should be fun. I was just trying to loosen things up a bit because he wasn’t having a good time. I didn’t say he sucked, I didn’t say he was the worst umpire in the league, I didn’t say any of that stuff. I just made a joke and he threw me out. No warning. Nothing.

“He said my antics were tired. Me walking to the mound kind of slowly. But it’s frustrating when you are not getting calls. I got thrown out for being funny, I guess. I got thrown out for having a sense of humor. I had Joe [Girardi] laughing. I can’t wait to see the report he is going to write. I felt it was the perfect time to do it. I was just trying to lighten up the mood. It just popped up in my head. I think he took it the wrong way. I just thought of it on the way back from seeing Phil. Phil was getting frustrated. a My standup days are over, shortlived. We can’t talk anymore. I was shocked I got thrown out. I was just trying to get him to laugh.”

Tough room, huh?

[Drawing by the great Drew Friedman]

Take a minute, or seven, to enjoy one of the great New Yorkers of them all.

We miss ya, George.

Morning Goof, y’all.

Albert Brooks: Patriot.

[Joe D Lamp via Pitchers n Poets]

The Yankees today announced that they will shut down Phil Hughes for the rest of his career rather than risk any further injuries.

General Manager Brian Cashman told reporters, “You can’t be too careful with young pitchers. And our franchise has so much invested in Hughes that we think the prudent course to ensure his long-term health is to never allow him to throw a baseball again.”

Phil Hughes had hoped to return to the Yankees earlier than never, but is facing his life-long rehabilitation with a brave face. “Your first instinct as a pitcher is, ‘hey I want to pitch.’ But after listening to the doctors and the coaches, it’s pretty clear that this is safest path for me. It stinks I won’t be able to go out there and help the team this year, or any year, but you have to look at the big picture.”

Drs Frank Jobe & James Andrews have submitted applications to dental schools across the country. “It took a smart team like the Yankees to finally figure out the scam. It was a good 30 years,” Dr. Andrews said from the throne room of his palace in the country of Sports-Hernia.

After season ending surgery to Joba Chamberlain shortened the bullpen, the Yankee organization declared they would make sweeping revisions in their pitcher development. Minor League pitch counts would be reduced from 90 to zero for all promising prospects. And Major League pitching coach Larry Rothschild will screen a few episodes of The Six Million Dollar Man in order to figure out to transition from human arms to robotic replacements.

Larry Rothschild said he would make some popcorn in preparation.

Albert Brooks has written a book. I hope it is good.

If it is nearly as funny as this Proust Questionnaire, the world will be an unhappier (but funnier) place.

Alex Rodriguez is not in the line up tonight but we’ll still be cheering.

Let’s Go Yank-ees!

[Image from Winter Leaf.com]

Pysch!

Sometimes there is a scene in a movie that is so good that the rest of the movie pales in comparison. I always felt that Albert Brook’s second movie, “Modern Romance” never recovered after this sequence, where Albert is high on ‘ludes. Enjoy (Mr. Popularity, Mr. Popularity):

The rest of the movie is fun–and we’ll feature another good scene shortly–but this one takes the cake.

Albert Brooks is now on Twitter and the world is a funnier place:

Rough night. took ambien. woke at 3A.M. had a turkey sandwich. this morning daughters parrot’s missing. I’m shitting feathers. coincidence?

6 hours ago Favorite Retweet Reply

AlbertBrooks Albert Brooks

Just finished Mein Kampf. Had no idea it was the same guy.

Thank you, Mr. Brooks.

Matt B Friday continues…here’s a funny piece he hipped me to that Michael O’Donoghue once wrote about How to Write Good.

Check out this fantastic post over at WFMU on the early career of Dave Letterman.

Good looking to Long Form Reads for linking to Hilton Als’ 1999 New Yorker profile of Richard Pyror:

Pryor’s art defies the very definition of the word “order.” He based his style on digressions and riffs—the monologue as jam session. He reinvented standup, which until he developed his signature style, in 1971, had consisted largely of borscht-belt-style male comedians telling tales in the Jewish vernacular, regardless of their own religion or background. Pryor managed to make blacks interesting to audiences that were used to responding to a liberal Jewish sensibility—and, unlike some of his colored colleagues, he did so without “becoming” Jewish himself. (Dick Gregory, for example, was a political comedian in the tradition of Mort Sahl; Bill Cosby was a droll Jack Benny.) At the height of his career, Pryor never spoke purely in the complaint mode. He was often baffled by life’s complexities, but he rarely told my-wife-made-me-sleep-on-the-sofa jokes or did “bits” whose sole purpose was to “kill” an audience with a boffo punch line. Instead, he talked about characters—black street people, mostly. Because the life rhythm of a black junkie, say, implies a certain drift, Pryor’s stories did not have badda-bing conclusions. Instead, they were encapsulated in a physical attitude: each character was represented in Pryor’s walk, in his gestures—which always contained a kind of vicarious wonder at the lives he was enacting. Take, for instance, his sketch of a wino in Peoria, Illinois—Pryor’s hometown and the land of his imagination—as he encounters Dracula. In the voice of a Southern black man, down on his luck:

Hey man, say, nigger—you with the cape. . . . What’s your name, boy? Dracula? What kind of name is that for a nigger? Where you from, fool? Transylvania? I know where it is, nigger! You ain’t the smartest motherfucker in the world, even though you is the ugliest. Oh yeah, you a ugly motherfucker. Why you don’t get your teeth fixed, nigger? That shit hanging all out your mouth. Why you don’t get you an orthodontist? . . . This is 1975, boy. Get your shit together. What’s wrong with your natural? Got that dirt all in the back of your neck. You’s a filthy little motherfucker, too. You got to be home ’fore the sun come up? You ain’t lyin’, motherfucker. See your ass during the day, you liable to get arrested. You want to suck what? You some kind of freak, boy? . . . You ain’t suckin’ nothing here, junior.

Als contends that Pryor’s two greatest albums are “That Nigger’s Crazy,” and “Bicentennial Nigger.” I love the former but think the later is not nearly as good as “Is it Something I Said?” and “Wanted: Live in Concert.” But I do think that Pryor at his peak reached a place that no comic has ever approached, before or since.

[Picture by Ken Taylor]

Over at Esquire, Scott Raab interviews Chris Rock.

I took pride in my ability to imitate batting stances growing up so I never fell in love with the Batting Stance Guy. He is good, very good in some cases, but I’m a tough critic. But I have to say, the kid has skills. This made my day (the Boswell is killer, love Dan’s Sideshow Bob wig, and Ozzie, well, see for yourself and smile):

Thanks to Cliff for pointing out the facts.

The Great Hank Kingsley.

Hey, Now.

Been a fun week, folks. Hope you guys have a great weekend.

Albert talks life with Esquire.