Gone to the Dogs

Hey, no worries.
Truth be told, I wasn't happy about the idea of a back-in anyway, and I was less happy about the price of a back-in being another W on the ledger of the Antichrist himself. (That didn't happen, though the Phillies did somehow survive second and third with none out.) I know, I know, I'm being a picky little bitch and if my March self could see this he'd vault ahead through time and give his slightly older self a smack in the chops for being spoiled. But still: Mets in street clothes popping champagne in little groups at the hotel bar because Roger Clemens won a game? Ick. I'd rather wait a day.
Still, there's such a thing as taking this too far, and I'm already on dangerous ground. If the Astros win tomorrow before we take the field, I'll probably shake my head a bit, but I'll immediately vault into the ranks of the 0.00001% happiest people on earth and stay there for hours or days. If the Phils stave off division-title execution and we celebrate on the field, add a few more zeros to my altitude in the happiness stratosphere. If the chase goes into Sunday? I'll manage to whoop it up something fierce. Monday? I've got a ticket; I'll find a way to have champagne on hand. (Or maybe just the champagne of beers.)
As for tonight, I don't blame Pedro or Paul Maholm's left arm or some plays not made or jetlag or anything else. You know what I blame? That weird ad for Pup-Peroni. It was hypnotizing; from the moment they put it up behind the batter, my eyes got dragged to it. Pup-a-What? Do people really buy that? Why? Dogs will eat stones and bark if you just toss them in the air, and that shit's free. What do pizza dog treats do to dog breath? What's the count? What inning is it again?
You get the idea. Once the invitation to buy strange dog treats arrived, I couldn't concentrate on anything else. Which was just as well, as “anything else” chiefly consisted of Mets hitting into double plays.