Peter King is Scaring Me

SOMEWHERE ALONG THE COURTNEY CAMPBELL CAUSEWAY BETWEEN CLEARWATER AND TAMPA -- It was another pleasant valley Thursday at spring training, and I was returning to the Sports Illustrated condo in Tampa after a day with the Blue Jays in Gulf-Coastal Dunedin when the cell phone rang.

"Hey, Peter. It's John Lynch."

"Wow," I told the soon-to-be-ex-Tampa Bay safety. "I'm just listening to this melodrama on the radio. You got whacked today. Pretty wild."

 

Just consider it an Enjoyable/Aggravating PK Note of the Week

 

From today:
One other note from the road:

Changing planes at DFW on Sunday, I used the men's room near one of the American gates. I walked into one of the toilet stalls with the automatic flushers.

WHOOOOOSH. I closed the door to the stall and sat down.

Three more times I heard the same WHOOOOOSH as I sat there and minded my own business.

Of course, no flush when I get up and leave the stall. Gotta love technology.

 

I tried to think of a world where readers would actually care about that anecdote.
Then I guzzled antifreeze and laid down to die.

 

At some point while he is typing that crap, doesn't he say to himself, WTF?

 

If you had his twitter feed, you could have gotten that update as "it" happened.

 

Oh, if you were only that lucky.

 

This is what makes him one of the true insiders.

 

This is the post I would have typed had I not drunk the antifreeze.
You have to have, like, no shame to publish that.

 

Part of me thinks he wrote that on a dare while bragging to someone that his editors will publish anything he submits.

 

Maybe he won the bet.