The Christmas gifts that my friend Bean and I exchanged had a childhood flair to them. I sent him peanut butter and jelly from Blackberry Farm, the world-class resort in Walland, Tennessee. Coincidentally, our mutual friend Jimmy Kimmel received a surprise trip to Blackberry Farm for his birthday last November.
Bean sent me a fantastic framed photo of the New York Mets winning the 1969 World Series. That event sealed my fate as a lifelong Mets fan.
Perry Simon is a lifelong Phillies fan, so it’s understandable that he hates the Mets the same way I hate the Phillies. The other day he posted a link to a great story about Mr. Met, the lovable mascot for my team. I was amused by Perry’s take:
Here’s a whole article on the travails of Mr. Met, the cheery mascot of the troubled New York Mets. I’m not sure what the point of the thing is, but Mr. Met always seemed to be a pretty lame mascot to me. I mean, what does he do? He’s a guy with an enormous baseball for a head. Um, okay.
Perry’s comments are hysterical because the mascot for his team is the ridiculous Phillie Phanatic, a cross between Big Bird and a radioactive aardvark. Without his Phillies shirt, who would know what the Phanatic stands for? Even in street clothes, it would be obvious that Mr. Met lives and breathes baseball.
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