Here’s a Follow-up on that Not Crazy Mets Conspiracy

“I got a great lead, chief!” I yelled to my editor, bursting into the room.  “A real headliner!  This one’ll really jump off the page and strangle the readers!”

Confused and disoriented, he sat up in bed and turned on the lamp.  “Wha… who is it?  Justin?  What the… how did you get into my house!”

“No time!” I exclaimed, shattering the lamp to make my point: This was serious.  We continued the rest of the conversation in complete darkness.

I went into my deal from earlier today, when I deduced that Escogido, the team in the Dominican Republic on which Domonic Brown is getting zero playing time and whose coach is Ken Oberkfell, a current minor league Mets coach, was in the midst of a wide-reaching conspiracy.

Well now I had it.

The Mets easily talked Oberkfell, a shill still trying to live off an embarrassing playing career, into benching Brown, and therefore stilting the development of one of our best bets for the future of Phillies success.  In exchange, they would hire him as the next Mets manager.  It made total sense, especially when Oberkfell was announced as an interviewee for the position and no one suspected anything.

Oberkfell tried to get a coaching job with the Nationals, and was turned away.  He even compromised and went for a first base coaching job with the Mets, and was turned down.  Jilted and brimming with rage and envy, he was an eyelash from a killing spree, when suddenly the Mets saw the chance to take advantage of a delicate man at the end of his rope.

They manipulated the clearly insane Oberkfell into thinking he was an actual candidate for the job, then convinced him the only way to make it a sure thing was to fuck over the Phillies. Oberkfell’s most legendary years involved having a beard and being on the Braves–where there is no love for Philadelphia either.  The hate was in him.  And the Mets, as they have been known to do, brought it out with little trouble.

Here’s another site that I’m positive affirms Oberkfell’s guilt in the whole thing.  I’m pretty sure “vaticina” means “dickweed” and “Ken Oberkfell” means “heinous conspirator,” so we’ve got the ball rolling.

But here’s the worst part.  Mets GM Sandy Alderson just emailed all the Mets fans (Seriously, he apparently does this all the time.  I’d love to have direct contact with the Phillies front office.  The bathroom mirror is getting sick of hearing my ideas for Phanatic costumes) telling them Oberkfell is in no way going to be the new manager (then put an exclamation point on this announcement by hiring somebody else).

[Yardbarker]

Which is great, right?  Eliminates Ken’s motives to stifle Dom.

Wrong. That is totally fucking worse.

Why you, ask?  Let me answer your question with another question:  Didn’t you see Under Siege with Steven Seagal?

I’m going to have to ask you to jog your memory, readers, and consider the scenes where Seagal wasn’t ripping men’s throats out with his bare hands.  Consider instead the performance of Tommy Lee Jones, in one of the last time that an actor who would be associated with the Oscars would ever appear alongside Seagal (Michael Caine being the only other one, years before in On Deadly Ground).

Jones plays a CIA assassin/conspiratorial cover-up guy who goes off the reservation and hijacks a fucking warship disguised as a rock star.

What does this have to do with winter ball in the Dominican Republic, Ken Oberkfell, and Domonic Brown?  Do you even need to ask?!  A guy woven deeply into the threads of a conspiracy is probably going to go AWOL and do something terrible upon being blacklisted.  The Mets clearly saw where NBC Sports was going with this and started covering their tracks.  One such track was Oberkfell.  He might be a teensy bit pissed that he’s being cast off, especially with their nefarious plans so desperately close to completion.

Can’t you just see Sandy Alderson pulling the plug on the operation from his dimly lit office, surrounded by tight-lipped, dangerous looking henchmen?  I certainly can, and I’m not even crazy.

Beside him, my editor’s wife stirred.  Her half-open eyes immediately identified me in the darkness.  “What?  Not again.  I’m calling the cops.”

“My god!” I exclaimed.  “You’re totally in on this!”

Leaping through the closed window, I landed on a neatly groomed collection of azaleas before galloping truthfully into the night.  This thing went all the way to the top.