So this is the deal.
I'm lounging in nothing but my boxers and knee-high turquoise socks, sipping a can of Natty Light with my pinkie proudly pointing out, alternating between reruns of Press Your Luck and late-night Cinemax, and wondering what Dave Coulier would look like as a girl.
Most people might deem that a pretty sad Friday night, and some might even suggest that I take up Quaaludes as a hobby.
But little do they know that this was the best night I had had since Cats and Dogs opened to rave reviews this summer.
The reason is simple really: I no longer held the distinction of being the human being who sucks the most.
For his handy work last Wednesday and Thursday nights, I handed my crown to Arizona Diamondback closer Byung-Hung Kim.
Normally, I don't like paying attention to other people and their "feelings," but Kim's collapse under the New York lights even drew some sympathy from this misanthrope.
Kim took two well-deserved Arizona victories and spun them into Yankee legend by serving up a pair of meatballs to Tino Martinez and Scott Brosius.
Two nights, two home runs with two outs, two losses. Too bad.
So what if the Diamondbacks took the Fall Classic when Mariano Rivera coughed up two runs in the bottom of the ninth Sunday? Kim may very well have a ring on his finger now, but James Brolin also received one of those after marrying Barbara, and you don't see him bragging about that anymore.
What really hurts about his completely public collapse is that Kim was the hope. Journalists from Korea reported on his performance every night throughout the season, typing away to tell of their native son's great success in the States. Oh, and Korea needed a hero, too.
After having struggled with intense political problems recently, a guy like Kim really means something to a nation. He offers just a little hope, a little distraction to a people who really need it. Children pretend to be him in pickup games on the streets, and grandparents tell stories about the mighty Byung-Hung who could bring a slugger to his knees with a nasty rising fastball.
But he blows itÉ twice.
Kim, only 22, appears to be very mild-mannered. Now, I'm left to ponder what kind of sick thoughts are hurriedly traveling through his tortured mind. I can only hope that they do not involve a nine-iron and Dom DeLouise.
The Rage, the Fury, the Venom that must be infiltrating his every thought now is incomprehensible. I can imagine young Byung-Hung Kim on the baseball diamond as a youngster in Seoul coming up with different scenarios in his head:
"OK, Byung-Hung, there are two outs. It's the bottom of the ninth. You need just one more out and you win it all. The windup, the pitch.... He gets him! He gets him! Byung-Hung is the super master viper scorpion champion of the world. And the crowd goes wild."
Well, now he has to face the reality that he now is the international symbol for complete and utter failure. When I get my stats test back next week, I'll look at the grade, disappointingly nod my head, and declare, "I've got no excuses. I just Byung-Hunged it." (Side note: how great is his name? It reminds me of how people say that when a child is named Jeeves or Godfried, he is destined for life as a butler. If you go around naming your kids Byung-Hung, you're setting this poor child up for a life of being either an adult store sanitation monitor or a short, bitter sportswriter. And nobody's a winner there.)
Now, the natural follow-up question is: how will he respond to this bitter disappointment?
Will he tank the rest of his career because of the crushing weight of this fiasco on his shoulders, or will he re-emerge triumphantly Meatloaf-style? My odds are on Kim coming back to be a solid 25-save man for the next seven years or so, but for all the success that lies before him, it just does not matter.
He'll always be Byung-Hung Kim the World Series Blower, just like my buddy Kirkpatrick, who cured cancer and built the local schoolhouse with his bare hands, but will always be Kirkpatrick the Goat Herder for his one ill-advised evening of unrequited lust.
But concerning what he should do to alleviate the immediate pain, I am reminded of one of my favorite quotes. Some old-time ballplayer who probably can't chew anymore, when asked about how he spends his paychecks, responded, "Well, I spend most of it on liquor and prostitutes, and I pretty much just waste the rest."
Kim, I think you know what you've got to do. Make Charlie Sheen proud.
Greg Veis is a Trinity junior and associate sports editor of the Chronicle. He plans to spend the rest of his days at Duke thinking up funny topics in his boxers and tube socks.
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