A hotel room in Florida. Six MLB general managers are there, five more-or-less conscious. The last snores deeply on the floor, wearing a set of Mickey Mouse ears. Others goad and prod each other between bong hits and whiskey shots.
"Dude. Totally call and pretend to offer Pelfrey more money. Maybe the Twins will believe it."
"No way! No way! Oh, that's messed up."
"Try it." (A chorus ensues.) "TRY IT, TRY IT, TRY IT!"
Finally, a GM with half-digested shrimp-cocktail-vomit on his shirt picks up a phone.
"Aww, sweet! This is gonna be AWESOME!"
"Put it on speaker."
The pukey-shirt man stabs a few buttons on the phone. One produces the sound of a phone ringing. Two other GM's try to high-five; badly missing, they tumble over each other.
"Oh, shit! Is that Ryan?"
"Shut up, shut up!"
As the phone rings, there is much giggling. Then a stern voice comes over the speaker.
Terry Ryan: "Hello?"
One GM begins to laugh, and another slaps him in the face; all seem considerably amused.
"Yeah, um, Terry?"
Terry Ryan: "This is Terry Ryan, yes."
"Just a word to the wise, man. We're going to up our bid on Pelfrey."
Terry Ryan: "Again? How much this time?"
Puke GM drops the phone, the rest begin howling with uncontrollable hilarity. The stern voice speaks up:
Terry Ryan: "Is something wrong?"
Puke GM grabs the phone, says "hold on," and covers the mouthpiece. He whispers "Guys, I can't go through with this. I think I actually shit myself." Another dangles a tempting bottle of tequila in front of his face.
"No, there's just some bozos here watching a movie. I'm totally straight with you, dog. We're, like, offering . . ."
Other GMs whisper "three and 45!" "Four and 80!" Puke GM makes a hand motion to silence them.
"Um, we're going with two years, like ten and change per."
Terry Ryan (sighing): "All right. All right."
Two of the GMs turn their backsides to the phone, and drop their pants, exposing acne-riddled cheeks.
Terry Ryan: "I guess you have to do what you have to do. And now I have to do what I have to do."
One of the mooning GMs lets fly with an thunderous fart.
Terry Ryan: "Sounds like you're at the airport already. I'll let you go, and thank you for the heads-up."
"No problem, bro."
Puke GM hangs up and throws the phone aside. He winces as the others assault him with aggressive noogies.
"Oh, Scott owes us for this!"
"He owes us some hoes us for this!"
"Owes the hoes! Owes the hoes! OWES THE HOES!"
The five GMs collide on their way out of the room, headed for another hotel floor. One steps on the sleeping GM as he leaves. The sleeping GM twitches, then rouses himself on one elbow and begins swiping crust from the corner of his eyes.
"What'd I miss? Guys? Guys? Did the Twins get Garza? Shit, guys!"
He pulls his pants partly to his hips, pauses to take a chug from a half-finished beer with a cigarillo butt in it, and stumbles towards the exit.