Over the weekend I read a story about the New York Mets allegedly having a porn room inside their clubhouse at old Shea Stadium.  I’m a fairly twisted guy but I have a hard time understanding the appeal of a “porn room.”  I can honestly say I don’t own a porn magazine, DVD, crazy lotion or silly rubber toy.  I live alone.  I know my luck.  I don’t need my mother stopping over and finding me dead on the couch, wearing a satin turban, holding a rubber rattle, a tube of Super Slide stuck to the dog, holding a copy of “Tight Sweater” magazine while the DVD menu for “Rambo–Ohh-Ohh” is frozen on the big screen.  My mother has suffered enough.  She doesn’t need that vision carved into her soul as she awaits her meeting with St. Peter. 

A “porn room?”  Really??  I can never imagine saying to one of my friends “Wow!  Two great games back to back.  What do ya say we order a pizza and you pick out a porno for us to watch.”  There is something really creepy about more than one guy watching porn.  It falls into the category of a guy going to a tattoo parlor and getting a tramp stamp.  You COULD do it but why WOULD you?

Imagine saying this to your wife guys, “Hey Honey.  I’m gonna take that treadmill out of the back room and drop it off at Goodwill.  I figure that’s a perfect place for our porn room.”  Cancel that trip to Home Depot there Bob Villa.  You know she’ll surround you like a cluster from Bob’s Barricades.  You’ll be in trouble for even MENTIONING something as a porn room.  Suddenly your trip to Home Depot went from getting some sheets of dry wall and a flat screen mounting bracket to thirty bags of mulch, several flats of flowers and a sun-dial.

It’s hard enough for me to explain baseball to some females.  A porn-room seriously reduces the sports credibility.   So I  ask baseball to focus on the basics.  Go back to spitting and grabbing yourselves.