Joey McIntiyah

I was a little embarrassed. I grew up in Brockton, and it took me years to rid myself of the good old Boston accent. But there are moments when I regress.

I was out at Ukranian Hank's club one night, when Joey McIntyre showed. I went to his table and struck up a conversation.

"Dood," I said. "Whataya doin heyah?"

"Dood, I just got outta tha Sox game."

"Ha'd they do?"

"Christ dood, Ortiz is a machine. He hit like three homa's, four ahRBI's. Tha dood's sick."

"Yeah, he should be tha MVP, but you know tha writahs'll give it ta Jeteah."

"It's all about New York. If Jeteah was playin' for tha D-Rays they forget he existit."

Sir Ian McKellen spotted me, and tapped me on the shoulder.

"Dood, can't ya see I'm havin' a convahsation. Waitah, I need anotha' beyah."

"Another? Sir, you've been drinking Martinis."

I froze. My face turned crimson. I bid Joey farewell, and took up a conversation with Sir Ian about Bergman's The Virgin Spring.