Mike Lupica is livid

I like Lupica. Good grief, I've been reading him since Hoss Clarke arrived. He's New York's Dan Shaughnessy, minus six pounds of curls and 10 descriptors per paragraph. I remember Old George mocking him as "little Mike Lupica," as if The Boss was some titan of manhood, rather than just Leona Helmsley with a penis. And it was always to watch Lupica bounce from the Daily News to the Post and back to the Daily News, almost Dick Young-style, the way Gooden, Cone, Grandyman, et al, shuffled between the Mets and Yankees.

Most of all, it was always fun when Lupica got angry... furious... LIVID.

Today, he is foaming!

[S]ome low forms of pond life have broken into the Yogi Berra Museum in the night and stolen items from there.

Yes, Commissioner Gordon, it's those dastardly burglars of the Yogi Berra Museum.

It is as if they really did break into Yogi’s home and steal memories from him, pieces that are like valuable artwork from a remarkable American life, priceless to him. They did not just steal from that place. These bastards stole from Yogi.

Dear God. The monsters are the worst: fart-breathing booger-eaters, pig-doodlers and foot-mouthed flop-heads. Fortunately, he's hot on their trail.

Nobody gets to take anything more from him, not like this, not one single thing. If you know who they are, call this paper or call the cops. Whatever the reward is for information — late Thursday it was $5,000 — the Yankees should make it even bigger. These punks don't get to get away with this.

Listen:  If any of you happen to be the bleeps who stole Yogi's rings... GET OFF MY LAWN, NOW! GO ON, GIT! I hope they give you ringworm. But my grandmother used to say, 'tis an ill wind that blows NO good. And in this case, it's always fun when the great white hunter charges into action to harpoon the whale in the pool. These are the days of miracle and wonder...