Here's Johnny

“I hold in my hands the envelopes. My 4 ½ year-old daughter Katherine Mary could tell that these envelopes are hermetically sealed. They’ve been kept in a mayonnaise jar on Funk and Wagnalls’ porch since noon today. NO ONE knows the answers inside these envelopes, but you, in your mystical and borderline divine way, will ascertain the answers without even knowing heretofore the questions. Isn’t that correct, sir?” (Ed McMahon, courtesy of a CNN video).

“May an incontinent yak spray your poppy fields with ayatollahs.” OK, I made that one up, mixing up all sorts of mysterious visitors from the mysterious East while channeling Johnny Carson.

Mr. McMahon has gone onto his eternal reward, another sign that we baby boomers are limping to the finish line. Seems like yesterday that Leno slid behind the desk, only to yield it to O’Brien. When will St. Peter welcome the rest of us? It is certain he will, hopefully far into the future.

Just as certain is failure on the golf course. Fan-favorite Mickelson, Come-back kid Duval and Ricky Bobby (nee Barnes) had a chance to claim the United States Open Championship at waterlogged Bethpage, only to fall short on a Monday blessed with sunshine now and then. At least they replenished their Vitamin D requirement, in short supply these days in old New York.

Rather than conquest, failure was the motif at the public course in Nassau County, or is it Suffolk? I live in Kings County, on the same sliver of turf jutting into the Atlantic, and, as insular as I am, remain ignorant of political boundaries. Mr. Glover, hitting fairways and making putts, was far more much in touch with the ground beneath him than Kev, whose muddy, horse-barn smelling sneakers are still drying out.

‘Twas a day to remember. Saw Tiger Woods, not that big of a guy really, in all his glory. If he hadn’t teed off early on Thursday, he probably would have won. We shouted Boomer Sooner to fellow son of old OU and British Open champion Todd Hamilton, who responded with the Tuck Fexas gesture that is treasured on Commerce and Elm Streets in Dallas in October while the swells live it up in the Adolphus Hotel and throw TVs out the windows. Saw the ferocious, yet calibrated, swing of Bubba. And from merrye olde England, Mr. Fisher acquitted himself well.

All of this meant a day away from Miss Market, who refuses to be charmed. Our delicate relationship is, well, delicate. As is Kev’s baseball picking ability. Blew three games last night, one on a walk-off home-run. Oh, if ifs and buts were candy and nuts! We will bounce back, of this Kev is sure.

More importantly, there’s a softball game tonight in Prospect Park. We’ll laugh if we triumph and do the same if we smell the camel breath. Kind of like McMahon.