Pete's had enough Schmidt-- ho ho, get it, ha ha ha... the laughs never end

Lately the life of Pete Phillips has gotten very creepy. Pete has found himself with a brand new obstacle to endure for the ages; his name is Mike Schmidt. 

"He just sits there and watches me. It's creepy," says Pete, "But he does have bright blue eyes." Schmidt has been watching Pete for a few weeks now, ever since Pete's dad brought Schmidt up from an old Veteran's Stadium giveaway. Apparently with their parting contract the Phillies reserved the right to sell off miniature Mike Schmidts, with that powerful bat and never-give-up attitude.

When this third party observer (who will go by the name Barry Coen for the time being) observed a chance interaction between Phillips and his new roommate, the tension was more than obvious.

"What are you looking at?" Pete questioned, "Do you have a problem?!" 

Schmidt nodded, smugly if I may say so.

"Why do you have to be like that? I asked a simple enough question," Pete cried in frustration, "I don't know if I can handle this Mike. Do you want me to move out?"

Schmidt continued to nod, this time with fierce indifference. Pete then buried his face in his pillows and cried for hours. I didn't want to comfort him and jeopardize my third party status, so I just had some peanut butter candy.

In a later interview, Phillips revealed some major developments in the story, "Sometimes, when I'm sleeping, at like 4:30 in the morning, I'll wake up and he'll be watching me... smiling with pearly white teeth and baby blue eyes... just nodding. It's just creepy--and the moustache doesn't help his creepy-case either."

Schmidt could not be made to comment. He answered all of my questions with nods, but no specific answers. After nodding yes to the question, "Are you Puff the Magic Dragon who lives by the sea, and do you frolic in autumn mist in a land called Honnalee?" I deemed the rest of his answers invalid.

So will Pete move out of his room? "I would rather not, I mean I am paying for it. Schmidt's not contributing anything to the bills--he's a freeloader. Plus, I don't have money to move into a real place just yet. And anyway, this building's so awful that I can wait him out--I've already been here for six months or so. The bugs'll carry him away soon enough."

After I conducted all of my research for this article I found myself in the middle of what I can only assume was a party sending me on my way after being such a bitchin' interviewer. The banner read 'Happy 21st Birthday' and all the attention seemed to be on a beautiful brunette, but in my eyes, I was the center of the party-- Barry Coen, the man, the myth, the legend, the amazing faceless writer.

*The truth to our Mike Schmidt story is that he's a head-bobber-thing-ma-bob.