I'm trying to relax before they get here, looking over the menu, looking for a quick sip before they do, but can't. Why? Tommy the bartender is over in the corner talking to server Jessica. Why? Because Jessica is, like, soooooooo mad that Todd just took another one of her tables!

And the other server, Tim? He has worked here for soooooooo long and totally could have told you that Todd was going to do that. Oh, and yes ... he's told the owners many times before, but they don't care! Re-enter Tommy -- who at one time had a very noble charge to fill as a bartender -- seconds after my in-laws and wife arrive. The only thing I've gotten so far is a packet of stale oyster crackers and a real chip on my shoulder for this guy Todd.

Sometimes, all I want is an ice-cold martini and a story off the hot stove. It means more when you're on deadline and sitting at a table nursing a soda with your in-laws. These are the ones who actually planned for their retirement, take time out from their golf game to watch your kid, and will probably pick up this tab ... all in the hopes you won't end up living in their basement.

But tonight, I'm sitting on a scoop, so I'm edgy. And so, to my detriment, decide to hash out my misgivings on breaking the story via text after dinner with a former sportswriter who now works as a "sellout." Is this lame, or is it my "straw stirs the drink" moment?

"You've been [that team's] [pliant submissive] since I met you," she says, with warmth and encouragement. "Do some original investigation at least."

A furious text stream follows. I am compared to terrible people and hypocrites ... disgraced sitcom sidekicks like Boner, Chachi Arcola and the Great Gizzoo. Real below-the-belt stuff. I respond with a few go-to Godfather references. She swats them down by telling me that obscure Godfather quotes are, by far, the lamest thing a guy can introduce into a conversation with a girl. Yeah, whatever "Kay"...let me know when I'm conversing with a "girl."

The moment I hit "send" I was toast. I texted back: "The next send button I see is going to get wacked."

Never let anybody know what you're thinking. Moments later, as I was inspecting fruit at a street-side stand, two send buttons pulled up and shot me in the back five times while that guy from Deer Hunter cried on the curb.

So my original story went untold. I was scooped, but don't think vengeance isn't far from mind: Todd, you will be paying for stealing Jessica's table.