The Curious Case of Mike Missanelli’s Creaky Coffee Lid

Ahh ha! The game is afoot, dear readers, and Detective Coggin suspects the most foulest of play.

It is my theory, my friends, that Mike Missanelli, the ill-tempered 97.5 the Fanatic midday show host, was the victim of a MOST DEVIOUS scheme yesterday afternoon that has sent shockwaves through the Philadelphia region…nay….THE WORLD.

The weapon in question? A flimsy coffee lid haphazardly placed upon the lip of his steaming hot beverage. Dressed like he was going to hit up a Sigma Alpha Epsilon kegs and eggs party on his way home, Missanelli took a quick sip of the coffee as 97.5 sports update anchor Natalie Egenolf led the show into the break.

What happened next will never be forgotten.

Just a humiliating display. One minute you’re dry, the next coffee is cascading from your weathered lips, most assuredly ruining your Kohl’s Van Heusen polo (45% off).  The shocked sports journalist quickly exited off-screen to compose himself, but the damage was done. What happened? How does a man who has seemingly been drinking coffee his entire life let the beverage tumble forth from his gaping maw like an infant trying to grasp the concept of drinking from a big boy cup for the first time?

The reason? Revenge, my dear Watson. And Detective Coggin’s theory? IT WAS SOMEONE IN THIS ROOM WHO COMMITTED THE DEED.

I mean, not this room that I’m currently sitting in, or the room you’re reading this in, but more like the “royal we” room….the figurative room we ALL sit in, all of our auras, if you catch my drift. Am I making sense? No? Sometimes the greatest minds have trouble conveying their brilliant theories to laypeople like you, and for this I apologize.

Or maybe it’s the mescaline talking? That would account for the wobbly visages of my dead grandmother that have been silently creeping into my peripheral vision all morning. I can just barely see her, holding a knife, a broad unnatural smile pasted across her face as she so ethereally glides towards my husk of a body before disappearing into another plane of existence when I train my vision on her essence.

But I digress. Who, my dear friends, would have the motive to sabotage Missanelli on-air, live, broadcast to DOZENS of viewers on NBC Sports Philadelphia?

The suspects are many and varied. Egenolf, possessing a truly Machiavellian mind, wouldn’t hesitate to throw the king of trash mountain off his throne to claim his crown. One can only read so many Bagster promos before vowing to do whatever is possible to gain a position of power and never have to do it again.

What about his producer, Tyrone Johnson? Frankly, I don’t see it. I can’t think of a single reason Johnson would be angry or annoyed at his Missanelli. Not a damn one. Besides, Missanelli just came back from vacation, how could those two be at odds with each other? What possibly could have happened, oh, maybe two weeks ago that would make Johnson hate Missanelli’s guts? It’s beyond me.

Absolutely ship shape between those two.

What about a vengeful barista? Certainly a possibility. The mere sight of his dreadfully dyed goatee could have sent even the most grounded employee into a fit of rage…and you can only listen to someone tell you the same pieces of Sopranos trivia over and over and over again before you vow revenge.

But before you go, Mr. Missanelli, there’s just one more thing…

My dear friends, these are all far too obvious. It takes the brilliant mind, the seasoned and well-versed mind of a veteran detective like myself, to peel away the varied layers of a plot before exhuming its detestable and loathsome core.

Which is why, ladies and gentlemen, it is my theory that MIKE MISSANELLI PLACED THE LID LOOSELY ON HIS OWN CUP, ASSURING IT WOULD FALL OFF ON-AIR (pause for shocked gasps)…

Yes, it was Missanelli who did this to himself, in some twisted scheme to garner attention and pity from the masses. It was you all along, Mr. Missanelli, who so poorly secured the lid on your own coffee to ensure its spillage on your $25 polo. It was YOU, Mr. Missanelli, who dug your own grave and planned to rise like Lazarus and REAP the benefits on the other side.

Oh ho, you almost got away with it. Almost had the city of Philadelphia eating out of the palms of your ivory dish soap hands, waiting to reel in the benefits and well-wishes of millions of good-hearted sports radio fans, catapulting your way back to the top of the ratings on the back of a pity wave the likes of which this region hasn’t seen since the great Anthony Gargano pizza oven fire of 1999.

Woe is you, as your house of cards is now tumbling to the ground like so many faulty coffee lids.

May the lord have mercy on your wretched soul.

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