I happen to be the live-in butler at The Clemens' residence in Texas and this morning I saw Roger standing in the doorway of the master bedroom (lately they've been sleeping in separate rooms of course) wearing his burnt orange Astros robe. He never saw me and this is what I heard. I couldn't help it really.

-Breakfast in bed, he asked. His voice was like I'd never heard it.

No answer.

-I could make pancakes.

-Paulette Dean?

-Or an omelet maybe?

-John Daly's wife. I mean, Roger. John Daly?

-There's spinach and tomato, maybe some cheese, feta maybe, I don't know.

-I feel like I've slept with John Daly. Disgusting. That video.

-Or waffles. I know how you love waffles.

No answer.

-Slept with John Daly, he said. What?

-By the transitive property.

-Transitive property?

-From math.

-What about math?

-We're getting off point.

-Exactly! So how about the waffles?

-And Mindy McCready?

-Well, they both look like you. Only not as pretty.

-And the steroids thing. That I used? This is not right.

-Well, but I had to do that. My reputation. Endorsements alone, you know. The money, for you, for us, the kids.

-That's what you said, that's why I said it. But now this.

-And I might want to manage someday, or pitching coach. I mean my reputation alone. My reputation, you know.

-What about my reputation?

-What about your reputation? His voice assumed a serrated edge, returned to its normal pitch. Is that what you said? Your reputation. I'm Roger Clemens, okay. I'm Roger Clemens. You are Roger Clemens' wife.

Then a copy of Juiced hit the wall behind Roger's head and fell in a sad defeated heap.

-I'm Roger Clemens, he said again and poked himself in the chest. You are Roger Clemens' wife. And get Jeeves (that's me) to make you breakfast.

And with that Roger turned and kicked at the book and returned to his half of the house. I swear on the soul of P.G. Wodehouse that's how it happened.