Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Hatred: A Rant
One more game. Just. One. More. Fucking. Game.
What does this sentence mean to me? A whole lot, my friends, a whole lot.
It means they'll be no more talk about a dynasty, no more of shit-chin Josh Beckett's fat face, no more Curt Schilling (hopefully ever), no more dick-riding by writers all over the world, no more stupid girls in pink Red Sox hats in the bars clapping and screaming like idiots acting like they know the first thing about fucking baseball (tip - ask them what OBP means, then spit in their drink when they're not looking), no more Bill Simmons writing championship columns and making references that were funny 6 years ago but are now staler than a bum's underwear, no more Kevin Youkilis and his inane annoying whining at the plate, no more fat-fuck female fans missing teeth holding up "Jacoby, will you marry me?" signs even though the parking attendant wouldn't even let them blow him, no more Jonathan Papelbon who I hope gets drugged at a Boston saloon and ends up getting railroaded on the top of a pinball machine a la Jodie Foster in The Accused, no more "What's wrong with Big Papi?" shit from the announcers (hint - HE DOESN'T HAVE FUCKING MANNY RAMIREZ BATTING BEHIND HIM YOU FUCKING IDIOTS, I THOUGHT YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO BE A FUCKING PROFESSIONAL?), no more unoriginal "Red Sox Nation" banners draping Fenway even though they are the beholders only set of white sheets, no more Dust Pedroia and his Benjamin Button super-aging appearance (seriously, the guy looks fucking 40), no more Mike Timlin's gigantic head, no more of Paul Byrd's stupid windup, no more of Mike Lowell's meticulously groomed goatee...
I could keep going on and on, but why sound bitter? Oh, I do already? Well, fuck it, I am, and hopefully all this nonsense is finished and put to rest after tomorrow night. But if I jinx it, I'll be sure to post my address so you can come by and brain me with a fire axe.