The Red Sox lose to the Devil Rays after a horrific start by Derek Lowe …
Doug:
Is it ever his motherfucking night? Or day? Or mid fucking morning? What about twilight? Does he ever have a good cocksucking twilight?
Mike:
No shit, he's running out of excuses. No more blisters. No more Todd Walker. No more cancer …
Doug:
What the fuck happened to his lucky pregame cup of french vanilla iced coffee and a coffee roll at Bertucci's?
Mike:
He shows moments where he still has his stuff, then he loses it like last night.
Doug:
Surviving only 2 1/3 innings against the next generation of batting-challenged Rays? I don't even think Dr. Malfi could fix this guy up?
Mike:
I still have faith in Lowe. He just needs to work through it.
Doug:
Work through it? Are you fucking insane? There is no through—this isn't a maze. There's no curtain, no other side. The other side is just a bed-time story for frigid necrophiliacs for fuck's sake. Everybody knows this. [Laughs]
Mike:
So what's your recommendation Dr. Phil?
Doug:
Lowe could try neglecting to shower. See, I like the way my head gets after a few days of not showering—it's like I have a much keener sense of my skull—how truly perceptive its various surfaces are. And to feel that perceptive is to feel raw, bestial power.
Mike:
And this is what Derek Lowe needs in your, er, vision? [Laughs]
Doug:
In truth, probably not. Anyone who nearly loses his nose to fucking cancer yet continues to chew the Skoll is probably too fucked up to ever be anything but a mediocre pitcher with occasional moments of brilliance.
Mike:
Ouch. That's low on Lowe.
Doug:
I'm just fucking sayin'…
