Bill: Ah, can somebody call that Ghost Whispahrah chick because I've got a new case for her.
Doug: No kidding. Fahget the kid hit by a train who doesn't know he's dead yet. Ovah heah I've got a 25 guys run ovah by the Yankee Express a month ago but who insist they're still alive.
Bill: And aftah that I've got anothah spooky script for Ms Love Hewitt to read. It's called "I Still, Still, Still, er, Still, Know What You Did Last Summah! (And it wasn't 'Wins the AL East')"
Doug: Seriously. It's the perfect slashah/horrah film sequel set up. The evil nemesis is finally killed in 2004 and everybody can rest easy, laughing and splashing on the beach, nubile chicks in bikinis and all, it's a year latah and not a care in the world …
Bill: And then the overly serious and ominous voice ovah says: "Some secrets will haunt you forevah." Cue sounds of screaming.
Tara: Mussina done after 1 and two-thirds, the Yankees' pitching walked 9 Orioles and gave up 14 hits and 17 runs …
Mike: Four hours sixteen minutes, 398 pitches and an 17-9 Yankee whooping. Their fans can say it means nothing, but that loss hurts the fan psyche not to mention the Yankees bullpen.
Tara: Only problem with getting too optimistic is I remember a certain team who got the crap kicked out of them 19-8 but then came back to win 8 straight securing a couple pennants along the way.
Mike: Argh. Don't do that to me. Using Red Sox history to bolstah the Yankees chances …
Tara: Buck up, fool. The Red Sox are going to make the postseason. I'm so confident that tonight at 9 I'll be tuned into Lost and only glimpsing the game during commercials.
Mike: I hope you're right. If the Sox don't make the postseason, I'll be livin' in the past like that freaky Desmond dude in the hatch.
Doug: Have double doses of Xanax and Vioxx on the standby, it's a pharmaceutical company's wet dream.
Bill: Somebody ring up Alan Greenspan and tell him to prep the Fed for a decrease in workah productivity in the Northeast beginning at 1pm.
Doug: OSHA needs to issue an emergency memorandum advising employahs to secure sharp objects from offices and warning foreman not to let guys with B's on their hahd hats operate backhoes or other heavy equipment while the game is in progress.
Bill: On the bright side, Schilling nevah wahmed up last night, so he'll be fresh as a daisy for his 7:05 staht tonight.
Doug: And by "fresh" you of course mean an ankle held together with staples and prayers, diminished velocity, and mental anguish with a side of emotional turmoil?
Doug: Are you kidding me? It's like being on a stricken airlinah about to make an emergency landing and as you assume the crash pahstchah the woman sitting next to you blurts out, "My husband is the pilot and he's totally fucked up ovah losing his pilot skills. He hates himself. And his fathah's dead, too." Jesus, lady, not now, OK?
Bill: If Shonda wants to help, she ought to track down the wife or girlfriend of the playah making the disparaging remahks about Curt getting off easy for not being booed and kick the shit out of her.
Doug: Despite a whole season of following baseball day in and day out, yestahday's convergence of back-to-back "I need these" wins from both the Sox and Pats made me realize I'm not at full fan strength.
Mike: Yeah, it's one thing to turn a deaf ear to climatologists and other environmental scientists but ignore the actress who played not only Yentl but also Roz Focker? Fools!
Doug: Hey, it's about time some serious celebrity weight gets behind this crisis. I mean, c'mon, you think it's a mere coincidence Keith Foulke, in the prime of his life, goes down with not one but two knee injuries in the same season?
Mike: And don't forget Wells. In a normal climate, that shit just doesn't happen. It's eerie and, frankly, frightening.
Bill: Wait, wait, because what I'm about to say might be critical, and lest anyone think I'm retahded or ignorant, let me first issue the following disclaimah: 2004's World Series victory would not have been possible without the heroic efforts and stunning ability of Keith Foulke and he may very well have ruined his careah because of it.
Steve: Right. Of course. I'm mentally genuflecting as I say this, but I'm happy to hear that Godot like wait for Foulke's "return to form" is finally over.
Bill: Speaking of the Mystique and Horror show, so how's this "the Yankees can't win forevah; they have to cool off at some point" strategy working out for you?
Steve: Er, not so much. At this point the Red Sox just need to win every game and not count on any passive help from the Yankees.
Bill: Yeah, backing into a Division title because of another team's losses is lame.
Steve: It's like sucking your own balls.* It might get the job done, but it doesn't do much for the ego.
Bill: At times like these it's important to remembah it's just a game, you know?
Doug: Seriously. Step back, take a deep breath, and get some mofo perspective.
Bill: Really, I mean it's not like we're at war with a bunch of jihadist whack jobs or anything. So the Red Sox are in second place behind the Yankees. It's not like we're about to have a global avian flu epidemic or anything.
Doug: Right. It's not like entiah cities are being wiped out by massive killa hurricanes or anything … I mean if the Red Sox don't make the playoffs, it's not like gas prices are at recahd high or the global fucking economy is about to shit the bed or anything.
Bill: Jeez, you've gotta love perspective.
Doug: I can barely contain my joy at the dawn of a new day. My innah child is so released.
Bill: Yes, yes, if I close my eyes I can see my innah child … he's happy and he's running … wait, what's that in my innah child's hands? Oh, how cute, scissahs.
The Red Sox win big but so do the Yankees. At this point there isn't much that can be said. It's win or else …
Doug: So Schilling has gone from making 55000 New Yorkahs shut up to only getting 6 Central Floridians to stop talking on their cell phones during a game, but I'll take it.
Doug: Maybe Jesus told him, "Look Curt, Daddy and I gave you the gift to pitch and not the gift to gab. Stop running your mouth off and pitch like I know you're capable of. You're bringing down the whole 'made in my image' vibe when you suck ass on the mound. Don't make me come down there and smite you, dude, OK?"
Mike: You know you just can't overemphasize the good that can result from a solid, personally delivahed, deific smiting.
Doug: Truly, what the world needs now is more smites. I mean look around. There is a most obvious dearth of the smotted.
Mike: If I were starhting a new pro sports franchise, I'd call the team "The Smite"
Doug: Fucking A right. But what would the logo be?
Mike: I was thinking of a fist clenching lightening bolts or something.
Doug: Dude, that is awesome! Put me on the mailing list and shit.
Doug: Right on. Who cares about past performance or those pedestrian details like the number of wins and losses? What really friggin counts is how we all "feel."
Marty: Hi, this is Bug Selig calling to say we want the 2004 trophy back because we now realize how bad you Sawx suck. [Sound of mocking, evil laughter]
Marty: Well, you know, Billy, one is the loneliest number, and that "1" in the loss column is making me want to reach out and share what it feels like to root for a team that can go on an extended hot streak.
Bill: The race is on, Mahty.
Marty: On? The only thing "on" is you on drugs if you think it's on. It's over, baby. Foulke is toast. Schilling's God has forsaken him. Damon's held together with bondo and duct tape. Face your own music. Which by the way sucks as well. Dropkick Murphys? What a joke.
Bill: You forgot somebody, Mahty, maybe your subconscious is blocking him out due to the psychic pain, but his name is David Ortiz, Yankee Slayah.
Marty: Sure as shit, Callaghan, you must be cooking meth up there on the Back Bay your mind is so addled. Have you noticed how your Big Papi's homers have gotten shorter and shorter? Soon those late inning blasts that are covering up for how bad your guys really are, will be nothing but routine warning track put outs.
Bill: Wow, measuring Ortiz's homahs during highlight reels? Sounds pretty desperate to me, Mahts.
Bill: The remaining schedule still favahs the Red Sox.
Marty: Oh, right, facing the surging Yankees in the final 3 is great for you. [Laughing] One team can't wait to play everyday while another team is crying about a lack of a day off. Some advantage, eh?
Doug: Yeah, and it was so nice of the Toronto fans to boo when Machado came in as pinch to finish out G-Unit's homah … Guess they thought Kaplah was faking it, because, you know, that would make so much fucking sense and all. Bunch of leaf loving fucktahds.
Mike: If only we had dudes like that these days doing, I dunno, disaster planning and shit …
Doug: So, like me, you've bought every Red Sox commemorative World Series DVD and box set, now the question is are you going to add Melissa Goes to Boston to your collection?
Mike: I dunno, dude, I'm OK with the concept in general, but the flashing your titties during a tour of Fenway is pure blasphemy.
Doug: Aw, c'mon, it's in high def and the chick is bonah popping hot … you can just fast forwahd through those pahts.
Mike: Doesn't work like that. Protecting our heritage and culcha is a full time job … it's like that Broken Window Theory … You start allowing soft porn at Fenway and the next thing you know Fenway is rubble and the Sox are playing in some McPark on turf with a Hahd Rock Cafe and a Gap on the outfield concourse. I'll have none of it.
Doug: Ah, Christ, as much as the titty loving technophile in me is aroused by Miss Harrington's HD exploits, in the end you're right. The chick is a fiah hot, though.
Mike: Yeah, but remember what Rilke said, "A webcam exhibitionist hottie is only the first touch of a terror we can still bear."
Mike: Red Sox rocked by Toronto. Yankees crush Tampa Bay. Mike runs with scissors.
Susan/Circle: Lead slips to two and a half. I am bound in rope made from my own sinew.
Mike: Tell me this season isn't going to come down to a one game playoff.
Susan/Circle: Ah, c'mon, you can do bettah than that. Let your pessimism think outside the fucking box. Imagine a five way tie, where the Red Sox, New York, Cleveland, Los Anaheim, and Oakland all end up with the same record.
Mike: Christ, you're right. My doomism and gloomism just hasn't been the same since the World Series.
Mike: Ah, this is brilliant: " I don't know what to say about Edgar. I don't know that I've ever actually seen someone throw the ball, on a relay, directly at the ground before. That was special. Special like a tiny, tiny kitten with one eye and extra toes and a smashed-up persian-style face so its tongue is always sticking out and it's drooling."
Susan/Circle: I'm tellin' ya, the bitches represent.
Mike: Are you kidding me, every time the bullpen chokes on a sweet lead, I have to go look in the mirror to see if one side of my face has gone all post-stroke droopy.
Mike: And the reliance on the deus ex machina deliverance via a lahjah than life sluggah and the long ball hasn't changed one iota from one season to the next.
Bill: Not that we'd want it any other way, though. I piss on Joe Morgan and his "small ball" fetish. Give me a Yaz or a Papi any day.
Mike: Hey, I'm so on board I'm driving the friggin bandwagon, but that's just it: I want to finish out this season before going into the la la land of what might be, you know?
Bill: Hey, has losing 2 of 3 in New York evah left you feeling so … well, I'm leery to say it for fear of latah being boned by karma, but you know …
Doug: Yeah, "good;" is probably too strong a word, but let's just say I feel "not-panicked" … And why not? Schilling is back. Wakefield is as hot as evah …
Doug: Man, is there anything bettah than a Septembah in Boston during a pennant race?
Bill: It's like a fahmah planting with his crops in the spring, watching the tiny shoots emerge and grow, weathering the drought, the downpours, the locusts, to find himself all of a sudden ready to reap the bountiful hahvest.
Doug: Anyone who can watch a pennant race gem like yestahday's game without tears in their eyes, without being moved in the same way as they are by a work of art is a fucking philistine — there's no othah word for them.
After struggling all year, yesterday Curt Schilling pitched like Curt Schilling for the first time since "the miracle of the Bloody Sock" …
Scene from a church: And Jesus said to his disciples …
Father Tim: "Humankind is a like a wise fisherman who cast his net into the sea. He drew it out of the sea full of small fish. The wise fishahman found among them a lahge, good fish. He threw all the small fish back into the sea and chose the lahge fish without hesitation."
Father Tim: And the Red Sox are like a wise fishahman who cast their net and pulled in a lahge, good fish. And we call this lahge good fish Curt Schilling.
Bill: Dang, I really wanted to sweep the Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim of California of the United States of America of Planet Earth of Globular Cluster 15 of the Known Universe, but 2 of 3 from a potential postseason foe in Septembah ain't bad at all.
Mike: Ah, fercrissakes, I know these syndicated columnists get paid to write bullshit content aimed solely at trying to push people's buttons and should be ignored at all costs …
Mike: Absolutely. I mean first of all, where is the evidence that anyone outside of Red Sox and Yankees fans evah stopped, dropped, and rolled during the regular season when the two clubs meet?
Bill: Right, during the playoffs is different story, but if you're a Cubs or Astros or White Sox or whomevah fan you are compelled, unless you're a total wankah, to devote all your attention to your own club's 162.
Bill: Yeah, and what's all this new found fascination with the Red Sox payroll? Has Caple been living under a rock for the past decade when the Red Sox have consistently been in the top of the heap on salary? Only thing that's different now is the management stopped spending money like dumb asses.
Mike: I just don't get this "you're just like the Yankees" shit anyway. I mean I challenge Caple to find me one baseball fan, just a single fan in the whole world, who wakes up during the hot stove season and says, "You know, this season I hope management does a serious slash and burn and cuts payroll by 50%. I want my club to be cheapskates. I want to root for a team in the bottom 5 of payroll expenditures. Fucking A right."
Bill: Yeah, seriously, it's like saying, "I hope to have a dead end, no skills required minimum wage job because, you know, I don't need to afford an iPod Nano when I can buy this cheap ass looking Wal-Mart imitation."
Mike: And while I'm at, I want a sexual partner who is not only ugly but frigid, too.
Susan: Bronson brings out the Boston in me. The Great Molasses Flood of 1919 in me. The one if by land two if by sea in me. The salt cod and brown bread in me …
Bill: Of course, any time the words "clutch" and "hittah" are conjoined, a half dozen SABER guys rupshah a nut in frustration yelling "There's no such thing!"
Doug: So when the hahd core sabermetricians are rooting for their fave team and a guy comes up in a game-on-the-line situation, do they go, "Now would be a most opportune time for a random statistical deviation. C'mon randomness, Whoo hoo!"?
Bill: Well now, Doug, that's a moot point, you see, because the hahd core stat heads cannot root for one team ovah anothah cuz doing so would pollute their research. It's all about the numbahs, dude.
Bill: Christ, autumn and the knuckleball go together like lobstah and buttah.
Doug: With Schilling, Foulke and possibly Miller on the mend, and Wakefield coming into his Fall form, I dare say I'm feeling pretty frickin good right now.
Bill: Meanwhile, our shadowy nemesis, has lost the season series to Tampa Bay and will be sending the awesome twosome of Chacon and Small against the Sox this weekend.
Doug: Jeez, a $200 million plus payroll just doesn't buy what it used to does it?
Bill: Yeah, poor Georgie, he's getting gouged on gas for his limo and gouged on his stahting rotation. Times are wicked tough.
Bill: You know, it's the presence of that dink on the White Sox rostah that has me quietly discounting their chances come Octobah. Talk about your curses, I mean it's only a mattah of time before he bites the head off a bat boy or something, fucking freak show.
Doug: Yeah, the dude's always spouting off about being Christian and shit but funny how we don't read any stories about his helping those in need or anything.
Susan/Circle: Just when I think I can no longah reconcile cheering for the Red Sox while seeing anothah person crying for help or just croaking right there while the anguish porn camera is rolling, along comes Jonathan Papelbon.
Doug: It's gotta be the orange yellow hair dye job.
Steve: Yeah, he finally broke The Curse of the Queerinos … you know he's been slumping ever since his Queer Eye makeover.
Doug: Absolutely. Save the back waxes and pedicures for the off season.
Steve: I think Foulke should try the dye job for good luck. Can't hurt at this point.
Doug: I wish I could buy into the logic of, "Hey, I totally sucked at the Single-A level, but, it'll be different with better lighting and a better background."
Steve: I just hope Foulke doesn't start insulting Burger King workers again, because after seeing the King haul ass in those NFL Sunday Ticket commercials, I'm convinced he could lay down a serious Keith whooping.
Doug: Absolutely, And the King looks like one sadistic son-of-a-bitch, too, a real keep kicking you when your down motherfuckah.
Steve: You know it. Why do you think we don't see much of Ronald McDonald these days? The King fucked that clown up real good.
Doug: Yeah, well, even the King can only hold so much pickle before he needs to act out his pent up aggression.
