Lisa the Temp:
Welcome the Peeps Republic of Lisa with your host, Jackety Jane.
Lisa the Temp:
Oh, yes, peeps, Lisa the Temp
knows all.
Lisa the Temp:
For instance, Lisa knows that earlier this year an internet sex tape somehow surfaced starring everybody's favorite blue blood and trust fund bon vivant.
Lisa the Temp:
Of course, in this day and age, the sudden net appearance of a youthful indiscretion is fairly common, right?
Lisa the Temp:
I mean an amateur double-penetration gang bang? Big friggin whoop.
Lisa the Temp:
You know, grainy footage, poor lighting and it's all "It caaaan't be me, Duncstah, as you know, I have no tatoos. No where did you hide the caviaaaah, daahling."
Lisa the Temp:
And let this be a lesson to you, peeps. Don't fuck with Lisa.
Lisa the Temp:
OK, here's another Lisaism for you, peeps.
Lisa the Temp:
When I was in temp training...
Lisa the Temp:
Yes, temp training, peeps. They have schools for strippers so why wouldn't they have training for temps?
Lisa the Temp:
Now as I was saying, when I was in temp training they told us that a good way to ingratiate ourselves as a temp in an office of strangers is to bring a bowl of candy and set it out on our desk.
Lisa the Temp:
However, I've found that is far more interesting to bring a bowl of condoms and assorted lubes and set that on the corner of my desk.
Al:
Well, so that is that. Now we must dismantle our Red Sox shrines, putting the miniature bats, signed balls and bobbleheads away.
Mike:
As in previous years we have seen the actual vision and failed to do more than entertain it as an agreeable possibility.
Mike:
And here we all are. Back in the moderate Aristotelian city of chowdah and the brutalist inspired City Hall, where Euclid's geometry and Newton's mechanics would account for our experience, smashing the spirit of onlookers into a thin pulp.
Al:
And beer exists because I drink it.
Doug:
The streets are much narrowah than we remembered; we had forgotten the office was as depressing as this.
Doug:
We look round for something, no mattah what, to inhibit our self-reflection, and the obvious thing for that purpose would be some great suffering.
Al:
In the meantime there are bills to be paid, rostahs to fix and repair, irregular verbs to learn, and the time being to redeem from insignificance.
Mike:
It's become something of a cliche now, but Giamatti's "soon as the chill rains come, it stops and leaves you to face the fall alone." is still the most eloquent capturing of the end of the season feeling for fans.
Susan/Circle:
The "the game is meant to stop, and betray precisely what it promised."
Susan/Circle:
And we have been betrayed alright. Sigh.
Mike:
Damn you Dame Mutability, damn you.
Susan/Circle:
Are we meant to drift away with the wrappahs, the programs, the Coke cups and peanut shells …?
Mike:
Or do we live on forevah in the green fields of the mind?
Al:
Well, that game yestahaday pretty much symbolized the whole season — things are humming along pretty good and then, bam, a playah you've come to count on just implodes.
Al:
We saw it with Ortiz, with Beckett, with Youks, with everyone it seems, so one of the biggest blown saves in history?
Why not you, Jon Papelbon, why not you?
Al:
Seriously. Was he auditioning for a new job in the NFL — "If you like the way I blow these calls at first, way 'til you see what I can do with pass interference."
Mike:
Meanwhile, I don't think I've ever this blasé about a Red Sox playoff loss before.
Al:
That's the upside to low expectations.
Doug:
Yeah, this is the Kim Zolciak of Red Sox seasons.
Bill:
Of course, you are, Mahty, because there is nothing you want more in this world than redemption.
Marty:
No, there's nothing I want more than to see the Sux fans get their hopes up by winning the ALDS only to have those hopes crushed, snuffed out, and ground to pulp under the boot heel of the Yankee Conquerors of Sux Nation.
Bill:
I know, guy, and I feel for you.
Bill:
I, too, have been in that dahk place where a mere sports rivalry becomes a non-stop, nightmare of an obsession.
Marty:
You know because you're still there. You hate the Yankees as much as you ever did.
Bill:
Yes, Mahty, I do indeed hate the Yankees. But now it's a hatred rooted in the tradition and history of the Boston/New York rivalry rathah than psychosis.
Bill:
Unlike you, Mahts, I hate because I choose to, not because I have to. Big difference.
Marty:
You're one smug, bitch, you know that, Callaghan?
Marty:
You act like one, solitary ALCS victory over the Yankees can erase 26 Championships and 80 odd years of Yankees dominance over the BoSux.
Bill:
Jeez, Mahty, if you projected any widah you could staht your own drive-in theatre.
Marty:
If I'm projecting, Bill, you know what's showing on the big screen? A documentary of 100 years of Yankee greatness.
Bill:
Wait, wait... hold on... I think I can almost visualize it... yep, there it is!
Bill:
It's a slappah film!
Marty:
Callaghan you're so stupid. You mean "slasher" film.
Susan/Circle:
"Hey, little fellah in the velvet brown jacket, I have these gatherings at my pad, you know, just a few guys hanging around the man cave …"
Mike:
"Say, you don't mind you mind if I call you, Jetes, do you?"
Doug:
And by proud he of course means "move along people there is nothing to see here such as the Yankees being on pace to have the greatest numbah of regulah season wins evah because they ponied up for a Teixeira and we didn't."
Mike:
C'mon, it's like Theo says, the whole thing is a crapshoot. You just want to make sure you have the right process in place and then trust the process.
Doug:
Yeah, I guess.
Mike:
Besides I doubt even the Yankees knew beforehand that Teixeira would be the missing link.
Doug:
Wait, Teixeira is the missing link? I thought Johnny Scopes Monkey Trial Damon was the missing link?
Mike:
A cave man, a fruit bat, Joba the Hut, Godzilla...
Mike:
It's a regulah fucking Galapagos down there.
