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After a bout of stomach illness, things return to normal for the Soxaholix …
Doug:
Dude, you still driving the porcelin bus?
Rider on Green Line:
Nah, much bettah. On my way in now.
Rider on Green Line:
Sickness I'm used to. I nevah talk about it — the way I nevah talk about my own face. But sickness is nevah only sickness; it grows, it improves itself, so that at certain points it seems a whole new thing. I was at just such a point.
Rider on Green Line:
He's joking Mr. Ashcroft if you or your henchmen are listening. We all know that stuff is the work of Satan.
Rider on Green Line:
He should so fucking take it. Nothing like playing on a last place team to make one feel important, feel needed, feel special.
Continue reading "Petey's Ruby Slippers" »
Lisa the Temp:
Hi, I'm Lisa the much maligned Temp here to convey the following message from Mr. Brachen: "Still ill. Curse of the E Coli. Better tomorrow I hope."
Rider on Green Line:
Over the river and through the woods, to Pavano's house Theo goes?
Rider on Green Line:
Abso-effin- lutely … Happy Thanksgiving to Soxaholix everywhere!
As the turkeys roast, the stove heats …
Bill:
Am I the only one who reads Pedro's "goat's den" comment as a backhanded insult toward the Spankees?
Mike:
Yeah, but the dwarf master wants $60 million!
Bill:
Gotta love Pedro's cojones.
Mike:
And you gotta love it when King George gets blinded by his own desire. If Pedro's going to go to Pinstripes, it'll be a nice consolation if he manages to make the CFYs overpay in the process.
Bill:
Maybe it's just because I'm still in my World Series afterglow where everything seems to break the Red Sox way, but my gut tells me that if Pedro stays in Boston, he'll have a decent few years — But if he goes to the Yankees he'll fall all to hell.
Mike:
Oh, abso-fucking-lutely. Remember how Pedro pouted and moped around for months after getting booed in Fenway? What the fuck is he going to do when 60,000 start giving him the Bronx cheah?
Bill:
Fuck yeah. Pedro tries to come across as such a bad ass headhunter, but the truth is he's one of the most sensitive, thin-skinned little papayas in the Majors.
Mike:
Just as it was only a matter of time before the Red Sox beat the Yankees, it's only a matter of time before the Yankees start to get burned by signing former Red Sox.
Mike:
You know it all started last Thanksgiving when Theo went to Schilling's house for Thanksgiving and the Yankees ended up getting stuffed by the Boy Wondah's maneuvering.
Bill:
That was the greatest fucking Thanksgiving since the buckle hat heads stepped on ye olde mofo Plimoth rock.
Mike:
Oh, for fuck's sake. That dude is still around? I thought he got eaten by a white tiger or some shit.
Susan/Circle:
Nah, he's still at it. Got a lot of fucking shit still to wrap before his oeuvre is complete … next up, Central Park, in 23 miles of saffron-colored fabric.
Mike:
Artistically, this arouses me not one whit. Not a single whit I tell you.
Susan/Circle:
No kidding. If this whack-off Christo really wanted to make a bold, symbolic statement, he'd wrap the piss out of Yankee Stadium. I'd suggest a diaphanous fabric, perhaps in the color of A-Rod's lips.
Mike:
Ah, yes. The evocation of a funeral shroud, fabric flapping in the Bronx breeze like so many hands of Slappy. That'd work for me.
Susan/Circle:
What the hell has happened to New York City anyway? Where's the New York of CBGB's rather than MTV's TRL? Where's the New York of Munson rather than Slappy McBluelips? Where's the New York of Jackson Pollack rather than Christo?
Mike:
No shit. I remember when I thought of New York I'd think of gritty Lou Reed. Now I think of Moby drinking green tea at a vegan cafe.
Susan/Circle:
No wonder the Spankees have lost their edge.
Bill:
I hate to say it, but this year's hot stove is decidedly not very hot so far.
Doug:
No doubt. This "As the Pedro Turns" prime time soap is so not must see TV.
Bill:
Yeah, at least Desperate Housewives has hot chicks to amuse me. Beats the piss out of the rumor and innuendo going back and forth with Pedro.
Bill:
Yeah, which fucking version of Pedro has the Red Sox management been looking at the past couple of years that gave them the impression the negotiations would be any different than they are?
Doug:
No shit. It's not like Pedro is a diva or anything. Not like he's known to say incredibly bizarre things to the media. Not like he has a lucky pet dwarf by his side at all times or anything.
Doug:
Meanwhile, back to the real world. I sure as fuck picked the wrong career.
Doug:
On Housewives who is the hot hot super hot Gabrielle all ovah? The mofo gardener. On the O.C., who's the skinny bitch with the boozing problem itching for? The gardener.
Bill:
Fuck yeah. The gardener is a literary, pussy getting archetype. Didn't you evah read Lady Chatterly's Lover? The gardener dude in it is all "let me rub your cunt" and "ah, what a beautiful cunt you have m'lady" and the Chatterly ho is all ovah it.
Doug:
You're fucking shitting me? Is there a TV movie version? Oh, what the fuck am I thinking? I forgot. If a fictional character so much as thinks the C-word these day, Powell and his FCC henchman would be soaking and chilling his ass down with the cleansing waters of censorship.
Doug:
Ah, for fuck's sake. She goes to the Red Sox victory parade and d-lowe and fucking behold out of 3.2 million people she happens to run into some guy she hasn't seen since college but always had a thing for. And then I'm getting the "let's still be friends" talk over espresso two days later.
Doug:
I continue to be the victim of an unwavering, wicked irony.
Mike:
You know what they say: Irony is a dog that bays at the moon while pissing on graves.
Bill:
Absolutely brilliant. What's fucking amazing to me is how it's an improvement for Cashman. He should definitely fucking consider a hair transplant and a perm.
Mike:
Yeah, the nerdy porn star look is so fucking in. Put a satin Skankees dugout jacket on with the two NY strippers Mystique and Aura on each arm and Cashman is a real motherfucking P.I.M.P.
Bill:
You know the Spankees need to add another stripper to their little pinstripe retinue … I'm thinking "Deep Throat" … you know, someone who'll teach them how not to choke on a big 3-oh.
Mike:
BOOM-CHICKA-WOW-WOW
Tara:
Did you hear about Pedro's not so secret meeting?
Tara:
Yes, that, but my sources in Florida say there was a second meeting.
Bill:
With whom, the Angels?
Tara:
Not even. Try none other than P-Diddy. Seems Pedro is about to ink a recording contract with Bad Boy Records.
Tara:
Abso-effin-lutely. Sources close to Puff, er, P, say Pedro initiated the face time and that it was a "good meeting."
Bill:
Yo what the hook gone be? [Laughs] Or do Petey not need no effin' hook on his beat?
Tara:
Rumor has it the first single off the record will be a reprise of "We Are the World" featuring Jeter, Slappy, Matsui on vocals and Bernie Williams on guitar.
Bill:
[Singing the tune] We are the World. We are the Spankees. We are the chokers. We are all done. [Laughs]
Tara:
[Continuing the song] As George has shown us, by turning stone to gold, so we all must reach out a greedy hand. We are the world … We are the Spankees.
The Soxaholix never tire of picking on the pretty boy …
Mike:
Fuck, yeah. I love this line: "The one thing I hope is that he continues to speak poorly about me and the Yankees because that will give us great motivation to beat the Red Sox in the future."
Susan/Circle:
Yeah, I read that and I was all, "Oh, A-Fraud, so you weren't already motivated to beat the Red Sox?" That says it all. What a loser.
Mike:
Who the fuck knew? All those millions of dollars aren't enough to motivate A-Fraud. No, no, he also needs people speaking poorly about him.
Susan/Circle:
No kidding, I guess Bore-Ass was asleep at the wheel when he negotiated A-Fraud's contract. He totally forgot the "people speaking poorly about my client" motivational clause.
Mike:
Lucky for A-Flawed, there are millions of Red Sox fans who will speak poorly on his sorry ass for free.
Susan/Circle:
Absolutely. Slappy brings out the Cotton Mather in me. Yea, Hearken to me, Bitch. Ye Olde Schoole Puritan wrath is descending verily to ye stuntin' ass.
The days grow shorter, the nights longer …
Doug:
Dude, we are so fucking in the doldrums right now.
Doug:
Jeez, and I don't even have the incessant cable coverage of the Peterson case to turn to for entertainment anymore.
Doug:
Oh my fucking word. That chick is possessed of — or possessed by — a barbaric coquettishness. I so want to be her little chihuahua.
Bill:
Careful, Dougie. Reading the diary of a girl who is a self confessed Sox and sex fiend can make one crazy on these long, dark, wintah nights.
Doug:
[In the voice of Ren] Eeet iz not I who am crazy; eeet iz I who am MAD.
Doug:
Schilling should demand a fucking recount! I suspect voting irregularities. Get that fucker Atrios on the case.
Doug:
Fuck yeah. Jorge and Petey can put their pinstriped jammies on and have a fucking cuddle pahty with A-Fraud ovah at Cashman's crib.
Mike:
Yeah, but A-Slap would be all whiney, "It's my turn to play Daddy now! C'mon guys, I moved to 3rd and all? Help a brotha out. Give Daddy some cuddle."
Doug:
Wonder if the Rat Boy Posada will feel so magnanimous if the Spankees sign Tek and Jorge finds his ass catching for some red state team in flyovah country?
Mike:
Do I? I made my mom buy his wife's recipe book Fowl Tips: My Favorite Chicken Recipes and I went through a stage where all I'd eat was chicken. Just like Boggs.
Susan/Circle:
Remember when he "fell" out of the Jeep during Spring Training and his wife ran over him?
Mike:
And the sex addiction? Fuck as a zitty faced teenager with uncontrollable boners, did I evah identify with that.
Susan/Circle:
Greatest fan sign I've evah seen was at the height of L'Affaire Margot and a hottie blond in Anaheim was holding up a 3 by 4 placard reading: "Wade, I'm not wearing underwear!" It was at that moment that I knew I'd become a baseball groupie.
Mike:
Thanks for the wonderful memories, Mr. Boggs. I am so eating some chicken today.
Contract negotiations heat up …
Doug:
Fucking Bore-ass.
Doug:
Catchers age in dog years. That's like a 35 fucking year contract fercrissakes.
Mike:
And a no trade clause. So much for the so-called home town discount.
Doug:
Christ, I'm surprised Boras doesn't also want the Red Sox to provide Tek with his very own lucky dwarf like Pedro has.
Mike:
Oh, no. Boras in his own words would never ask for anything "astronomical" … No, no. Just what the market will bear. Nothing more.
Doug:
Wonder how V-Tek and A-Rod are going to get along when they're both in pinstripes next year?
Mike:
Lovely and brilliantly I'm so fucking sure. Baseball is "just a business," you know?
Doug:
The beautiful die young and leave the ugly to their ugly lives.
Time to be counted and assimilated …
Doug:
I didn't think it'd be possible for the Red Sox to find a way to fuck up the World Series victory afterglow, but holy shit was I evah wrong.
Doug:
At least now our sorry asses know the bottom line. I thought my 30 fucking years of tears and heartache and joy and unwavering loyalty were like in the commercial, "priceless" — But no. My 30 years is worth exactly 5 fucking dollahs.
Bill:
Why the fuck are they limiting themselves to ID cards. Why not assign us all a unique number and then tattoo that shit on our ahms?
Doug:
No shit, but tatoos are so fucking 1930s … They should implant us with a motherfucking microchip that can be identitified by millions of unobtrusive passive scanners located world wide.
Bill:
Right, right! Then fucking Lucchino can sit in his lair deep beneath Yawkey Way and push a button to reveal a giant screen of the continents showing a millions points of light, each one a marked and commodified Red Sox fan.
Doug:
[Imitating Lucchino's voice] Look at Poland! It's practically devoid of light points. [Slamming the table] We must have Poland! The Red Sox Fatherland needs some fucking liebestraum for crissakes!
Bill:
Sign me right the fuck up for that shit!
Doug:
Are you fucking kidding me? 5 bucks is a small price to pay to be sanctioned as an official Red Sox fan. Ask not what Red Sox Nation can do for you. Ask what you can do for Red Sox Nation!
The hot stove is heating up …
Bill:
Didya hear the latest on Steinbrenner?
Susan:
Holy fucking Cindy Loo Who! The Grinchbrenner wants our I'm Who-pudding and rare Who-roast-beast?
Bill:
Yeah, there's no end to Steinbrenner's desire, no player he won't hire, for fuck's sake, he'll even be the buyer of the last the log in our hot stove fire.
No movement on the free agent front but there's always something to talk about …
Bill:
So rumor has it the Yankees host the Sox at their '05 home opener, and the Sox host the Spanks for Boston's home opener.
Mike:
Right, the latter is when the Red Sox will receive their bling bling while the Yankees watch in motherfucking shock and awe.
Bill:
I'm all for it but you've got to wonder what the P.T. Barnum's running the show at MLB will come up with next to try to squeeze more hype and profit out of the rivalry?
Mike:
No shit, how long before they get the bright fucking idea to crossover? You know, The Red Sox v Yankees Celebrity Golf Tournament, this weekend on Fox!
Bill:
Fuck yeah! How about tonight on ESPN the real World Series of Poker: Red Sox v Yankees. Cut to shots of Theo Epstein and Brian Cashman staring each other down over a hand of cards!
Mike:
Brilliant! How about a very special Wife Swap? Series One, a blue collar, Catholic, Southie wife from a die hard Red Sox fan family moves in with the Upper East Side, penthouse living, publishing magnate, Jewish, Yankee fan family and the spouse there moves to Southie.
Bill:
Brilliant! And for the flip in series 2 of Wife Swapping, the barely fluent in English, immigrant, Yankee rooting wife of a below the poverty line tenement living family in the Bronx, swaps out with a blue blood, Red Sox rooting yacht sailing, cousins of the Kennedy's family in Hyannisport!
Mike:
Hilarity fucking ensues!
Bill:
Sad fucking thing is I'd have TiVo on a Season Pass for all of 'em.
Continue reading "Every crowd has a silver lining." »
The hot stove is stoked and the fires inside begin to warm …
Susan/Circle:
I've swallowed the bitter fucking pill and have resolved myself to four more years of Karl Rove's brain — But I can't, I just fucking can't comprehend a season without Jason Varitek's sweetness.
Tara:
Right. Spiraling budget deficits? I can hang. Global hegemony? I'm Chillin'. 162 games without a girl's eye view of those two moons of perfect man ass? I may as well move to Canada.
Susan/Circle:
The holy wonder of Tek's gloot. The wondrous ass strength like a man who'd driven dogs thru the darkest strands of Alaska making it alone.
Tara:
Nine innings of Tek's crouch and all night we could taste lemons in the wind.
Susan/Circle:
Dear Theo, please sign Varitek or shall I bring you the sound of poisons? This is rain now, this big hush. And this is the fruit of it: tin-white like arsenic.
Continue reading "I know the bottom, she says." »
Bill:
Oh, it ain't ovah, baby! The Fuckeye State could come through yet.
Doug:
Oh, fuck yeah. That'll work. Keep the fucking faith, dude. [Snickers]
Bill:
Seriously. Kerry's at one with the Red Sox spirit of being down 0-3 to the Yankees. Nevah give up. Anything can fucking happen and does.
Doug:
Oh, is that what you think Kedward's dealio is like? Seems to me it's more of an embarrassing desperation move ala A-Rod's sissy chop of Arroyo and trying to interfere with an easy put out at first. Sad. Really fucking sad. But not at all unexpected from our vainglorious Senator.
Bill:
Save your gloating until all the votes are counted, Dougie.
Doug:
Chop. Chop. Chop. Poor A-Johns.
Mike:
That shit was wicked fucking lame!
Doug:
Absolutely! But what the fuck. With all the fucking security cams on traffic signals on buildings, all the fucking news' crews cameras covering the parade, all the moms and pops down from Bangor with their video cams, and all the cool kids with their cell picture phones and not one motherfucker has a single frame showing this would be assassin?
Mike:
No shit. What's the fucking poing of living in a Big Brother society if you can't pick people out of crowd and track their sorry asses down with the five-oh posse?
Doug:
Every minute I stay in this room I get weaker. And every minute the would be Pedro killer squats in the bush he gets stronger …
Mike:
What do you call assassins who accuse assassins?
Doug:
This ball plunking shit's no assassin, no fan. He's an errand boy, sent by grocery clerks, to collect a bill.
Mike:
The horror. The horror.
Red Sox fans continue to soak it all in …
Mike:
Why do I feel tired as fuck this morning despite the so-called extra hour of sleep?
Mike:
Reminds me … does Pedro's little friend come as part of a Pedro Free Agent signing or does Boston have to negotiate a separate contract for the little good luck guy?
Bill:
Fuck. I'm not ready to think about Free Agents yet, dwarves or otherwise. I want this victory glow to last a bit longer.
Mike:
Right, Poland. What the fuck was I thinking? But Lowe, well, he's the only one I'm not wondering about.
Bill:
You voting tomorrow?
Mike:
Fuck yeah. Gotta write in Mr. Nelson for Preznut.
Bill:
Considering our choices, that's not a bad fucking idea.
Mike:
Hell, yeah it is. You know what they say, "A dwarf on a giant's shoulders sees farther of the two."
