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Bill:
Seriously, I haven't heard this much whining and lack of confidence in one's decision since that time you did the pre-emptive breakup with that supah hot chick from the Cayman Islands. Heh.
Doug:
Yeah, well, at least I wasn't going around telling everyone I am the corporeal embodiment of "fun" and without my presence a dank dahkness descends over the fuckahs of Sombahtown.
Doug:
Really, despite Damon's beliefs, I've nevah evah not once heard anothah Red Sox fan lament, "These bunch of bums, they just don't have enough fun."
Bill:
Christ, fun isn't even a word I'd use to describe why I watch the friggin games.
Doug:
And how could you? I mean last time I checked, when you look up fun in the dictionary it doesn't say "a feeling that at any moment one may shit himself, piss himself, or burst into flame."
Bill:
Fun is a dad and son playing catch in the back yahd. Whereas rooting for the Red Sox is the fucking rapture.
Doug:
I wouldn't even use the word fun to describe any paht of my emotions during the 2004 run, it's just too light, too lame, a description.
Bill:
Fun is to winning the World Series as a rubbah band powahed balsa wood plane is to an F-18 jet fightah on full aftah burnah.
Doug:
You know, to be fair, I'm totally willing to grant Damon that fun and/or the relaxed atmosphere in the clubhouse was a huge factah in the remarkable 2004 run, but it wasn't enough on its own … Or did I somehow manage to sleep through the 2002 and 2003 championships?
Doug:
Yeah, and the othah guy who was the difference between almost and all the way, Curt Schilling, is fun in the sense that Ghenghis Khan was fun.
Bill:
What Damon doesn't get is Boston fans aren't looking for fun but extreme intensity from Red Sox players.
Doug:
Right that's why there is fan site called "Boston Dirt Dogs" but not one called "The Boston 'Idiots'"
Bill:
And this explains why even a guy as goofy as Manny is respected by the fans. No matter how many trades he demands or how many times his grandmothah dies, fact is, when the dude is at the plate there isn't a motherfuckah on the entiah plaent more intense and locked-in than Manny.
Doug:
Truth is I will miss Damon, but not the "fun" Johnny so much as the play-through-pain Damon.
Bill:
As I've said before, my numbah one memory of Johnny Damon and one of the most stunning images from my Red Sox fan life is the one of Damon being carried off in a stretchah with his fist held defiantly in the air.
Doug:
And there's nothing idiotic about that.
Hart Brachen (the dude who writes this thing):
OK, readers, all this non-stop action, stone on stone Olympic curling action has worn my droopy ass out, so I'm taking the day off.
Hart Brachen:
One interesting thing about the flashback strip (well, to me at least) is I think it's the only occasion where the characters Doug and Susan appear together. (Susan, you see, doesn't much like Doug. I'll leave the backstory on that for another time.)
Because we know he'd do the same for us …
Mike:
You know, at first I thought it was kinda cool in an ironic or a Dadaesque "found sports" kind of thing, but it has really gone too fah, and, frankly, I'm more than a little worried about his mental state.
Doug:
I know, the guy's got a daily must read baseball blog, and he's a savant when it comes to sabermetrics, so how do you broach your concerns delicately, tactfully, indeed, safely? I mean we don't know just how close to a full breakdown he is.
Mike:
I'm thinking a few of us are going to have to drive out to Springfield and gathah up some of his closest friends and family membahs and stage an intervention.
Doug:
"David, we understand it's been a long off season and you've really been pushing yourself with your probabilistic modeling, so it's only natural that you'd seek a little relief — But the 'live' curling blogging has stahted to frighten us."
Mike:
"David we're not here to bully you. It's just that we love you and your blog and we want what's best for you. You need some help, David, it's going to be OK."
Doug:
It could be worse. I mean we all know curling blogging is a "gateway" to even more harmful behaviah.
Mike:
Right, first comes some recreational curling blogging and then it's onto the biathlon. And when that no longah does it, well, then you're doing whatevah it takes to support your insatiable need to blog short track skating.
Doug:
"Update 08:01:03: They're turning.
Update 08:01:10: They're still turning.
Update 08:01:21: They're still turning. [My God it's beautiful!]
Update 08:01:36: They're bunched up and continuing to turn. Amazing!"
Mike:
First comes denial, then the angah …
Doug:
I saw the best blogs of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked, dragging themselves through the MSNBC channels at dawn looking for an angry fix, angelheaded bloggahs burning for the wi-fi heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the CMS of night …
Mike:
For his family's sake, we pray it nevah comes to that. I just hope that by not speaking out soonah we haven't been, you know, enabling Pinto's curling abuse problem.
Doug:
Hey, this is no time to play the blame game. What's important is for us to focus on the positive and help one of our own.
Continue reading "Friends don't let friends..." »
Bill:
You hearing much buzz about this movie "Game 6"?
Steve:
Nope. The blogosphere seems oddly quiet and I don't recall even Dirt Dogs giving it a mention. It's got a great cast, including the always humpalicious Bebe Neuwirth, but even after the catharsis of the 2004 World Series win, I'm not really comfortable revisiting '86.
Bill:
Same here. On the one hand, being able to sit there stoically and dispassionately reliving October 25th 1986 would be what my evah hopeful therapist, Dr. Mezmer, would call a breakthrough,
Steve:
You know I checked out the trailer and they seem to be really going with the expectation of doom angle, showing the Michael Keaton character in a bar saying "something bad is going to happen" or whatever, but isn't that revisionist history?
Steve:
I mean I know I got to the Red Sox thing late, really only getting hooked in during the '86 season, but I was hanging out with plenty of people who were lifers and we all thought the Sox were going to win that night right up until they didn't, you know?
Bill:
Absolutely. While there were undoubtedly some cynics out there, when the Red Sox had their first one strike away moment I thought they were going to put it away. Christ, we were all giving high fives and looking at each other saying "I can't believe it, the Red Sox won the World Series" with the champagne corks popping. Everyone tells a similar story …
Bill:
Really it was what then transpired in Game 6 that was the nexus linking all the previously disparate mishaps into the "Holy Shit, God does have it in for us!" mythology.
Steve:
Right even the infamous "Curse of the Bambino" phrase didn't come into existence until after Game 6 was in the books, and it really took Shaughnessy's subsequent book by the same name before the phrase and everything that comes with it entered the mainstream.
Bill:
Ah, well, who the fuck cares, now? Whatevah psychic baggage we were carrying has been lifted.
Steve:
So you're going to see the movie?
A moment of silence on the passing of one the greatest baseball announcers ever …
Bill:
Rest in peace Mr. Curt Gowdy …
Bill:
I thank you for filling my childhood with the sound of your voice and schooling me on the absolute beauty of the game. You were an artist.
Mike:
Hey, can you imagine James Carroll and Dan Shaughnessy having a drink togethah?
"Oh, Dan, we used to friends with birds …"
"I know, James, I know. Bostonians and our fine, feathered friends walked arm and wing through the Common until that bastard Harry Frazee traded Babe Ruth, the fool!"
"Now, Dan, my curly haired best friend, the rotten scourge of a human race recklessly eats birds wrapped in cellophane and they'll get what they deserve when their eyeballs start to bleed."
"John Henry could sink money into finding a cure for bird flu but he won't because he's greedy. Look he let Pedro walk, let Damon walk … "
"Everybody is so stooopid. Why can't they just smarten up and listen to us?"
"Because our readers are pieces of filth. I hate them all, especially the fanboy bloggers."
Mike:
As usual, you've gotta love the irony of the CHB dissing Wells for not putting in a good workout when he himself mails in a column that's one half admission that he's inept at getting guys to talk to him and the othah half a tired recap of the Wells offseason situation filling space as if it's breaking news.
Doug:
Yeah, funny how the Red Sox management is often chided by the media for coddling players when the Globe has a guy like Shaughnessy who is the laughingstock of baseball fans, who is unanimously detested by the playahs, and who hasn't had the newspaper equivalent of a hit in many years, yet he still gets his regular column space and collects his fat paycheck week aftah week.
Bill:
Oh, holy shit, now that gives a hold new meaning to "Hold the pickle."
Doug:
So the sight of Janet Jackson's nipple is a national crisis, but a spandex nut sandwich is okey fucking dokey?
Bill:
I mean think of the children for fuck's sake.
Doug:
Talk about your lousy role models … "Mommy, when I grow up I want to pack my sack like an Olympian."
Mike:
I don't think there's evah been a playah who scared me as much as Albert Belle. And I don't mean just in his offensive capabilities, but just scared the living shit out of me in general, like when I'd be watching and Indians v Red Sox game he'd somehow know I was thinking ill of him and that he'd come through the TV screen and beat this shit out of me with a pillowcase full of oranges kind of scary.
Susan/Circle:
No kidding. If Albert Belle were stalking me I'd be like one of those teeny chicks in a baby sittah slashah flicks all wide eyed and jumpy ready to piss my panties with every clap of thundah.
Mike:
Yeah and then the phone rings: "Susan, this is the police. The call is coming from inside the house. Albert Belle is inside the house!"
Susan/Circle:
Insert sound of my blood curdling screams.
Mike:
Well, by the will of Allah (may peas be upon him), we've got pitchers and catchers in camp.
Mike:
"This kid shakes your hand, and your whole body shakes"
Susan/Circle:
Ohmigod. Let's just say I can't wait for my Happy Kitty to arrive from UPS any day now and the shit bettah be ready for the rigahs of the 162 game season.
Lisa the Temp:
As usual, it is the temp who gets stuck with the jobs nobody else wants to do, like telling you The Soxaholix are on a so-called temporary hiatus.
Mike:
You know after 3 and half months, I'm so tired of effin' supposition. I want to see some action for reals.
Doug:
Christ, tell me about it. This happens to me every year: I get all pissy pants excited ovah the mofo Truck Day and then I remembah, it's still the middle of February.
Mike:
Hell no you don't. You know why? Cuz the motherfucking King would go all reverse-jihad on their sorry free speech hating Dhimmi lovin' asses that's why.
Steve:
Well, Christ, yeah, I mean what do people think the taxpayer's money is for, schools and shit? Get real.
Bill:
Seriously, if you want to keep a school open, don't look to the government for a handout, but get your shit togethah and give up the money you've been saving for vacation and hold a fucking bake sale or something. I mean, c'mon, think outside the box people.
Steve:
That kid in Arkansas is so lucky to have a positive role model like George Steinbrenner in his life.
Bill:
We're knee deep in blazing snow, and what is the harbinger of Spring we are most waiting for?
Mike:
Is it the multiple dull drum of sap in empty pails?
Bill:
No, sir, it is not.
Bill:
Nice but you're still not there.
Bill:
Yes, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, it's Truck Day!
In honor of the unofficial holiday and spring harbinger known as "Truck Day," The Soxaholix present the first ever Truck Day commemorative apparel line …
Yes, the design is cheesy but the intent is earnest.
Continue reading "Better than seeing the first robin" »
In the spirit of making the most out of what you have …
Hart Brachen (blog/strip author):
OK, Hart here, so last night I lost power at my humble abode for 6 hours or so, and this morning I have no internet connection from home forcing me to transmit this brief bit from one of Dick Cheney's secret bunkers. (Yeah, he added my retina scan to the entrance list and shit. Big fan of the strip and all.)
Hart Brachen:
Meanwhile, I do believe our beloved, esoteric, unofficial fête known as "Truck Day" is to occur on this coming Monday, and, in honor of the occasion, I created a commemorative t-shirt that I may or may not choose to unveil and sell to you, the fickle public.
Hart Brachen:
I mean it's the kind of t-shirt you might see hanging at a Marlboro smokey, deep-fried-Oreo smelling, truck stop off I-95 somewhere in North Carolina hanging on a rack between the Dale Earnhardt and "These Colors Don't Run" t-shirts.
Bill:
I know, how long before it's "Fenway Monstah Truck Day"?
Bill:
Yeah, but don't you think the timing is a bit off? I mean why now rather than right after he signed with the team that must not be named?
Tara:
Good point. Maybe this is paht of a "Long Con"
Bill:
Ah, not the best episode of Lost evah, but a damn fine one.
Tara:
Despite his despicable qualities as a human being, I'm totally ready to let Sawyer be in charge of things for awhile. I mean he can't be any worse in the leadership role than Locke and Jack.
Bill:
Yeah, Locke and Jack are about as good as running the island as Beattie and Bowden are to running a ballclub.
Tara:
And did you love the Revenge of the Sith, Darth Hoodie transformation of Charlie?
Bill:
Absolutely, as well as the return of Sayid from mourning.
Tara:
I need more Eko and more Sayid.
Bill:
Of course, this being Lost, we probably won't see Sawyer, Eko, or Sayid for the next 3 episodes but are instead treated to backfill stories on Libby or Gerome and Rose.
Tara:
I'm surprised we haven't gotten a distracting flashback on Vincent the dog.
Bill:
Heh, Vincent. If you see him run out of the jungle and then turn around and run back in, you know you're totally hosed.
Mike:
Aw, c'mon, dude. The little Spears spawn could grow up to find a cure for cancah or something.
Bill:
I think a more apt transition would be "Speaking of stupid rednecks …"
Mike:
Still holding a grudge, eh? I'm with Tom Werner on this one. Make the video and do what it takes to bring Rogah back. It'd be a great story.
Bill:
Look, Werner's been a Red Sox fan for what, 4 years? He has no clue what it feels like to get pissed on by Rogah Clemens. As a fan, there are just some things I won't evah forgive. Clemens is dead to me. Now and forevah.
Mike:
Hey, you could as easily argue that it was the Red Sox front office that dissed Clemens not the other way around. Besides, past history aside, Clemens is one of the premier pitchers in the League.
Bill:
Really? If you ask me, Clemens was mediocre in his final years in the AL East. He was only given new life by pitching in much easier NL. And even then, he broke down last season and was useless for the Astros in the postseason.
Bill:
Call the head shrinks then. I don't want Clemens setting foot on the Fenway rubbah unless it's as an opposing pitchah getting bitch slapped by Manny Ortez and company.
Susan/Circle:
All I know is Johnny Damon is lucky he resembled the bearded Jesus and not the bearded Mohammed. That would have caused one fuck of a shit storm.
Mike:
Hmmm … "Johnny Mohammed" has sort of a ring to it. Heh. But he'd need to change his tagline, of course …
Mike:
Instead of "We're a bunch of idiots!" it'd be "You're a bunch of infidels!"
Susan/Circle:
I'm overcome with a sudden urge to ululate.
Mike:
You know I'm surprised the whole ululating thing has nevah caught on with sports fans. That sound is a total mind fuck. I mean think about it. Bottom of the 9th, pressure situation, need just one more out with the other team's sluggah confidently striding to the plate … And all of a sudden 35 thousand fans begin to ululate in unison!
Because when there ain't jack going on in the baseball world, we have to talk about something …
Bill:
Man, you know I'm a really big fan of "The King" commercials, so I was really, really looking forwahd to Burger King's 60-second Super Bowl spot … But I was totally underwhelmed with The Whoppahrettes.
Doug:
Ah, c'mon, dude, those vegetable chicks were friggin' hot. Check out the onions, man, that's a piece of ass that'll bring tears to your eyes.
Bill:
Yeah, the costumes were clevah, I'll grant that, but if you're going to veer away from the masked King in odd situations artifice, you can't have your anthropomorphic vegetables undercutting the already established mythology of the King.
Doug:
Ohmigod, Bill, aftah all these years of Red Sox haht ache, you've finally fucking lost your mahbles ovah a BK commercial?
Bill:
No, no, look. In all the King commercials we, the viewah, know The King's a freak, right? But the King doesn't think he is at all. No, he thinks he's the nads, you know, and he'll do anything, run a touchdown, appeah bearing sandwich on a high rise girdah, bring you breakfast in bed, anything because he's the King.
Bill:
But when The Whoppahrettes sing their song, if you listen closely, you'll actually hear them refer to the King as "freaky" in a disparaging mannah. So if the pickles, the lettuce, the King's subjects, if you will, those at the very innah sanctum of the Burgah Kingdom think the King is kind of a joke, what is that saying about their self-sacrifice to the Whoppah consumah?
Bill:
I mean aftah seeing this commercial, when I now hold a Whoppah in my hands, rathah than thinking positively about the image of the King, I'm thinking, shit, I've been duped. The King isn't freaky in a cool sort of way, he's just plain freaky, the Pickle chick said so.
Doug:
But, dude, that's where you're totally wrong. What makes the Whoppahrettes self-assembly of and self-sacrifice to the Whoppah so noble is that they aren't doing it for the King — they're doing it for the highah good. The King doesn't command them to this fate. No, the Pickles, the Buns, the Onions, they choose this sacrifice of their own free will. And by doing so, they consecrate the holiness of the Whoppah.
Bill:
Jesus H. Mohammed, I didn't look at it that way. I think you're onto something.
Doug:
Dude, there's more to my 12 year Catholic school education than fantasizing about chicks in matching plaid skirts and knee socks, you know.
Bill:
Yeah, but yet again it's the stat heads who get all the attention.
Doug:
Well maybe if we spent a bit less time deconstructing commercials and a little more time on VORP, Gammo would show us the love.
Mike:
So how's that work exactly? I mean you toss your kid ovah the fence and then what? Talk about a plan that lacks an "exit strategy."
Susan/Circle:
Meanwhile, I still can't figyah out the public's obsession with the InstaPudnut. Now he's got a best selling book, too? Politics aside, the guy is like the worst bloggah on the planet.
Mike:
I wondah if he writes like he blogs, you know …
"Chapter 1 — Heh. Indeed. Chapter 2 — Update: Hmmm. Chapter 3 — This is just plain scary. Chapter 4 — More here."
Mike:
Oh, absolutely. As a Red Sox fan, it's very important to me to choose duct work that carries the imprimitur of Larry Lucchino.
Susan/Circle:
And here I thought I was the luckiest bitch in the world knowing that L-squared is a "baseball man," but now we discovah that he's also the chair of the Red Sox art committee. Is there no uppah limit to this man's skill set?
Mike:
The dude is truly the modern embodiment of a Renaissance Man. Frankly, his talent frightens me.
Lisa the Temp:
I mean Johnny already has the ho part covered.
Doug:
Absolutely. It's that sort of irresponsible behavior that gives wankahs everywhere a bad name.
Doug:
Yeah, it's fun to give the front office and ownahship shit about things like Theogate, but we are lucky to be rid of the alcoholic racists who ran the show all those years.
Bill:
Now if we can sweep up the lingahring detritus made up of guys like Shaughnessy, we'll truly have turned a page into a new Red Sox era.
