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Lisa the Temp:
Hey, peeps, been awhile hasn't it?
Lisa the Temp:
Well, Lisa's been busy creating her self-published, eBook empire.
Lisa the Temp:
What am I working on now? Oh, glad you asked.
Lisa the Temp:
My latest is a self-help book for a niche, yet lucrative, demographic.
Lisa the Temp:
It's called "The Wiccan's Guide to Onanism."
Lisa the Temp:
Yeah, that's right, and I just finished the first two chapters...
Lisa the Temp:
"Chapter 1: Got an Itchy in Your Bewitchy?" and "Chapter 2: You Don't Need a Coven to Stoke Your Inner Oven."
Lisa the Temp:
Next up, "Chapter 3: God Says No; The Goddess Says Yes! Yes!! Yes!!!"
Lisa the Temp:
I know, Hawt, right?
Mike:
I could not stop for death, so he kindly stopped for me. Twice.
Doug:
Q: So how many Red Sox relievahs does it take to blow a save?
A: N/A because saves are way fucking overrated.
Mike:
Hey, remembah, "It's a long season."
Doug:
Seriously, lose a few here, blow a few there, no biggie. It'll all work out in the end, right, Tito?
Al:
Next is next year. This is year is last year. Pour me a friggin' Chivas 12 year.
The omniscient voice from the trolley:
Attention Soxaholix readers and community:
Regrettably, yesterday's strip was based on the erroneous premise that the Red Sox had been eliminated from the postseason after the loss to the Yankees on Sunday night.
Consequently, this error in the narrative has created a dangerous rip in the time-space continuum.
According to the universal laws of science fiction, as you know, any action taken while the time-space continuum is in flux brings with it the very real risk of the end of life as we know it.
!!!
Therefore, for the benefit of all living things, the Soxaholix strip has been quarantined and will not be permitted to continue until the rip in the time-space continuum has been repaired.
End of message.
Doug:
Who knew it could feel so good?
Mike:
The exhaustion of metaphor.
Doug:
Words aftah speech reach into the Silence...
Al:
And then, those little anodynes
That deaden suffering.
Doug:
Wait until next year, bitches.
Marty:
So Bill, for the inevitable Yankees victory party should I wear Armani or Cardin?
Marty:
I mean which designer best sartorially expresses Mystique and Aura?
Marty:
You know, Bill, for once you've stumbled unwittingly into the truth. The torch of Uber Also-ran has been passed to the Rays.
Marty:
The Red Sux are just another bug crushed into the grill of the speeding Yankees Express... no different from a Seattle or a Kansas City. Heh.
Marty:
So let me ask you this, Billy Willy, you still getting wood ovah your boy wonder GM?
Bill:
He has assembled 2 World Series teams in 6 years, Mahts, remembah?
Marty:
Wow, Bill, you're starting to sound like Osama Bin Laden pining for Al-Andalús in 12th Century Spain. Ancient history, B. Budd, ancient history.
Bill:
Yeah, like Steinbrennah.
Marty:
Here's something, Bill, unlike the Boston Beaners, Tampa Bay continues to field a contendah year in and year out... but I bet you don't even know the name of their GM do you?
Bill:
Of course, I do, Mahts.
Marty:
Yeah, so what is it?
Bill:
His name is Ben Dover.
Marty:
Brilliant, Bill, but now I've gotta run. I'm sure you have something important to do yourself like buff your little Ted Williams statuette or something.
Bill:
Don't fuck with the Teddy Baseball, Mahty.
Marty:
Oh, and, Bill? When you're buffing, just remember — Don't lose your head. Bwahahaahaha.
Susan/Circle:
Our *tragic* numbah remains at 3.
Mike:
Yeah, at this point with the postseason out of the question I'm left playing against ad hoc mental scenarios.
Susan/Circle:
Oooh, sounds exciting. And by exciting I, of course, mean lame.
Susan/Circle:
Ah, poor Demi... I only hope I can drift into life's late summah just half as well as she has.
Mike:
Really? I dunno. She kind of reminds me of the Yankees...
Mike:
You know propped up by a combination of money, unnaturally enhancements, and some sort of voodoo pact with Satan.
Susan/Circle:
Yeah, and you know what I say? Sign me the fuck up already.
Doug:
Yeah, and by the powah house that is the Baltimore friggin Orioles.
Bill:
As Dave Pinto astutely reminds us: The Sox are 8-9 against the Orioles this season. If that record was 13-4, we'd would be right in the thick of the AL East and Wild Card races.
Doug:
The idea of the 2010 Red Sox was a good one. Just turned out to be a mismatch with reality.
Bill:
Hey, what can you do? it happens*.
*[Mostly SFW - Ed.]
Doug:
Great now the Red Sox can ruin my Ode to Autumn.
Mike:
It's the season of mists and fallow fruitlessness.
Al:
The gourd is so not swelled.
Al:
Yeah, when you can't watch grass grow you can always watch icicles sublimate.
Rider on Green Line:
Update 9/20: "Still bakin'"
The was a comic blogger named Brachen
Over the 1589th strip he was really achin'
"I think I'll take a day or rest"
He said with a sudden zest
And today he's wakin and bakin
Bill:
This playing out the string thing really sucks. I mean we keep winning but what can I do it with?
Doug:
Hey, now, it could be worse. You be a Red Sox fan playing out the string *and* be First Lady. Jeez, that poor woman.
Bill:
So evidently antisocial behavior has no dress code. Except in NY, where suspects or persons of interest in connection with serious crimes just love to wear Yankees apparel at the time of the crimes or at the time of their arrest or arraignment.
Doug:
Cue the Law and Order voice over:
In the Criminal Justice System the people are represented by two separate, yet equally scumbaggy groups. The douchebags who wear Yankees attire to commit crimes and those few that don't. These are their stories. Bom Bom.
Bill:
So let's see, criminals who live the notion of the ends justifying the means are fans of a team that has built a mythology around the concept of the ends justifying the means. Go figure.
Doug:
Now batting the Yankees, Dante te te te Alighieri eri eri eri
Clap. Clap. Clap-Clap-Clap.
Susan/Circle:
Next year is, er, next year!
Mike:
Thinking about 2011 while 2010 is dying on the vine is just wrong is all sorta ways.
Susan/Circle:
It's like breakup sex except without the breakup... or the sex.
Mike:
It's like discussing a prenup on the first date.
Susan/Circle:
It's like setting the table and lighting candles for a romantic meal with your RealDoll.
Mike:
Fuck, it's like asking your RealDoll to sign a prenup.
Doug:
Hey, Arturo, I just invented a new seasonal special for ya...
Doug:
It's called the "Playing Out the String" – an all beef dog topped with sauerkraut and beets.
Doug:
Get it, Arturo, "sour" and "beat"?
Arturo, the hot dog vendor:
Ah, yeah, very clevah, Mr. Roy, I'm sure I'll get right on that.
Arturo, the hot dog vendor:
Oh, quit with the glum front already, will ya?
Arturo, the hot dog vendor:
Look around. The Red Sox may be out of it but the Boston girls are still pretty and the autumn air tastes of apple peel and ferris wheels.
Doug:
You're a real optimist aren't you, Arty?
Arturo, the hot dog vendor:
Of course, I'm Portugese. We are an optimistic people.
Arturo, the hot dog vendor:
On a foggy morning, kid, on a foggy morning.
Mike:
Paglia makes a good case against the Gaga ...
Mike:
+ She treats her fans as if they are damaged goods in need of her therapeutic repair
+ She's self-potrayed as marginalized and destitute when in reality she's bankrolled by a powahful corporate apperatus.
+ Shes' ovah-conceptualised, clinical and strangely antiseptic.
Al:
Hey, whoa, wait a second... are we sure Paglia's talking about Gaga and not the 2010 Red Sox?
Doug:
Yeah, talk about a Bad Romance.
Susan/Circle:
Christ, I've become so blasé that I was just bored enough to tune into the NFL Kickoff Countdown thingy and what I came away with was this:
I think Kanye West was onto something in re Taylor Swift.
Mike:
Yeah, well, then there's Bob Costas.
Mike:
Listening to him was always bad enough, but now looking at him is like staring into the sun, if the sun had a horrible dye job and wicked ridiculous mop cut or toupee, as the case may be.
Susan/Circle:
You know I sorta get the whole Ode of a Grecian Formula thing, but the boyish moppy thing? C'mon, when you're close to 60 years what makes you think it's a good thing to mimic the hairstyle of a pubescent child?
Mike:
I dunno, ask Tom Brady who isn't as old as Costas, of course, but still has a haircut fitting a 14-year old at summer soccer camp.
Susan/Circle:
Battle of the age inappropriate haircut: Costas vs Brady. Who wins?
Mike:
Wait...Is either haircut secretly named Ditka?
Bill:
Oh, c'mon now Mahts, just because you upgrade to a newah model from Abyss* doesn't mean I want your worn out hand-me-downs.
*[NSFW]
Marty:
Ah, poor Billy Budd... so how's it feel to once again know that God is in his Yankeedom and all is right with the world?
Marty:
Oh, but no fear, lil' Budd, I'm sure fate will throw you another bone in 80 years or so.
Marty:
In the meantime you can go back to your natural destiny.
Marty:
I mean somebody has to represent your peeps.
Marty:
The Boston Red Sox – send us your losers, your castoffs, your second placers...
Marty:
Red Sox Nation. How sweet it is.
Marty:
Love that dirty water, right, Bill?
Bill slamming phone with thought bubble:
!@%$*
Al:
I know we're playing out the so-called string, but jeez Dice-K, really?
Doug:
Why not just wheel out the friggin' Jugs machine and save everybody the trouble?
Mike:
Many moons must pass
To glimpse the ivory-billed
Or quality start.
Doug:
So in the end, it looks like the Red Sox will struggle to win 87 games.
Al:
This is like the old days.
Doug:
Why the fuck not? Everything old is new again.
Al:
I once knew a girl who wore leggings,
She wouldn't put out until I started begging,
Then it was spandex galore,
From this dirty litte whore,
How I love cod with a little breading.
Doug:
Bettah late than what fucking evah.
Mike:
At least Kalish has a sweet swing.
Doug:
There's no next year 'til next year.
Mike:
And this year, well...
Mike:
This year stands On Fields O'er Which the Reapah's Hand has Passed.*
Mike:
Memo to the media: Can you dial back the storm-porn a wee bit?
Doug:
Seriously. We're New Englandahs fercrissakes. We don't cowah at the approach of bad weathah – We thrive in bad weathah.
Al:
And the Hurricane of '38 Earl ain't.
Doug:
Are you kidding me? I once had a golden showah from a Simmons College anorexic that was more powahful than Earl.
Mike:
I knew things were bad at the majah networks and all but I didn't realize it was so bad that now nut jobbahs prefer to go berserkahs at the HQs of minor cable channels.
Mike:
And the Froggies. Don't forget the Froggies.
Doug:
Christ, is that the lamest friggin manifesto evah?
Al:
Dude definitely didn't put the "man" in manifesto did he?
Doug:
Yeah, need to call it a "pussifesto" or something.
Mike:
Speaking of... now that 2010 is more or less a wash, any sense of Theo's directive for next season? Go for broke? Slash and burn? Bridge?
Al:
I'm not used to worrying. And that has me worried.
Doug:
Seriously. Makes me think of those poor fucks in 1921. Nevah saw it coming, did they?
Bill:
Look, it's not so bad...
Bill:
All we need to do is sweep Baltimore...
Doug:
It's all kinds of effed up, guy.
Doug:
I mean the the more I talk about the Red Sox, the more I feel I haven't talked about the Red Sox.
Doug:
And this "lacking talking" presses on me.
Doug:
The morning aftah games, there was once a great bland pleasure, a lewd laughing repetition of location.
Doug:
Now I'm afraid to laugh, afraid to repeat myself, as though something new, something bettah needed to be said.
Bill:
Do you think this is what Dostoyevsky meant by "the comical absence of the comical"?
Doug:
Yes, it's the world of humorless laughtah, where we are condemned to live.
