 Hey Boston: Eat My Ass
June 24, 2008 – Well, well, well. It seems that congratulations are certainly in order for our good friends up in Beantown, no? After all, their beloved Boston Celtics returned to championship glory last week, dismantling the L.A. Kobes in six tidy games. But that's not all. With the fine folks of Boston, there's always more. Last week also saw the Red Sox sweep into town to beat the living shit out of the Phillies–and expose the Fightin's as an inconsistent, pitching-poor pretender.
Oh yes, last week was a memorable one for Bostonites–and the pricks certainly let us know it, didn't they? I could barely walk three feet without bumping into some dough-faced cretin in a Papelbon jersey and docksiders, squawking away in that somebody-pummel-me accent about the "Celts" and the "Sawks". The smug bastards were everywhere, radiating superiority as they shat their way through our paradeless streets. In the past seven years, these chowder-slurping anal warts have enjoyed championship after championship–while we hold out meager hope that the Phillies will edge the AAA Marlins, or that the Eagles will scrounge up a neat-o draft pick. Boston looks at Philly the way a king looks at a filthy leper, masturbating furiously in a garbage-filled alleyway. To them, we're a wretched, splooge-covered abomination.
But, unlike those Tom Collins-sipping clitori, we've got plenty of fight in us yet. And I have one message for that legion of windsurfing, Kennedy-humping morons:
Eat my ass, Boston.
Now, you may think I'm being childish. And you'd be correct. But inviting them to take a deep, rich sampling of my dingleberry-strewn crap-garden is the only sensible response to a town that's become the sporting equivalent of the '80s-movie asshole. With the Celtics, Red Sox, and, of course, the goddamn Patriots, Boston is the perpetual shitheel in a knotted cardigan, the scumbag in the red ragtop who always sticks it to the nerds and sticks it in the prom queen.
But in this godforsaken movie, the third act never comes. The nerd never wins. His acne-scarred face never rises from the steaming, fly-swarmed pile of donkey-shit. And the kid with the perfect teeth and fashion mullet? He walks away chuckling, hot, horny blonde on his arm and another championship ring on his finger.
It wasn't always this way. The Red Sox used to be halfway palatable. They were sort of charming, with their pathetic Yankee envy and their Bagwell trades and their Bill Buckner fuckups. It was good for baseball, that little Shakespearean tragedy of theirs. Just a few years later, though, the Sox are about as interesting as a terminal case of Typhoid Fever. They've turned their venerable ballpark into a stripmall, hired Junior McFuckface as GM, and padded their roster with mouth-breathing dickheads. The team that used to lose with Fred Lynn and Carlton Fisk now wins with Manny Ramirez and J.D. Drew.
Nice job, cockslappers.
As for the Celtics, they're an inspiring bunch. Danny Ainge, who was well on his way to a rusty-knifed castration on Boston Common, traded 43 stiffs for Kevin Garnett, and swiped Jesus Shuttleworth from Seattle in a salary dump. Guess what happened? The Celtics went from being the second-worst team in the NBA to, once again, the source of thousands of teeny Massachusetts hard-ons. The Celtics are the next NBA dynasty. Danny Ainge is now a genius. You know how I know these things? I heard a dribble-chinned Sox fan say so during Thursday's scrotum-punching of the Phillies.
These "B"-hatted mongoloids don't know when to quit. With every new championship, they become more and more pompous; more unbearably grating. As for us long-suffering Philadelphia fans? There's no end in sight.
But I'd have a hard time telling, anyway. My face is too busy being ground into that steaming heap of donkey-shit.
Congratulations, assholes! |
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Muttering Randolph Seen Near Stadium
June 24, 2008 – Former New York Mets manager Willie Randolph–fired last Monday for his third-place team's underachieving play–has been spotted near Citizens Bank Park in recent days, according to worried Phillies officials. "Obviously, [the Phillies] played a big role in his firing," said Glenn Cooper, the team's security supervisor, referring to the Mets' Phillies-aided collapse at the end of last season. "So we're very concerned that he's been seen in the area, muttering and giggling to himself."
The Phillies' security officer, Charles Anderson, noticed Randolph pacing up and down Pattison Ave. late Friday evening, long after the team's 7-1 loss to the Los Angeles Angels. "He walked right past me, mumbling, 'Seven game lead' over and over," he shuddered. "He smelled terrible, his eye was twitching, and he was still wearing his Mets jersey. The man needs help." Later that night, maintenance supervisor Bill Hadley saw Randolph peering into the stadium through its locked 3rd Base Gate. "I'm headed to my office, and I look over, and Randolph's right there, peekin' in," he recalled. "He ran off as soon as he saw me, but it was still pretty freaky. I don't know what's going on in his head, but it can't be good."
Randolph's wife, Gretchen, admitted that she was worried for her husband's well-being. "Willie hasn't been home since Tuesday," she said by telephone from the family's New Jersey home. "The last few weeks have been so hard on him mentally... I just pray he isn't planning anything drastic." Cooper agreed. "Our message to Mr. Randolph is this: [the Phillies] may have knocked the Mets out of the playoffs last year, but whatever you're planning, it's not worth it. Please, Willie, listen to reason–even if the whole thing is kind of our fault." |
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