Hey there, boys. Sorry I'm late... I passed out
/stumbles on her way to the podium
Ahem.
You know, there's been a lot of talk here claiming that the Red Sox are not a sufficiently diverse team. Bullshit! Look around you. Redneck white, Canadian white, Jewish white, midwestern white, Texan white... it's like a goddamn Wonderbread catalogue. A bigger variety of whites than anywhere in the Midwest could shake a stick at. Just because our team goes through more mayonnaise sandwiches and Jack Johnson albums than most is no reason to accuse us of discriminating. It's still great to have Coco Crisp on board, though. Nice strong back, fine white teeth... just no one fucking teach him to read, ok?
Jacoby, it's great to have you with us too. I hear that twee little sleeve you wear on one arm is a hip, modern take on the traditional tribal garments your forebears wore on the Trail of Tears. In a sport that's so riddled with big-contract mercenaries pursuing the almighty dollar rather than the purity of the game, it's truly refreshing to meet an athlete who'll play for beads and firewater. It's a goddamn shame Evan Longoria is so much fucking better than you. That Rookie of the Year trophy sure would have looked good in your wigwam. I look forward to gambling at your casino once you've retired, Chief Bunts-With-Two-Men-On. Just be careful with those World Series '07 t-shirts they're handing out. They may be infected with smallpox.
As long as we're talking about rookies, by the way, let's all welcome Jed Lowrie tonight. Jed, your marginally above-average competence burns brighter than a dying flashlight bulb. We're all glad you're here to fill an important void: the spot on the Whiteness Rainbow between Josh Beckett and Jon Papelbon. Not to mention that your gruesomely-thinning hairline at the ripe old age of 24 complements Pedroia's nicely. That duck's-ass-pompadour-meets-Phil-Collins-circa-2001 look really gets the tubby co-eds in the grandstand sweating, I hear.
Oh, and just for the record: I'd let you strap me on like a feedbag. Just so we're clear.
Hey, the REAL stars of the Red Sox are all here too. Let's give it up for the Sox bullpen, everyone. They've been about as tight as Christy Canyon lately. Thanks to your combined efforts, our leads are about as safe as a sorority girl's virginity around Jerramy Stevens. It's like you all caught Eric Gagne disease when he "visited" last year. At least he won a fucking Cy Young. You all just plain suck. You're all about as reliable as a condom from the dollar store. Are any of these hackneyed similes getting through to you, Mike Timlin? Did you forget to replace the batteries in your hearing aid? Maybe you should all spend less time trying to impress Jon Papelbon with your On-The-Go playlists and more time learning how to throw the ball high and inside. You're all getting made to look foolish by a 12-year old stringbean from Jamaica. Speaking of whom: Justin Masterson, it's a real treat to have you in attendance tonight to remind all of these shitty relief pitchers just how embarrassingly shitty they are. And don't worry what the other players say in the locker room. You'll get your big boy hair someday.
But we all know who we're really here to talk about tonight: Manuel Aristides Ramirez. My
As long as we're here, let's not forget your most important accomplishment while you were in Boston: passing your American citizenship test. It seems you really took the essence of being an American citizen to heart: laziness, greed, self-centeredness, and an utterly misplaced sense of entitlement. It's great that the maids scouring rich people's bathrooms to raise money for their 18 kids and aging grandmothers are doomed to a life of living in the shadows while you, a man who needs no additional privilege in life, now get to not vote and not give a shit about the economy.
But hey, the Dodgers will be great. Enjoy catching the old-man gout from your new teammate Greg Maddux and getting swept in the first round of the playoffs. I hear sometimes Dodger Stadium gets so full, you almost can't hear a pin drop.
Wow. Who do I pass the torch to next? You've already heard from two of my totally lame co-editors, Get Him A Body Bag, Yeah! and Hazel Mae's Landing Strip, both of whom are hopelessly pussy-whipped and get tummyaches when they drink anything that's not cranberry juice and Pepto-Bismol with a splash of watered-down vodka served in a sippy cup with a little umbrella and extra maraschino cherries. How long does it take you to find your dicks in the morning, boys? As for A Pimp Named DaveR, he's way too busy touching himself to pictures of Shawn Johnson while weeping over his terrible fantasy baseball team to find time to write this shit. Might as well spare us all his gratuitously justified margins and preachy baseball talk. Fuck, you're all so FUCKING INCOMPETENT.
Yeah, I'm going to hand this over to the only person in this joint who can wrap it up with style: the one and only Worthington P. Foxtrotty, Old-Timey Baseball Reporter and virulent bigot. Bring us home, Worth!
Part 4 tomorrow...
