Thursday, June 11, 2009

Why I hate the Yankees (Part II)

With the Sox's knees currently planted firmly on the Yankees' chests, as they smack them around like Ralphy taking it to Scott Farkus in The Christmas Story, blissfully beating on "Bitch Tits" Rodriguez and the circle-jerkers for seven games in a row now (yes, I realize BT was only part of two of those), you might consider this an odd time to proceed with my probe into my innermost loathings.

No, stupid! Now is the time to ratchet up the hatred, pile it on, embrace it, feel the rough rush of disgust in my blood and really spit venom. When people seeing me walking down the street, I want to be the guy who people will point at and say, "That dude really, really hates the Yankees."

However, if you happen to be one of my now six readers and remember my last imaginary sports column, I vowed to attempt to make some "rational and logical sense of these emotions." Therefore, my readers, I must confess to playing with you a bit. Those first two paragraphs of this column were somewhat histrionic, my case and point leading into my next segment.

II. A medical explanation

It recently occurred to me that I, and many fellow pinstripe-haters, may very well have an allergy to the New York Yankees. In other words, this is a condition that we cannot control, much like an allergy to mold or dust mites or peanuts. While most people with allergies need to either medicate or take measures to avoid the allergen, as a Sox fan, I can't avoid the Yankees, and when I'm exposed to them, I start to experience physical and emotional discomfort, reacting in strange and often unpredictable ways.

For example, last weekend my wife, kids and I were at the party store shopping for decorations for Paige's sixth birthday party this Sunday---in case you're wondering, the theme is princesses and plastic silver tiaras were purchased for Paige, her friends, and Alex Rodiguez, if he accepts the invitation. So I was walking through the party store and saw a t-shirt, my four-year-old son's size, that read Yankees Yuck, retailing for a whopping $13. Now, a rational person without an allergy would not even consider spending $13 for about two-square feet of cheap fabric. But my eyes lit up. I pictured my son, my boy, standing proudly in his new Yankee-hater t-shirt during this week's series and suddenly money became no object. Of course, I didn't buy the t-shirt because my wife was there, and rational, but I thought about it.

Compounding this uncontrollable medical condition is a Tourette's-like symptom that comes over me, exacerbated by alcohol, during Red Sox/Yankee games. When I tell you that I can't control the next word out of mouth during these contests, I mean I can't control the next word out of my mouth during these contests. Another example, if Johnny Damon were coming up to bat, I might yell out, "Traitor, douche-dick, donkey-fucking ass-tool" without even realizing what I said. It's a spasm, a baffling paroxysm. Now, I ask you, would someone without a legitimate medical condition (or psychological condition) behave like that? Would they?

While there is myriad of explanations for it, this all boils down to quite a simple concept, and as I entertain the possibility of yet-another sweep of the Spankees at The Fens tonight, I'm both anxious and elated. However, regardless of tonight's results, the simple fact remains: I hate the fuckers. A lot.

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