Loser

Unbelievable. I can't sleep. I'm so pissed, I can't sleep. The Sox just dropped two games at Tropicana Field to the Rays---weren't they the fucking Devil Rays; is Tampa such a pussy city that they won't stand up to the Christian Right bible-thumping maniacs in the Deep South?---and the season is OVER! Please excuse the dialect, but, growing up in Rhode Island, this is how I just screamed it at my wife: It's fuckin' oh-vah!

And here's the other thing: These fucking guys playing for the Red Sox are hopping a plane right now, texting their New York City girlfriends, saying. We land at 3 a.m.; here's my hotel room number; don't wear clothes.

What I am doing? I'm writing this, watching footage of Johnny Damon---who intellectually has as much to contribute to the ongoing human dialogue as a pubic hair in a drain---talk about the upcoming series with the Sox. Let me package your verbal diarrhea for you, Johnny: It's oh-vah!

The Big Phony is a bigger and bigger ass-clown each day he waits to explain. Do you really think, Big Phony, that every baseball fan is as obsequious as the Pink Hat frauds who blow you for hitting your first home run in May? Wait until you're announced in New York.

It's oh-vah, my friends. Unbelievable. It's unbelievable that I care.