Hell freezes over.

I never thought this day would come. It once seemed unfathomable, blasphemous to say what I'm about to say. If you listen to sports talk radio, however, you've been hearing this from the die-hards all day; meanwhile, the Pink Hats have been loosening their vocal cords to assure they really belt out "Sweet Caroline" in the 8th inning tonight. Here it is:

I hope the Red Sox lose.

There. I said it. I hope Tampa hands this bunch of overpaid, underachieving whining Delilahs their asses in the final three games of this series, takes possession of The Wild Card and sends these apathetic douche bags home to play golf in October.

In my lifetime, I'd be hard-pressed to recall a more contemptuous Red Sox team than the one that will take the field in a couple of hours. Minus a couple of hot streaks, the 2011 Red Sox have played without passion, without fire, without personality, and without the will to win. They weren't prepared to play in April, and they're playing their fiddles as Fenway burns around them now. It's as if the entire team has morphed into clones of JD Drew, collecting their paychecks and caring less. This ball club's nonchalance has made them a veritable snore to watch and easy to hate. And, in my opinion, the king's share of this epidemic apathy falls on the shoulders of the manager.

Tito Francona has sat in that dugout spitting seeds and shrugging while his team has swirled down the shitter. Tito makes excuses for his players under-performing. Then Tito shrugs. Tito tells the press that Bard looked good after blowing the second of what would be three straight blown saves. Then Tito shrugs. Tito stands by idly as his superstars bench themselves because they slept wrong on a plane ride. Then Tito shrugs. But the one Tito can say is that all his players love him. He's a great fucking guy. Guess what, Tito? They loved Grady Little, too.

As Tito shrugs and spits and shrugs, Joe Maddon wins with a quarter of the salaries.

Right now, Tampa is playing for their lives, and honestly, it's refreshing to see a team who cares out there on the field. That team, regardless of their jerseys, deserves to win. Maybe the Red Sox will come out of the dugout and sing along to Neil Diamond with the dipshits at the ball game tonight as Tampa hands them their jocks for the sixth straight game. I say, "Good!"

I used to say it'd be a cold day in hell until I'd root for a team against the Red Sox, and mind you, I'll still never root for the Yankees. But, sadly, the day has come, and a small part of me just died.

The cliche says that "money can't buy happiness." In the case of real Red Sox fans, nothing has ever been truer.