Douche-tard [doosh-tard] noun. Slang: vulgar. A contemptible person who behaves as if he/she were retarded.
The word has been ringing in my head, repeating like a mantra as I've watched this despicable and disgusting entity that the Red Sox ownership has presented to Boston fans for the first fourteen games.
Douche-tards.
But wait! Fenway Park is a century old! There's plenty of "Sweet Caroline" singing to be done! Let's overlook the fact that the hucksters who own this team are selling the most expensive tickets this side of Yankee-land and pushing a sub-par product. Let's forget the fact that this is the same team who coughed up chicken bones, puked Bud Light, and died on us last September. Let's forget the fact that these guys should feel the need to atone for such a shameful display last fall by playing like there were rockets shooting out of their asses. Instead, let's have Tim Wakefield and Jason Veritek roll out Bobby Doerr and Johnny Pesky, wipe the mist from our eyes, and forget the fact that Bobby V.'s team is a hot fucking mess!
Douche-tards.
Here's the essential problem, and it's a problem that has reached epidemic proportions in our society: accountability. Why would ownership---the Crypt-Keeper, the Wimp, and the Uber-Douche---dump more money than necessary into a product the Pink Hats will buy anyway? After all, they have a soccer team in Liverpool to fund. Why should these players, with their fat avaricious guaranteed contracts, care if they win or lose? They should feel free to call out their manager, piss and moan, when someone criticizes them. Who gives a flying fuck if this team wins? There's the Fenway Park museum to take in, $8 beers to swill, songs to sing in the eighth inning, regardless of whether or not you've choked up a nine-run lead to a team that regularly summons bile. No one is accountable here. Winning is negligible. Bullpens, who needs them? Bend over and open your wallets, Sox fans, there's a centennial party going on.
Douche-tards.
Perhaps the most disheartening part of this debacle that continues to unfold like a Shakespearean tragedy is the fact that this is a team that is, at its core, utterly loathsome. While watching Kevin "Dr. Ass-Hat" Millar and Pedro muck up a toast (Did you know it was a world record? Hurrah!), prancing back and forth like drunken sailors on the top of the Sox dugout, the magnitude of what was happening hit me; it really sunk in: The Red Sox organization is in the business of peddling nostalgia. Win or lose, it's immaterial. Instead, we're going to shovel nostalgia down your throats and beg you to remember when "the good times never seemed so good." It's sad, really. Really sad.
Douche-tards.
Don't blame Bobby Valentine. Instead, let's turn the mirror on our selves. Blame the "fans" who continue to pay the exorbitant prices at the park. Blame the "fans" who tacitly condone losing, who could care less if Ryan Sweeney is batting in the two-hole, who want to sing their song and get on the T to beat the traffic after the game. The problem, folks, with the 2012 Red Sox is systematic, and we're all guilty.
Douche-tards.
Exactly.
